The night was deep, the mountains stretched across the land, and a crescent moon accompanied by a scattering of stars gazed coldly down upon the world. No matter how many seas of blood and mountains of corpses there were, no matter how many times the world changed, it remained the same.
In the eyes of sentimental scholars and poets, this scene would surely inspire countless sorrowful and melancholy works—something along the lines of, "Since ancient times, beauties have been like famed generals; neither is allowed to grow old before human eyes."
But in the eyes of cultivators, this was the dividing line between immortals and mortals. Take one step forward, and one ascended to immortality; remain where one was, and one was a mortal. As for taking one step backward—well, that meant death.
At that moment, Zhang Yang sat cross-legged on a mountain ridge of Nudal Ridge. He raised his head to gaze at the moon, lowered it to look upon the mountains, pondered the past, and searched for a way home.
He, too, was filled with boundless emotion.
There had once been a period when he had nearly been manipulated by the subconscious mind within this body—or perhaps by the rules of this world. His mind had been filled with thoughts of conquering the world and the like.
Fortunately, he had comprehended the Dragon Soul Talisman and condensed ten Pseudo-Dragon Tears in one go, raising his strength to another level. Only then had he sensed that almost imperceptible, subtle erosion.
That was right. It was erosion—a malice originating from the World Will.
If he ultimately failed to break free and instead sank deeper under its gentle guidance, then perhaps the Antivirus Hunters would not even need to mobilize.
With these thoughts in mind, Zhang Yang did not deliberately empty