After he learned the truth, time passed faster and faster. It wasn't merely a feeling; it was actually happening. An hour in the instance was compressed into ten minutes, leaving only four hours in a day, and the days kept getting shorter.
On the seventh day, a patient found fault with Lü Yating over nothing, and she died.
On the eighth day, Ying Lin courted death. Wanting to see exactly how eighteenth-century villagers burned heretics, she ran out of the Monastery, was caught, and was burned along with them.
On the eleventh day, with so little time to rest, Zhao Junhao became exhausted and violated an NPC's rules. Zeng Huan tried to save him, but both of them were killed by the NPC.
On the twelfth day, Yue Xiamo contracted the Black Death again. This time, she gave herself a decisive stab and died swiftly.
On the final day, Wei Yanchi sat in a dim room, writing and sketching on paper with a quill. Dark shadows ringed his eyes, and his hair was a mess. He looked like a dispirited painter.
He set down his quill and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
A bone-piercing chill squeezed through the gap in the window, creeping through his exposed skin and into his marrow, inch by inch. He stood and opened the door, only to discover that it was snowing outside.
The Gothic Western European buildings wore a layer of white frosting, looking just like a world inside an oil painting.
Mr. 39 was coming through the main entrance, snow clinging to his dark leather coat.
Why had it suddenly started snowing?
During the previous loop, no snow had fallen.
But how could Wei Yanchi understand what went on in the instance? He could only treat the snow as a clue. Perhaps