Du Mian's body had thirty-five wounds from blades, mostly on the left side. The edges of the wounds were jagged and gruesome, some not even properly treated, now oozing pus and blood. As soon as the clothes hiding the ugliness were removed, the stench of rotting flesh immediately filled the nostrils.
Teng Zhao's face turned several shades paler, feeling nauseous. He pinched the webbing between his fingers hard, forcing himself to stay composed.
This was nothing; he had seen dead bodies in the burial ground that were even more decayed.
"Three months ago, I was ambushed, barely surviving by a thread, just as you said. I managed to get a few doctors in time to save my life, but after months of recuperation my wounds have yet to fully heal and have become increasingly feeble," Du Mian said, pale-faced. "I don't want to die. Hearing about the Junior Temple Master's exceptional medical skills, I dragged my broken body here to try my luck."
