The white streaks in his hair had spread, now covering nearly two-thirds of his head, giving him a spectral appearance. His eyes, the crimson almost entirely dominating the black, seemed to pierce through the physical world, seeing only energy, only targets.
He was becoming a ghost of himself, a living wraith.
He walked again, his footsteps light on the shifting sand. He no longer felt the burn of the sun, nor the bite of the desert wind. He moved with an effortless, tireless grace, his mind a cold, calculating machine, sifting through the layers of deception Ye Cangtian continuously revealed. The stories of ancient emperors, of celestial battles, of the very fabric of the world, unfolded in his consciousness, cold facts replacing cherished memories.
The hunger in his Hell Core was a co
