I Still Want to Live Five Hundred Years

[Infinite flow × Grammatical horror × Anti-routine protagonist × Group image redemption × High combustion] The doctor said I only had 72 hours left. I screamed at God: "I want to live five hundred years!" When I opened my eyes again, I was already standing in the meat market street of the underworld - the charred corpse on the cutting board whispered: "I haven't seen my good grandson yet..." In the iron cage, the older brother swallowed his younger brother; in the barren mountains and wilderness, the two women smiled at the man on the roof of the car: "You can't run away." The underworld uses obsession to weave a prison, trapping thousands of unwilling souls. And me?