Just as the thought of letting go of the skill crossed his mind, a flood of memories surged through Wang Chen's head like a broken dam.
Scenes of his countless lives and deaths flickered before him in vivid, merciless detail—each one a shard of agony, replaying in rapid succession like a film reel burning through its final frames.
Among them, one memory stood out.
A frail, crippled boy lay bound atop a snow-covered mountain, the merciless winter wind slicing through his flesh. The sky above was a pit of gray, and the earth beneath him was frozen solid. His thin cries echoed endlessly into the storm, mingling with cruel laughter.
The boy's voice eventually grew hoarse. His screams faded into silence. The only witnesses to his final breath were the two silhouettes standing nearby—his father and mother—amused by his suffering.
They had watched him die.
