Crack!
Zheng Qing cried out in pain under his breath. One hand rubbed his nearly broken shin while the other groped wildly across the ground. When he had fallen, he felt as though he had landed on something.
The parachute woven from magical vines dissolved into wisps of magic the instant he touched down, vanishing into the boundless Night Veil of the Black Prison.
Very soon, Zheng Qing realized that his earlier sensation had not been an illusion.
He had indeed landed on something.
And that "something" was probably in rather bad shape.
His hand had touched wet liquid, still carrying a trace of warmth. Hesitating, the young wizard rubbed the warmth between his fingertips and raised them to his nose for a sniff.
It carried the distinct fishy stench of demons.
Blood.
Demon blood.
So, when he had fallen from the sky, had he crushed a demon to death? The slightly absurd yet undeniable thought flashed through Zheng Qing's mind. He reached into that patch of warmth again and felt around to the side.
A body still twitching, broken bones, hard upturned fangs, coarse bristly fur.
Then he touched something that felt rather like tofu pudding.
Zheng Qing swallowed. Trying hard to shut out his next thought—though he had killed quite a few demons, this was his first time using such a disgusting method—he wiped his hand haphazardly on the hem of his robe. He tried to stand, only to forget that his leg had just been injured. With a cry of pain, he plopped back down.
Squelch.
An image of tomato-and-egg soup taking shape appeared in Zheng Qing's mind.
This time, he was certain he had sat in a puddle of demon blood, perhaps even mixed with some demon brains.
"Damn Merlin!"
The young scholarship student cursed under