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Life is pain, and hope has long been lost. I didn't choose death, death chose me. Darkness, endless darkness, is this death? The desolate flute echoed in the darkness. It's snowing, the snow lights up the darkness, and the snow turns into blood, flowing on the earth. The bright red earth, the bright red flowers, the flowers are beautiful, and their beauty is the ominous beauty of monsters, disaster, death and separation. The bright red hell, dressed in black robes, holds a huge scythe. So... Is that me?

This book is a eunuch, I'm sorry. Maybe I am not suitable for this system flow┑(￣Д￣)┍. I have no choice but to write a new book, "Scythe of the Dead". Please take a look at it.