Among the straw, a severed arm was quietly placed. Li Ang's pupils slightly constricted—the material of the arm in the box was neither flesh, gold, nor wood. Starting from the fractured surface, it exhibited a deathly pale gray that transitioned into a waxen yellow at the fingertips. It was as if the entire arm had petrified starting from the break.
"Shixing Monk's right arm..." Ya Jiu said evenly, picking up the arm from the straw through a layer of white cloth and turning it over.
The severed arm appeared as solid as a stone sculpture. On its back was a dense cluster of black text. It was neither Han characters nor the script used by West Jing or Nanzhou, nor any language seen in the books of the Academic Palace.
Shixing Monk...
