A heretical cultivator in Bureau 749, I'm the fiercest at pulling out tendons and skinning peop

Sato raised his sword and brought it down, raised his sword and brought it down, raised his sword and brought it down.

The blade gleamed coldly in the dim light, and the chopping was so satisfying and exhilarating, one strike after another.

Blood and flesh flew everywhere, splattering all over his body and face, making his once fairly decent face look like he had just crawled out of a slaughterhouse.

He chopped and laughed, the laughter squeezed out of his throat, carrying a madness, a hysteria, sounding like a night owl echoing in the empty factory, quite eerie.

"Hahaha! You killed my people! You wiped out my entire family! Today I'll chop you all into mincemeat! Feed you to the dogs! Feed you to the wild dogs!"

He chopped with increasing vigor and excitement, as if he wanted to vent all the frustration, anger, and fear he had accumulated over the past few days through the knife.

But as he chopped, he suddenly realized something was wrong.

He couldn't quite put his finger on what was wrong, but it was a very strange feeling, like a fishbone stuck in his throat, something he couldn't swallow or spit out, and it was making him uncomfortable.

He stopped wielding his knife, panting heavily, looking down at the pile of indistinguishable minced meat on the ground, then looking up at the heads he had severed.

He crouched down and leaned closer to look at the smallest head.

The owner of that head looked about the same age as his sister, with a round face and big eyes.

At this moment, the fear and despair of dying still lingered in his eyes, and tears mixed with blood streamed down his cheeks, making him look incredibly pitiful.

Sato stared at those eyes for a long time, and the more he looked, the more familiar they seemed, and the more uneasy he felt.

Those eyes...

Why do those eyes look so much like his sister's?

No, no, his sister is perfectly fine in the hotel, how could she be here?

But those eyes, that gaze, that expression—they really are exactly like his sister's.

He remembered clearly that once his sister accidentally broke one of his mother's favorite vases. Terrified, she hid behind him, peeking out half her head and looking at him with pitiful eyes, begging him to take the blame for her.

At that moment, his sister's eyes were exactly the same as the head's eyes before it died.

Sato's heart clenched, and an inexplicable sense of panic instantly washed over him.

He quickly turned his head to look at the other heads.

Their faces were turned upwards, staring straight at him.

That look in his eyes... I can't quite describe it.

It wasn't the ferocity one would expect from a wicked cultivator on the verge of death, nor the venomous resentment of a heinous criminal, nor the pitiful pleas for mercy.

There was something in his eyes that was hard to describe, like surprise, like confusion, or like the kind of gaze that only someone you've known for a very long time would have.

Sato's breathing became increasingly rapid, his heart pounded faster and faster, and the veins on his temples throbbed as if they might burst at any moment.

The hilt of the knife made a "clunking" sound in his hand, the sound of his knuckles rubbing together from gripping too hard.

"No...it's impossible...this can't be..."

Sato muttered to himself, his voice hoarse as if it had been sanded, filled with an incredulous terror.

"They...they were clearly in the hotel...my parents...my sister...my uncle...they were all perfectly fine..."

He suddenly stood up, staggered back a few steps, and almost fell.

He looked down at his blood-stained hands, then at the pile of minced meat and the heads on the ground, and suddenly felt a wave of nausea wash over him.

"vomit--!!!"

He bent over, leaned against a nearby pillar, and began to vomit violently, so violently that he nearly vomited bile.

But after he vomited, the strange feeling in his heart not only did not disappear, but became even stronger.

It was a kind of... a deep-seated sense of guilt.

It was as if he had done something that defied all reason and law.

But he was clearly avenging his clansmen!

He clearly killed that group of damned evil cultivators!

Why does he feel guilty?

Why?

Sato leaned against a pillar, panting heavily, his mind a complete mess.

"Oh dear, my good son, what's wrong with you?"

Ji Zuodao's voice came down from the high platform, carrying a hint of concern—the kind of concern a crocodile would show.

He sat in a grand chair that seemed to have been moved from somewhere, legs crossed, holding a cup of tea in his hand, watching Sato with a smile, as if he were watching a good show.

"You only killed a few evil cultivators, how did you end up vomiting from it? Your mental fortitude is lacking, you need to work on it more."

Sato looked up at Himezamichi, his face pale, his lips trembling. He wanted to say something, but he didn't know what to say.

"Godfather... I... I don't know what's wrong... I just feel... I feel a tightness in my chest..."

"Hey, that's normal."

Ji Zuodao waved his hand, looking like someone who had been through it all.

"We still haven't killed enough. You'll get used to it after a while. We'll kill more in the future."

Sato looked somewhat bewildered.

Is that right?

"So, this is your first time taking revenge yourself, and you're just emotionally overwhelmed. It's normal, it's normal. Go back and get some sleep, you'll be fine tomorrow."

As Ji Zuodao spoke, he stood up from the armchair, stretched, walked to Sato's side, patted him on the shoulder, and said with a kind expression:

"Alright, the revenge has been taken, the people have been killed, let's call it a day. Go back and get some rest, don't think too much about it."

Sato nodded, then glanced at the mess of meat on the ground. The strange feeling in his heart hadn't completely dissipated, but he had learned not to delve into it.

Sometimes, thinking too clearly about things can be detrimental.

He followed Ji Zuodao out of the room, glancing back at the corpse on the ground before leaving.

The gazes of those evil cultivators before they died were like thorns stuck in his heart, impossible to remove or forget.

The little evil cultivator's eyes, in particular, kept replaying in his mind, like a movie, over and over again.

He shook his head, trying to shake off the images, but they were like glued to his brain, impossible to shake off no matter how hard he tried.

Ji Zuodao walked ahead, a barely perceptible smile playing on his lips.

Oh my, this show is really good.

He killed his own parents, uncle, and sister with his own hands, and chopped them into mincemeat, but he didn't even recognize them.

If they find out the truth later, how interesting will their expressions be?

Just thinking about it makes me excited.

Ji Zuodao wondered if he had been a little cruel.

Ji Zuodao held his teacup, tilted his head and thought for a moment, then grinned.

Weird.