Cold...
No warmth to the touch.
The arm in the palm felt like a corpse, as if the blood had stopped flowing. The Storyteller closed his eyes heavily, saying nothing more.
"Push me... a little..."
Bazhun'an's voice was incredibly weak.
So weak that if seen from the front, his dirty and unclear face seemed somewhat senile.
"How to push?"
"With your hand..."
"How much strength?"
"Seven parts..."
Seven parts strength, are you sure you won't die on the spot?
The Storyteller hesitated a bit, slowly releasing a hand, just as he gathered his strength, a voice came from the front:
"No... spiritual source..."
Boom!
A palm struck.
The weakened Bazhun'an didn't move an inch.
Yet from within him, a silver stream of light leapt out, soaring like a dragon gate toward the sky!
The Storyteller raised his gaze, his beautiful eyes full of astonishment.
"Brother..."
What did he see?
