Barefoot, he stepped on the cold, rough black gravel. Every step brought bone-piercing chill and heart-wrenching pain. The air was thin and foul, carrying the stench of scorched ash and sulfur. Breathing it into his lungs felt like swallowing tiny blades. The pale sun overhead cast a cold, deathly light with no warmth, only the discomfort of being watched and eroded.
Mo Lin trudged through the boundless black desert with difficulty, his thoughts as chaotic as the black sand beneath his feet—heavy and cold.
Ling Qingzhu... Where was that woman, cold as the moon and proud as bamboo, now? Was she also naked, starving, and freezing, struggling to survive in this land of despair? She possessed rare cultivation talent, yet her primordial yin had been forcibly taken by him. Her cultivation had been completely suppressed and worn away by this world devoid of laws, reducing her to a weak woman... Could she survive?
Thinking of the fear, despair, and pain that might appear on that exquisite face, Mo Lin felt little tenderness. Instead, a trace of irritation and impatience rose within him.
He was not a sentimental man. To him, beauties were more about the desire to conquer and the pleasure of possession. No matter how beautiful Ling Qingzhu was, among his eighteen stunning wives of vastly different charms, she would at most rank in the top five. She was not enough to make him lose himself.
"Women, no matter how beautiful, are nothing more than pink skeletons—ornaments on the path of the strong and playthings for idle hours." Mo Lin licked his cracked lips, a cold gleam flashing through his eyes.
If not for her connection to his illusory "chance to become immortal," and if not for the Immortal Eye sensing some special karmic bond between this place, her,