The Black Tiger was pressed down by the head, unable to even speak, but he could feel it—his newly acquired body of nine apertures seemed to be pulled by some force, and everything he had was slipping away.
The thing he had dreamed of for so long had only just come into his grasp—how could he endure losing it?
He was resisting, he was struggling, he thought this was the price for breaking the agreement, and wanted to use the tactics he'd used against the Thirteenth Ancestor of Fuyu, just grinding it out.
Back then, not even the Thirteenth Ancestor of Fuyu Mountain could outlast him—he could last a hundred years, but the other side couldn't, so they compromised.
But now, Wen Yan wasn't even bothering to let him speak; he was simply depriving him.
The writhing mountains around, the rolling earth and stones, all gradually grew quiet, and the true form of the mountain's demon—the mountain among the mountain range—also ceased to move.
