He Mingxuan was digging a hole.
There were many holes here, and the number buried was not few.
Human lives were as worthless as weeds, not worth mentioning.
He looked at Miao Yan lying on the ground, very weak, with blood on the corners of her mouth, clearly having suffered inhuman abuse.
For him, it was truly heartbreaking—these people were truly twisted, not human. He, He Mingxuan, might rant and spit, talk big and talk flowers, but had never thought of beating a woman to such a state with his own hands.
Honestly, he knew Miao Yan was a good person, one of the few good ones in this apocalyptic world. If she were a bad woman, he wouldn't have said much, at most just one word:
Deserved.