The cold, long wind whips from nowhere, carrying with it the putrid and moist smell of mold, and the overwhelming stench of blood—it is the scent of Hell.
"Ah~" A hoarse cry suddenly rings out, its excruciating pain making one's hair stand on end.
Though the voice has twisted and deformed, that familiar timbre... Even if turned to ash, Yun Ya would never forget.
In the corner of the wall, a figure is curled up.
Unkempt hair, tattered clothing, frenzied movements, like a madwoman.
On the exposed back of the hand, skin and bones protrude, veins bulge, covered with dense needle marks, now purple, spread across arms thin as twigs, densely packed like a beehive, making one's scalp tingle.
The screams come from her mouth.
Again and again, filled with despair and agony.
Suddenly, she claws at her chest, sharp nails break the skin, blood and flesh blur, tumbling to the ground, like a fish falling into a desert, no matter how she struggles, it's futile.
