[Short story, updated by chance, male protagonist's perspective]
The smell of hell is the cold smell of osmanthus.
A skinny, pale monster with weird tentacles on its head and bulging black eyes said it wanted to eat me.
What she wants to eat should be my soul, right?
The body perishes and the soul dissipates into the invisible. There is no happier thing than this.
My blood was boiling, my heart was racing, and I couldn't breathe.
Which god said that anyone who commits suicide will go to hell?
Forget it, I got my wish, it doesn't matter who said it.
So is this hell?
No, of course not.
A place with dancing flowers is my paradise.
Purpose: Love life
