The old wolf struggled up the mountain ridge, its claws worn down and bleeding.
It couldn't help but pant for breath, its gait severely contorted. Patches of its fur continuously sloughed off, revealing large, bloody swaths of flesh.
It looked as if it could breathe its last at any moment.
The old wolf forced itself onward, deeper into Camel Peak Mountain. Its cloudy eyes could barely make out the path, but it had likely lost even its most basic consciousness.
When it finally stopped, its path was blocked by a dense wall of vines.
THUD.
The old wolf collapsed weakly to the ground. Only the rise and fall of its abdomen faintly showed it was not yet completely dead.
Just then, the fur on its belly began to split open in a small seam, like a clam opening its shell.
A withered head emerged from the opening. With no visible flesh beneath its skin, it looked like a living skeleton.
Who would have thought that an old, living man was hidden inside the wolf's belly?
