In the night, dense bloodlust drifted through the city. On the streets, countless civilians who had no idea what was happening collapsed where they stood and lost consciousness.
Yet the bloodlust did not rise into the air, remaining no more than five meters above the ground. From outside the city, the entire metropolis appeared as though nothing had happened.
Mo Lin flew over the city streets. Seeing the miserable sight below, he clenched his fists so tightly that his nails dug into his flesh.
Wave after wave of blood mist rose from living people and corpses alike. It seemed to have been formed by draining away their muscles, blood, and even fat.
As the blood mist poured out, their bodies grew thinner and more shriveled. This gave every one of them similar "faces"—if their faces could still be called faces at this point.
Mo Lin was not a good person, but he had never taken pleasure in tormenting others, nor had he made a habit of it. When he killed, it was usually with a single fatal blow, leaving no future trouble. Even though more than a hundred thousand lives had been taken by his hand, he could guarantee that—
Aside from a few enemies, not one of them had died after being deliberately tortured by him.
Thus, even he had never seen a scene like this before.
As he watched the sight before him, like the emergence of some "ancient god" from a novel, Mo Lin's eyes were filled with fury and unwillingness.
It was not as if he did not know how many utterly immoral, inhuman acts evil soul masters could commit. But this city had suffered this disaster, in a sense, because of his own actions. To Mo Lin, who had always arranged meticulous plans, this was