"Crossing the death tribulation? This still doesn't count as my death tribulation."
Mo Mingsheng felt his body. This really was his own body—frail and weak, with both his hands and feet injured—but there was a blessing amid the misfortune.
Only one hand and one leg were injured.
He had only just crossed over. How could he endure such pain? But there was no other way.
Even if he could not bear it, he had to.
Mo Mingsheng swept his gaze around. People were continuously being sent in.
The medical hall was filled with clamorous noise, and the thick stench of blood was enough to make one vomit.
Some people had died of grievous wounds, their pale bluish faces twisted in a ghastly manner.
Before long, they were carried away.
"No, I want to go back! I want to go back..."
Another person seemed to have gone mad.
But Mo Mingsheng knew the man had not gone mad.
Because the next instant, the man died. At the same time, he saw a streak of flowing light fly out from the man's head.
Only a pair of eyes that refused to close in death remained, staring fixedly in one direction.
"Fuck." A layer of goosebumps suddenly rose across Mo Mingsheng's back.
Dead meant dead.
Failing this trial meant death.
After seeing that scene, how could he not realize that among those brought into this medical hall, that man had been one of the people taking part in the trial?
That streak of flowing light vanished.
The man's corpse was still here.
He could not gamble on the chance that he would not die.
So clearing the trial was what he needed to do.
He glanced at his own limbs. It took a hundred days to heal injured tendons and broken bones.
But