Mo Huayan tilted her head as if she were admiring some rare performance and not… being slandered.
"Mm," she said pleasantly, lowering herself until she was half-kneeling beside him, her hair spilling like ink across the cracked ground. "You talk to yourself a lot. That's a sign of mental decay, you know."
Wang Chen rolled onto his side and pretended she wasn't there.
By the tenth day, he stopped reacting.
He just… accepted it.
He hunted, he hid, he trained. He slept with one eye open and his hands curled into fists. He learned to read the crying patterns of weaker resentment ghosts, learned which wails meant "lure" and which meant "backup incoming." He gauged the direction of the cold winds and the thin, bitter taste in the fog to determine when elite entities were nearby. He tracked his mana by feel.
And he did all of that while pointedly acting as if the beautiful woman hovering an arm's length away at all times simply did not exist.
