No wonder he was a superior being with the home-field advantage; once deciding not to hold back, his actions were indeed precise.
Veil had just been pulled in, yet she was already subtly infiltrated without realizing it.
Although her eyesight was not great, at such a close distance, everything was perfectly clear.
The drunken blush on Veil's face was composed of tiny, identical red dots, swirling around each other like dancing insects—or perhaps they were insects.
Through a peculiar method, parasitic insects nestled within her flesh.
Fu Qian didn't think this was some deep-level pollution that could pierce the barrier between dreams and reality, nor was it as severe as the boiling blood syndrome he'd witnessed before.
But such changes were enough to showcase Alarakir's determination to recycle waste in this dreamscape.
With or without a hit, one still takes a swing; moreover, this was just the beginning.
