Zhang Xun's forehead gradually seeped with cold sweat.
He couldn't wipe it away.
Yet he could clearly feel the fine hair on the back of his neck, a sensation of unbearable heaviness, unable to withstand the cool breeze from outside.
The sounds of silk and bamboo, the laughter from outside the courtyard, all seemed very distant now. So distant, they felt like matters from a previous life.
The slimy, nauseating feeling from when the dancer licked his palm earlier became even more pronounced at this moment.
The flesh body of his deceased brother was grotesque, pressed against his own beautiful, delicate silhouette. And a thin quilt covered their bodies, embellishing their appearance at such an unseemly moment.
There was an inner and outer conflict and contradiction manifested in every aspect, in every detail.
The Spiritual Field that enveloped him intimately also seemed to be on the verge of dispersing, like a candle flickering in the wind.
