Only after Leviathan had reconditioned him with his restored memories did he quietly reclaim those memories and learn everything.
His heart had changed.
But it was not sympathy—it was weariness. Weariness with being controlled, with feeling like a puppet. It filled him with an extreme sense of emptiness and tedium.
"Wuwuwu, please, let me go. I never knew there was Hell behind this box. I don't want to die. I still have children, family."
"Let me go! Don't hurt me! Stay away from me!"
"Oh my God, bless me!" The woman kept choking back sobs as she begged.
Her tears soaked her hair, making it stick to her cheeks, while her makeup had been smeared beyond recognition by crying.
Nailhead picked up the Box of Mourning from the floor and closed it amid flickers of ghostly blue lightning.
With a glare, several chains shot out from the surrounding walls.
They hooked onto the woman's limbs and face. Amid a clattering crash, she was torn to pieces.
Her soul was torn apart along with her.
Because Nailhead had closed the Box of Mourning beforehand, the pleading woman did not even have the right to be resurrected as a Cursed Disciple.
Her body and soul were both ripped to shreds—the kind of death where the soul died completely.
Nailhead had already defied the Hell High Priest's original intentions.
Looking at the now-ordinary Box of Mourning in his hand, he murmured to himself once more, "I've had enough!"
"These people's tears are all so identical. Their pleas are so alike, their postures so alike."
"Again and again."
"Even the ways they die, the forms of their union, are all so alike." He slowly raised his head and stared at the pile of flesh in the corner, demanding, "Tell me, are there still any