The myriad faces constantly whispered tempting words, the black fog tightened around Su Ming'an, making him feel suffocated, his vision blurred, unable to hold the pen, finding it difficult to move.
Dizziness swept over him, he could barely suppress it, almost sinking into it.
Soon after, another woman's face appeared.
Black bangs, black pupils, lips slightly curved, features sharp and distinct, adorned with a white Isa flower, she smiled at him. Her face bore none of the suffering or numbness of others.
—Qianqin's face.
The Eighth Thrones had also fused the deceased Qianqin.
Amidst the black mist, her brows arched gently, she opened her mouth and said: "…Senior brother, you still haven't taken us to the wonton stall."
