In the Black Stone Mine, Shen Zhanye was a mine slave number nine. His veins were withered and his body was broken. He could lie down for three days with just one stroke of the whip.
His sister was kneeling in someone else's yard, and the only thing he could do was stuff his own bran cake into the dog's hole.
Until the sound of the stele chiming at the bottom of the mine - half a broken stele, a wisp of a broken soul, the ancient forged saint opened his eyes.
"The world nourishes qi, you burn meat. It only hurts."
The forged body line that had been cut off for thousands of years was rekindled in a waste body.
This time, it was him who smashed those who stepped on him into the mud one by one.
