"Argh… my head hurts…"
The moment his eyes opened, Wang Chen groaned softly. Both hands rose to his temples, fingers pressing in slow, deliberate circles as if he could knead the pain out by force alone. The ache from earlier still lingered—dull, stubborn, and deeply rooted—refusing to dissipate no matter how much he willed it to fade.
The fact that he was still sane after wringing out the very last drop of his soul blood was, frankly, absurd.
If it were anyone else, their mind would have shattered long ago. Madness would have taken them without ceremony. Yet here he was—conscious, thinking, breathing.
That alone was unsettling.
"What could be the reason…?" Wang Chen muttered hoarsely.
He searched his memories, his theories, his understanding of the soul, but no matter how many explanations surfaced, none felt complete. None truly satisfied him.
After a while, he gave up.
