August 24th, still clearly in midsummer, but on this day, the weather in Hai Fan City was not clear.
The sky appeared a gloomy, iron-gray, with rain clouds swallowing the daylight and shrouding the entire city. A torrential downpour poured through the gaps in the clouds, drowning out the endless cicada calls.
And it was on this morning that the central hospital of Hai Fan City was turned into an unequivocal ruin.
At this moment, eleven members of the White Crow Travel Brigade stood at one corner of this ruin.
They lifted their heads, their gazes penetrating the curtain of rain.
Not far away, Lin Xingshi, covered in blood, was half-kneeling on the ground. The crimson glass lion head, under the relentless assault of the bronze pillars, was already blurred, as if it could dissipate into the wind at any moment.
And as the instigators of all this, Zhou Jiuya stood on the long street while Zhong Wujiu hovered mid-air with his ink wings vibrating, both with indifferent expressions.
