The lofty tumor couldn't help blurting out the hometown words it had not spoken for countless ages. Even the main body lying there like a corpse trembled, veins bulging one after another.
This outcome was simply too hard to accept.
It was like using inch-long blocks to build a real pyramid. You gathered pieces of wood, carved them one by one, accumulated them day after day—and just as it was nearly finished, someone came running over, not only knocking it down but tossing in a fire for good measure, burning everything to ashes.
There was a saying in the Primordial World: even if the uncle could endure it, the aunt could not.
The tumor exploded.
Yet the next second, a heart-rending pain erupted from within its body, making the utterly enraged thing let out a shrill howl of agony.
It was the spear tip. It had not vanished either, but had been preserved through countless ages, embedded in its body as though it would never wear down.
As it became excessively agitated, its body—which should have been playing dead—moved. The spear tip immediately awakened and began to unleash its might.
In an instant, hundreds of millions of sparks exploded from its point. The sight resembled a rain of falling fiery meteors, each one as large as a star.
In the space of a blink and a breath, it blasted millions upon millions of holes through the tumor. The terrifying heat even scorched its main body red.
A familiar scent rose into the air—the distinctive smell of fat being roasted by flames.
This time, the tumor was completely awake. Every shred of its consciousness had revived.
It looked at its fleshly body, which had painstakingly recovered to eighty percent over tens of millions of years, only for it to rot again.