Longevity Martial Arts: Obtain Golden Affixes at the Start

The witch collapsed to the ground, her body trembling slightly.

Her gaze began to unfocus, and the image of the androgynous person was reflected in her pupils, but she couldn't make out what it was at all.

Her lips moved, making indistinct sounds, as if she were saying something, or perhaps moaning.

The hermaphrodite stopped and stood about ten feet away.

Two heads, four eyes, all staring at the two prey on the ground, who were being devoured by desire.

The curve of the man's mouth widened even further.

"Almost there...almost there..." His voice was deep and satisfied, as if he were enjoying a meticulously prepared performance. "In a little while, it will be ready."

The woman's head tilted slightly, her eyes, streaked with bloody tears, blinked, and she uttered a sharp, sorrowful voice: "Eat them...eat them all...leave not a single one behind..."

Honglang's consciousness was rapidly declining.

He could hear his own heartbeat, thump, thump, thump, like a war drum pounding on his eardrums.

He could feel the blood surging in his veins, each pulse like an explosion.

Vision grew increasingly blurry; the moonlight, the red mist, and the figures of the androgynous beings all melted into a chaotic blur of light and shadow.

Only the witch's figure was clear.

She was kneeling on the ground a few steps away, with only a few tattered strips of cloth barely hanging on her body.

Her face was flushed, and the bright red beauty mark at the corner of her eye stood out starkly against her rosy skin.

A glistening drop of saliva clung to the corner of her mouth, dripping down her chin.

She was looking at him.

No, it wasn't "looking," it was an instinctive, uncontrollable urge to cast one's gaze upon the only person of the opposite sex in the room.

She knew what her body was craving, but she was powerless to resist.

Hong Lang's rationality was making a final struggle.

He frantically recalled the records in the "Ten Thousand Evils Record" in his mind: the bewitching mist of the hermaphrodite, arousing desire, and feeding on desire.

They don't act themselves, but wait for their prey to exhaust its life force in its desires, and then reap its life when it is most vulnerable.

In other words, if he can maintain his composure and withstand the onslaught of this wave of desire, he may still have a glimmer of hope.

But he couldn't hold on.

The body's instincts are like a wild beast that has broken free of its shackles.

He didn't know when he stood up.

I don't even know how I got to that witch.

He only remembered looking down and seeing the witch with her face upturned, her eyes hazy, and her lips slightly parted.

Her scent filled his nostrils—the smell of sweat, the smell of blood, and an indescribable, sweet aroma, like ripe fruit, tempting him to pick it.

Hong Lang's rationality completely collapsed at that moment.

Under the moonlight and amidst the red mist, the hermaphrodite silently observed everything.

The man's head and the corners of his mouth curved even wider, his eyes filled with greed and satisfaction.

The woman's head closed its eyes, blood and tears slid down her cheeks, and her lips moved, uttering a barely audible murmur.

"Another one... another one..."

Hong Lang could no longer hear anything, and his soft, smooth, snow-white skin was flushed red from his rough actions.

The witch's eyes were completely unfocused; Hong Lang's figure was reflected in her pupils, but she could not see who he was at all.

She gripped Hong Lang's hair tightly with both hands, as if trying to press him into her body.

The red fog grew thicker and thicker.

The two heads of the hermaphrodite opened their mouths at the same time, as if swallowing something invisible.

The air was filled with a cloyingly sweet scent—the scent of desire, the scent of burning blood.

The two people on the ground had already forgotten what heaven and earth were.

All reason collapsed completely in the red mist.

Driven by instinct, they fought relentlessly, from dusk till dawn, and from dawn till dusk.

Under the influence of the "Dragon Spirit and Tiger Might," Hong Lang fought relentlessly, his attacks rising wave after wave, while the witch's aura grew weaker and weaker.

"Am I destined to die from exhaustion like this...?"

Just when Hong Lang was in despair, he suddenly heard chanting in his mind.

The sound didn't come from outside, but rose from the deepest part of his consciousness, like a bell that had sunk to the bottom of the sea being struck, surging upwards layer by layer, making his blood rush through his veins.

"Form is not different from emptiness, emptiness is not different from form. Form is emptiness, emptiness is form."

The voice, neither hurried nor slow, pierced into his consciousness, word by word.

"All dharmas are empty in nature; they are neither produced nor destroyed, neither defiled nor pure, neither increasing nor decreasing."

Hong Lang's consciousness suddenly froze upon hearing this sound.

The crimson mist of desire still churned before my eyes, the woman's scent still lingered around my nose, and every cell in my body clamored for more.

But the chanting was like an invisible knife, forcefully cleaving a crack in his desires.

Light seeped through the crack.

Hong Lang stopped moving.

He looked down and saw that his hands were gripping the witch's waist tightly, his nails digging into her flesh, and blood dripping from between his fingers.

The witch tilted her head back, letting out muffled groans, having completely lost her mind.

Hong Lang's body was still trembling, and his desires were still roaring, but the chanting was like a hand, tightly gripping his last shred of clarity.

"When a person is in the midst of love and desire, he is born alone, dies alone, comes alone, and suffers alone; he bears his own joys and sorrows, and no one can take his place."

The chanting gradually subsided, like the tide receding.

But in Hong Lang's mind, the last sentence lingered for a long time, as if etched into his bones:

"Emptiness is form, form is emptiness. One moment of delusion, and you are a sentient being; one moment of enlightenment, and you are a Buddha."

It is the true meaning of the Great Sun Tathagata's palm technique at work!

Hong Lang suddenly opened his eyes.

His body was still trembling, and desire was still burning in his veins, but his eyes could already see everything clearly in front of him.

The witch's face was flushed, and the crimson beauty mark at the corner of her eye looked like a congealed bead of blood in the red mist.

Her body was trembling uncontrollably, her hands gripping his hair tightly as if she were grasping at the last straw.

And what about him? He was almost exactly the same as her.

Their primal desires still drove them on, but Hong Lang's rationality had returned to some extent.

Although it was only a small part, it was enough for him to realize one thing: if things continued like this, both of them would die.

Hong Lang stopped moving.

A flicker of surprise crossed the man's eyes, as if watching prey that had already stepped into a trap suddenly bite off its own leg.

The woman's head tilted even further to the side, her eyes, streaked with bloody tears, blinked, and she hissed sharply, "Why...did he stop?"

"Something's not right!" the man's head whispered.

Honglang did not hear their words.

All his attention was focused on his own consciousness, on the golden scriptures that kept flowing out.

The desire remains.

The body is still yearning.

But those scriptures were like a tough golden film, protecting his mind.

Although it was only a small space, that small space was clean.

He struggled to lift his head and look at the witch's face.

Her gaze was completely unfocused; his image was reflected in her pupils, but it was as if she couldn't see him at all.

She made a muffled sound, as if calling a name.

Hong Lang gritted his teeth.

He used all his strength to remove his right hand from the witch's waist.

The action was ridiculously simple—just loosening his fingers—but in his current state, it felt like prying open a hand that was clinging tightly to the edge of a cliff.

Each finger seemed to be nailed there by desire itself.

But he did it.

His hand left the witch's slender, supple waist.