The sound of rain was pouring, hitting the rotten tiles of the ruined temple, as if it was going to completely crush this lingering shelter.
The only light source in the temple was the oil lamp swaying in the wind.
The huge flames stretched Yun Zhiyi's shadow thin and long, and cast it on the mottled clay statue. The face of the statue whose face could not be seen seemed to be a little weirder.
The air was filled with a strong smell of blood, mixed with the bitterness of herbs and the moisture of earth, which penetrated into the nasal cavity and made people feel nauseated.
She had just pulled out the last silver needle.
The needle tail is as thin as a cow's hair, glowing coldly under the dim light.
The man lying on the couch, Zhao Silang, finally calmed down from a violent spasm, and his heavy breathing gradually became longer.
