Guan Tao at Ancient Ruins

Zhang Jie had been coughing blood for twelve years. All diagnoses said that he would not live to be twenty. Only he knew that the blood was not a disease, but his bones rejecting this false world. The night the sky cracked, the stone left behind by my great-grandfather cracked. He was born to be able to enter the ancient ruins that the pseudo-Taoist monks were robbing; only he could resonate with the ugly rocks and dirty grass that the world regarded as trash. The seventh generation of ruins, the last generation of innates, the only person in the eternal endgame who has gone retrograde and returned to his true form. But when he saw the back figure under the collapsed sky in the depths of the secret realm, he suddenly felt familiar. Like a man standing on the edge of a cliff, looking back at the person pushing him down. The sky is a fake and the gods are lies. In this game, he turned the tables for the human race.