Grains of sand, red as blood, reflected the remnant rays of the setting sun on the horizon.
Fierce winds whipped up bursts of sand and dust, spiraling in the air like spectral apparitions, emitting a low, mournful wail.
Jiang Shouzhong trudged forward like a walking corpse, carrying the weighty Seven Kills Blade on his back, step by step. Looking as far as his eyes allowed, he saw a palace standing amidst the crimson sands—majestic yet eerie.
After what felt like an eternity, the man stepped into the palace.
What appeared before him was a throne formed entirely of countless stacked puppets.
This scene felt strangely familiar.
But no matter how hard Jiang Shouzhong tried to recall, he couldn't remember where he had seen it before—his mind seemed shrouded in a hazy fog.
"Such a pity, I thought you were dead."
On the throne, a woman cloaked in black robes with crimson hair spoke in a mocking tone.