The world seen by humans was different from the world seen by Yin Gods and Deity. The old Daoist was barely breathing. Prolonged blood loss had drained his vitality to its absolute limit, leaving him on the verge of death.
His face was as white as paper.
He looked like a corpse.
If not for the occasional rise and fall of his chest, Lin Feng would have thought he was dead.
The old Daoist had used a secret art to keep himself alive as long as possible.
But he did not have long left.
His Ritual Robe had turned black—the color of all that blood.
Lin Feng did not know whether this Daoist counted as living or dead.
By any normal reckoning, whether Shangqing Maoshan had suppressed this place a few years ago, a dozen years ago, or decades ago made no difference, given how much blood he had lost.
A few hours would have been enough to kill him.
Even a man made of iron could not withstand bleeding for so long.
His heart was gone, leaving a huge, exposed hole that made him look like a heartless man with an opening straight through his body.
The heaviest bleeding came from where his heart should have been.
The flesh there had gone pale.
From the perspective of these “Deity”...
If the Daoist had taken the Principal Deity's place, he must also have used some other method to conceal his presence.
Yet the Yin Gods had not noticed the human blood flowing down from his Divine Carriage.
That was quite extraordinary.
Lin Feng looked at him, and he saw Lin Feng too.
His eyes, initially clouded like the corneas of a dead man, shifted, and warmth returned to his gaze.
He had spotted a living person here.
The old Daoist