Tang Mo carefully observed the hand in the swamp.
Though it thrashed about violently, a closer look revealed a very regular frequency to its movements—nothing like the panicked struggles of someone on the brink of death.
After all, if it were really a person trapped in the muck, their hand would have latched onto anything it touched, clinging to it like a lifeline.
The hand's reaction was not at all what Tang Mo had expected.
And the color of that hand…
Tang Mo's gaze slowly turned cold.
There was definitely something in that swampy mire—something terrifying.
'If my guess is right,' she thought, 'then this world is truly terrifying.'
If even mutant beasts had gained intelligence—enough to design traps and use tools for hunting—then humanity's position was even more precarious, a thousand times more dangerous than it already was.
In the current apocalypse, the positions of humans and mutant beasts were never set in stone.
