He noticed how the more powerful cultivators carried themselves, their golden Qi humming with self-importance, oblivious to the fact that they were merely the fatter cattle in the cosmic farm. He felt a deep, chilling pity for them, mixed with a renewed, cold rage at the system that enslaved them all.
Days bled into each other, marked only by the shifting light of the sun and moon. Xiaochen didn’t need food or sleep, but he still mimicked the rhythms of humanity when in proximity to others, simply to avoid suspicion. He ate dry biscuits, drank stale water, and occasionally found secluded spots to sit, feigning rest, while his Hell Core quietly hummed, consuming residual energies from the earth.
His memories continued to fade, small pieces of his past life dissolving into the hungry void
