Rainwater gradually collected into the potholes on the official road, accumulating into puddles of varying sizes.
The originally slightly murky puddles inexplicably began to turn a bit red.
The heavy rain continued to fall.
On the official road, the caravan had long since fallen into chaos, with the carriages overturned.
Bodies lay scattered on the ground, lifeless.
At the front of the caravan.
Zen Master Wuxin stood upright, his staff piercing straight into the ground, supporting his body.
His eyes were wide open, a bloody hole had been forcibly pierced through his chest.
The hole was the size of a bowl, and blood had dyed his robe red.
Beside him, Monk Tanri leaned against the bottom of an overturned carriage, his mouth full of blood, his chest caved in by some unknown heavy weapon, almost attaching his front to his back.
His eyes had been gouged out, leaving only bloody holes, he had long ceased to breathe.
