The village was dim, but under the moonlight, it seemed to be draped in a silver glow.
But the deathly still atmosphere was something even the moonlight could not completely dispel.
Even an ordinary person entering the village could sense an air of senility, like an old man in his twilight years.
Not far from the village, Shen Bai's gaze fell upon a middle-aged man in shabby clothes squatting by the roadside, staring listlessly at the moon in the sky.
The man's clothes weren't tattered, merely a bit old. But because he wore them so sloppily, they gave him an air of despondence and solitude.
His eyes, in particular, were dull and lifeless, as if he had lost his spirit.
Shen Bai's gaze shifted, landing on the man's wrist.
On that dirt-caked wrist, a network of crisscrossing scars looked grotesque and horrifying.
From time to time, villagers would pass by the man.
A few of them even spat at him.
