Wang Wu pondered for a long time.
Then, without a word, he burned all of Liu Zongbai's jade slips with Pale Fire—the so-called Three Thousand Dao Arts, the precious dragon scale, everything that could serve as an information medium. All of it was destroyed. Then he dismantled the Darksteel Hut and returned to the surface.
It was not that he distrusted the Four Clowns' analysis.
It was because he had suddenly thought of something.
Liu Zongbai was a spiritual energy thief—and clearly one who belonged to an organization, a gang of spiritual energy thieves. So why had he brought these ten diary jade slips with him when entering the Great Desolation Sin Prison?
Granted, the things took up no space, so bringing them along was no great burden.
But was infiltrating the Great Desolation Sin Prison truly without risk?
Of course not. There was competition among spiritual energy thieves as well. If he died, these jade slips might fall into someone else's hands.
At any rate, Wang Wu could not understand such behavior. Writing a diary was one thing, but was he preparing for other people to read it?
It would be understandable if an ordinarily sloppy person did that.
But as a spiritual energy thief, someone meticulous in thought and methodical in action, why would he do something like this?
Was he planning to provide technological aid to the poor folks inside the Great Desolation Sin Prison?
Especially the Five Aggregates Heaven Mending Art recorded on that dragon scale, along with that general outline of the Three Thousand Dao Arts.
How was that any different from a transmigrator carrying formulas for making gunpowder, Three Thousand Questions on Steelmaking, and Postpartum Care for Sows?
At least a transmigrator had a dream—to reform the vile old society, to sleep drunk upon