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"What do you think you're doing? You dare defy the Crimson Clan? The Ancestral Spirit shall smite you! You'll become the very sustenance for its growth!"
Wang Yu broke the elder's limbs and bound him tightly with shackles forged with rocks. Squatting beside him, Wang Yu used the Perfect Fractal over his eye to scrutinize the elder's decaying form.
"How are you still moving in this state? Is this some curse laid upon your kind by your Ancestral Spirit—something that mutated you?"
Light flickered in Wang Yu's field of vision, conjuring streams of data: the structural integrity of the elder's rotting flesh, whether it could support movement, and details of the paralyzing venomous mist and poison he'd used earlier—spells that had clung to the elder's body but failed to take effect.
The poison hadn't been expended—meaning it hadn't even found a target. The elder's nerves and musculature were wholly different from those of a normal human being.
"This is a blessing granted to us by the Ancestral Spirit, you damned outsider! I will not allow you to defile the name of our great Ancestral Spirit! You shall be nothing but fodder—nourishment for its rebirth!"
Despite the rhetorical question, the elder snarled back with unwavering zealotry, his fury palpable at Wang Yu's suggestion that his grotesque condition was some form of aberration.
Wang Yu rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Was this old man truly deluded, or just playing dumb? Did...
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