The moment the heavy coffin hit the ground, the faces of the people nearby changed.
Perhaps because the chains binding the coffin had broken, the evil spirit sleeping inside showed signs of waking early.
At some point, a narrow crack had opened between the lid and the coffin body, where they had once fit together perfectly. A steady stream of black liquid seeped out, giving off a strange, foul stench.
It smelled like mud that had festered in a riverbed, and it also brought to mind the fluid from a corpse left to rot for days.
Even through the thick jade, they could feel the thing inside the coffin waking. Its extreme, intangible chill was enough to freeze a person's soul.
Especially after Yu Xing drew back the black mist, even Zhao Ruru, who had been about to say something, fell silent. Her heart pounded as an indescribable fear welled up inside her.
Yu Xing rubbed his shoulder, easing the ache in his body from bearing the weight, then said, "This thing is vicious. It's steeped in too much resentment."
The white jade coffin had just been pressing against his back like a small mountain. Though he had taken a long way around, he'd hurried as much as he could. Yet in the few minutes on the way, the thing inside the coffin had never stopped conjuring illusions.
At one moment, a rotting hand would land on his shoulder and whisper in his ear; at the next, the coffin would sound as if it were opening, followed by fingernails scraping against it with a shrill, eerie rasp.
Yu Xing could sense that the white jade coffin was intact, so he paid the illusions no mind. But the weight on his back kept growing. With every sound, it was as if