But Zhang Da Yong's words were like an awl, drilling from his ears into his mind.
Like the roll of distant thunder.
Or the whisper of a demon.
They echoed endlessly in his head.
Drowning out the cacophony of his auditory hallucinations.
The voices of his parents and Zhao Ci alike seemed to be suppressed.
Yang Mo grew increasingly agitated.
'What an asshole!'
'How could he say something like that?'
'Can you really make light of the life and death of the weak just because it affects the mission's difficulty?'
He was utterly repulsed by the statement and desperately wanted to snap back at Zhang Da Yong.
But for some unknown reason, as if by some strange compulsion, his tongue refused to obey his mind, and he made no move to speak.
Zhang Da Yong's words kept echoing in his mind.
His head grew heavy, and he slowly drifted off to sleep.
Zhang Da Yong watched him, a thoughtful expression on his face.
...
After resting in shifts for about four hours,
