The first thing that entered Yang An's field of vision was the burning bonfire. The bonfire itself had not changed much; it had merely gone from gray to no longer being pure.
Fu Ming stood beside the bonfire, but he was no longer himself.
This world seemed to have become somewhat hazy, as though a thin veil of mist had been draped over Yang An's eyes.
Fu Ming looked somewhat blurry. His face had not changed, but his body had taken on a different form.
It was as if black flowers had bloomed all over him, from the top of his head to beneath his feet.
Those flowers bloomed and closed like breathing, but they were actually composed of countless fine black hairs.
He stood there as if those things had corroded him. Even when he looked at Yang An, there was something wrong with the gaze in his eyes.
Until a thumb-sized, dark-red flame suddenly grew from his forehead.
The familiar firelight shone over his body, and only then did his form begin to grow clear. Yet he still bore this altered appearance, though clarity had returned to his eyes.
Yang An sensed Fu Ming's change. Clearly, when the flame lit up, Fu Ming had likewise arrived in this layer of the world.
Then before Yang An had arrived, who had the Fu Ming here been?
This world seemed filled with a certain viscous heaviness. Pain continued to surge from within Yang An's body, but when he saw everything here, his consciousness seemed to have peeled away from the pain, making it inconsequential.
The air was filled with all sorts of insects. One only had to pay a little attention to see them. They were tiny, and they gnawed wantonly at everything.
They were like microorganisms. They posed no