She clutched one corner of the strip of cloth in her hand, squeezing so tightly that her nails dug into her palm, drawing tiny beads of blood.
Her gaze was empty, as empty as two dry wells. Yet within those two dry wells remained something—a faint glimmer of light, so weak it was almost invisible.
It was hope. She hoped it would be her turn, hoped the line would move faster, hoped the demons would finish devouring those powerful nobles sooner.
But the line moved slowly.
When those nobles reached the demons, they had to stand there for a while, take off their clothes, close their eyes, and wait for the demons to feed slowly.
One after another, as slow as sand trickling through an hourglass.
She had waited for a long time—so long that her legs had gone numb, so long that her vision had begun to blur, so long that the line ahead seemed to have moved only a little.
An old man squatting on the ground muttered under his breath. His voice was hoarse, as if his throat were full of sand. He dragged out his words, as though speaking only to himself.
"Lived my whole life, and even dying has to be divided into ranks..." He raised his eyes to look at the Black Shadow ahead, then lowered his eyelids again, as if he no longer had the strength even to be angry.
His face was gaunt, his cheekbones sharp, his eye sockets sunken, and his lips cracked as though he had not drunk water for many days. Yet he bore no wounds. He was the sort of person whose mind had been worn dry by the curse of immortality—his brain had already rotted away.
He had forgotten who he was, forgotten how long he had