The white catkins melted into the pool of blood and formed a magnificent road. He fell at the starting point of the road, not knowing what night it was.
The appearance of his own corpse gradually appeared in Wang Xin's mind——
Under the exploded and deformed bus, Zhang Zihao was in the red arms.
Wang Xin's face instantly turned pale.
Are we dead?
Wang Xin climbed up tremblingly and looked around, but saw no one.
There is only one road made of blood, which runs through the world and disappears at the end.