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... novels would make you believe.
The sour taste of blood, mixed with the strange black ichor that carried a sticky, bitter taste that flowed into my mouth, my throat.
A taste that lingered on my tongue.
A scent scorched the back of my nose.
Yet the semi-conscious Qinglan didn’t care—her hands gripped the back of my hair, pulling on it hard enough to tear a few clumps out.
"Ngh...!"
Our eyes met...
...but her pupils weren’t there.
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