"Sir, do you have any salt here?" Anita asked softly but firmly.
"It's in that black jar."
Wu Heng pointed to the row of bottles and jars on the chopping board.
She walked over, picked up the jar, then used her sharp fingernails to repeatedly dig at the delicate skin that had already healed after being treated with ointment.
She tore the wound open again.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, she grabbed a handful of fine salt and pressed it onto the wound, rubbing it continuously. Salt grains rolled through the flesh and blood, their originally crystalline color gradually turning crimson, like tiny blood diamonds.
Mixed among them were shreds of flesh and fascia rubbed loose.
The original wound became pitted and uneven.
Anita let out muffled groans, her body trembling nonstop, yet she did not stop. Her palm continued to rub.
Only after rubbing it seventy-two times did she stop.
But that was only the sole of her foot. She needed to undergo this same painful ascetic practice at every joint in her body to complete the baptism.
Wu Heng tossed out a file, which landed before her with a clatter.
"Use this. It'll be more convenient. Only you can do this yourself—feel the pain and fear you inflict upon yourself, then conquer your own fear and control it." Wu Heng's voice was utterly indifferent.
He showed not the slightest pity for the girl's suffering.
Anita nodded faintly and took the file with trembling hands. Her entire body shook as her brain continuously sounded warnings.
At that moment, her consciousness and soul seemed to have become separate entities from her brain, opposing one another.
Her brain said, You can't do this. Stop now.
Her soul and consciousness said, *This is a process that must be endured. You absolutely cannot