The torrential rain continued. Before the brightly lit clubhouse, there was dead silence.
The subordinate sent to investigate stumbled back, his face deathly pale. He looked towards the agitated Ling Shuo, opened his mouth, trembled, yet could not make a sound. "Speak! Have you gone mute?!"
Ling Shuo flew into a rage.
"They... they... they're all..."
The subordinate panted, struggling to pull himself free from the mountain of corpses and sea of blood in his mind. "They're all dead. A-all of them... no, not all of them. The uninvolved people are basically fine, but everyone who came for the meeting..."
Ling Shuo had no time to listen further. He shoved the man aside and led his people into the bloodstained clubhouse.
Before long, faint retching sounded behind him.
In the warm breeze, the stench of death mingled with the cloying fragrance, becoming ever more nauseating.
And the shattered scene before one's eyes had already left everyone speechless.
Even the Mirror System Chosen One who had sealed off the entire clubhouse from the beginning changed expression. He instinctively turned back and looked towards the unlucky fellow who had tried to interrupt when Little An spoke earlier.
...The man who had originally had objections twitched, then turned pale. Staggering back a step, he ran outside and vomited violently.
Whether it was shock or fear, no one knew.
But no one laughed at him now. It was not just him—everyone who witnessed the scene felt only an instinctive terror.
Even hardened men accustomed to death and corpses, who could handle rotting bodies without changing expression, now had their faces twitching in waves. What was truly frightening was not the dead.
It was the threads of sharp presence lingering amid the cracks, blood, and crevices, like blades pressed against their throats—cold enough to make