To say Ghost Shovel's corpse was moving was, perhaps, an overstatement. It clung to the ground, inching slowly using its hands and feet. On its exposed skin, saw-toothed splits were forming—these splits were increasing in number and would occasionally open and close, creating suction to absorb shattered rocks, sand, and bioluminescent fungi from the rock walls.
Lu Yunan watched this scene solemnly. Ghost Shovel was indeed dead. Half of his head had been shattered by a Thunder Strike, and the other half had been severely damaged during the fall from the cliff, leaving only his jaw. But its corpse was being puppeted by the parasitic demon within, crawling aimlessly across the ground like a primitive worm.
A Martial Arts Grandmaster, reduced to such a state, could only evoke sighs of lamentation.
HISS—
Suddenly, the splits on the back of Ghost Shovel's hands all opened at once, making a sniffing-like motion. Then, using its hands and feet, it turned toward Li Ang and Lu Yunan.
