Tonight, there are neither stars nor moon.
Only a faint light burns in the dining hall on the first floor of the inn.
The Murong brothers walk along the road, their feet on a red carpet laid out by the Meat Bodhisattvas.
Petal strewn around the red carpet emit a faint fragrance, appearing exceedingly elegant.
Yet, the Murong brothers' backs are drenched in cold sweat.
The chill wind blows, turning that sweat into a biting cold that seeps into their skin.
For they know all too well that the Meat Bodhisattvas' red carpet is not that easy to tread upon, in their eyes, its scarlet hue is like the long tongue of a demon, intent on rolling them into Abyss Hell.
At dinner, the Murong brothers did not tell Ning Qing about the most terrifying aspect of the Qingni Temple's Meat Bodhisattvas.
That is their need for cushions for their cultivation, and their preference for making these cushions out of flesh.
