HRAAGH!
A hoarse roar erupted from the depths of the husk's abdomen, sharp and ear-piercing.
The withered old man, whom the crowd had been treating as a living manual, was now fully awake.
His once-limp body arched abruptly without warning. His spine bent backward at an unnatural angle, the sharp cracks of grinding, dislocating joints blending into a continuous report.
CRACKLE, CRUNCH, CRACK.
He stood up, free from the confines of the bed plank.
The vacant look in his murky eyes was gone, replaced by a venomous madness.
"It's all your fault! All your fault!"
He roared, his arm lashing out. His five fingers formed a claw, and the tips swirled with a visible, gray-black aura of death as he lunged for the nearest Foundation Establishment Loose Cultivator—a man named Song Tang.
An icy, sinister energy washed over Song Tang. He felt as if his very blood was about to freeze, and the shadow of death loomed over him.
In a flash, he threw all his strength into a desperate retreat.
