He recalled the small, thrown-away figure in the narrow corridor, the blood stains from his forehead hitting the steps, and the loud death knell-like sound of the heavy iron door slamming shut.
It turns out that the origin of the gods was also immersed in such unbearable coldness.
A sharp sour taste suddenly rushed into Mu Xinrong's nose, and his eyes became hot in an instant.
He turned his face away in embarrassment, sniffed hard, and tried to suppress his inappropriate weakness.
What about hatred? What about the overwhelming hatred that had sustained him through countless reincarnations, that had allowed him to maintain his last bit of dignity before the gods?
They now dissipated like the receding tide, leaving only a devastated beach and an empty exhaustion washed away by great sadness.
He took a deep, silent breath, the cold air stinging his lungs.
Then, as if he had made up his mind, he reached out his hand and picked up the towel soaked in the basin with unprecedented clumsiness and caution.
The cold towel was soaked with ice water and felt heavy. Mu Xinrong wrung it out, his movements somewhat clumsy, and water droplets dripped back into the basin.
He hesitated for a moment, and finally placed the cold towel on Chao Youye's hot forehead very gently and with an almost pious temptation.
"Hmm..." The unconscious person let out a vague, uncomfortable groan, his body unconsciously trying to avoid the cold stimulation.
Mu Xinrong's hands froze in mid-air, and his heart was in his throat.
But Chao Youye only tilted her head slightly and did not wake up. Her tightly furrowed brows seemed to relax slightly, imperceptibly, at the cold touch.
Mu Xinrong held his breath and maintained that posture until he was sure that the other party had no further reaction, then he slowly pressed the towel firmly.
The cold moisture penetrated quickly and came into contact with the abnormally hot skin.
He carefully avoided the hands on the IV and the oxygen mask, and used a towel to wipe the other person's sweaty forehead, temples, and neck... His movements were clumsy, but with a concentration and gentleness that he himself was not even aware of.
His fingertips occasionally brushed against the other person's hot skin. The scorching temperature frightened him and made him wipe more carefully.
Over and over again. As the ice water in the basin gradually warmed, he stood up to change it. The clinic corridor was empty and quiet, with only the soft patter of his footsteps and the gurgling of water as he changed the water.
Every time I came back, I saw the person on the hospital bed still sleeping. His breathing was hot but steady, and his tense nerves could only get a brief respite.
Outside the window, the snowstorm seemed to have died down. A crack appeared in the thick clouds, revealing a thin, grayish-white ray of light, heralding the approach of dawn.
But the light was dim and cold, unable to dispel the smell of disinfectant and the heavy atmosphere that filled the clinic.
Mu Xinrong wrung out the ice towel once more. He sat back on the stool and was about to continue wiping when his eyes accidentally swept over Chao Youye's hand, which was not receiving an IV and was casually resting at her side.
The hand was pale, slender, with distinct joints, and at this moment it looked particularly weak due to the high fever and weakness.
Near the inside of the wrist, near the cuff, an extremely subtle dark mark, different from the surrounding pale skin color, caught his attention.
What is that? A bruise? Or...
For some unknown reason, Mu Xinrong stopped moving. He hesitated, but finally, with trembling fingers, he carefully and gently rolled up the slightly wide cuffs of Chao Youye's hospital gown.
Only a small part of the pale wrist was exposed.
However, just above that pale skin, Mu Xinrong's pupils suddenly shrank into needle points!
——Not a bruise.
——It’s a mark.
An extremely complex, extremely tiny geometric pattern. The lines were exceptionally thin, and the color was a very pale silver-gray, as if it had been inscribed with the finest needle dipped in melted stars.
It is composed of countless precisely nested triangles, circles and strange spiral patterns. The structure is complex and mysterious, exuding an inhuman, cold sense of rhythm that belongs to pure rules and order.
This pattern...Mu Xinrong's breathing stopped instantly!
He is so familiar!
After the Wutong Dao memory shock, in those chaotic core data fragments he retrieved, in all the cold records about "Origin-0", in all the sources of destructive energy when the erasure instructions were activated... they were all accompanied by the cold flash of this core mark!
It is the concrete symbol of the core of the world's rules, the original imprint of the existence of the "correction program", and the cornerstone of the cold throne!
How did it end up here? On this mortal's wrist?!
Mu Xinrong's mind went blank, as if struck by a heavy hammer. All the exhaustion, sadness, and helplessness were completely drowned out by immense fear and even deeper confusion.
He stared at the pale silver mark, as if trying to burn it into his retina.
Could it be that... Chao Youye's current pain, high fever, backlash... even the near-collapse of this seemingly mortal body... were all due to some incomprehensible transformation of this mark? Was it the core of the rules itself that was collapsing? Or...
At this moment, the person who had been sleeping let out a groan that was clearer and more painful than any previous one.
“Ugh—!”
Chao Youye's body suddenly arched upwards! It was as if he was hit hard in the chest by an invisible force.
The IV tube rattled from his violent movements, nearly ripping the needle off! Breathing under the oxygen mask instantly became extremely difficult, emitting a sharp wheezing sound!
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