"Eat me! Eat me first!"
"I've endured for sixty years already! Sixty years! Do you know how long sixty years is? Not days, not months—it's the number of times I've suffered! It hurt every day, every second! I can't take it anymore! Eat me! Eat me clean! Don't leave a single bit!" As he spoke, he used the stump of his severed arm to shove the people beside him away, refusing to let anyone else squeeze forward. Endless immortality had long since worn away every thought and desire he had, leaving only one obsession: escaping his unending pain. He used every last ounce of strength to fight his way to the front, terrified this rare opportunity would slip through his fingers.
Delaco had no mouth, but it had a soul form.
Life energy poured from the old man's festering wound like floodwaters breaching a dam, flooding into its soul form.
It wanted to flee, but it couldn't. The old man had pressed his wound against it too tightly, so tightly that its soul form was pinned against rotten flesh.
That life energy wasn't drifting over through the air—it was spraying directly from the wound like a high-pressure water jet, battering its soul form.
Its soul form swelled another round. Its two tiny scarlet eyes bulged outward, as though they were about to pop from their sockets.
It let out a faint soul-wail—not a sound, but a shriek on the level of thought. It was so faint, like the buzz of a mosquito, like wind blowing across the mouth of a glass bottle.
There was panic in it, helplessness, and a sensation it had never felt even after starving in hell for countless years—it was full!
The second person to squeeze forward was a woman whose face had rotted away on