"Crack!"
Zheng Qing cried out softly in pain, rubbing his nearly broken shinbone with one hand and groping the ground with the other. He felt that when he had just fallen, he seemed to have landed on something.
The parachute woven from magical vines transformed into strands of magic upon his landing, vanishing into the endless night of the Black Prison.
Soon, Zheng Qing realized that his previous feeling was not an illusion.
When he fell, he indeed landed on something.
And the condition of that 'something' seemed rather bad.
Because he felt a handful of wet liquid, still slightly warm. The young wizard hesitated, rubbed the warmth between his fingertips, brought it to his nose, and sniffed.
Carrying that unique stench of demons.
It was blood.
And it was demon blood.
So, when he fell from the sky, did he crash a demon to death? This somewhat absurd but undeniably certain thought flashed across Zheng Qing's mind, and he reached into the warm puddle again, groping to the side.
