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Zhao Zilong collapsed on the cold mud ground, gasping for air, like a fish out of water. He slowly released the hand covering his forehead and stared blankly at the leaden, oppressive sky, as if his soul had been completely washed away by the horrific torrent of memories just now. He lowered his head little by little with difficulty, his eyes falling on his hands that were stained with mud and blood, and then slowly moving to the rusty ring-headed knife that had been soaked in blood and was stuck in the mud. The cold touch is so real