Ning Que was running in the street in the darkness, raising his right arm to remove the blood on his chin from time to time. The big black umbrella hit against his back now and then, making scraping sounds. As time passed, he seemed to be in a lot of pain as the light in his eyes grew dimmer and his eyebrows outside of the mask furrowed deeper.
His eyesight became blurry, and the hitching posts and doors of the shops at the side of the street gradually distorted, becoming like clawing monsters. His breathing got faster, and the breath that was squeezed out of his lungs was as hot as magma; while the breath that he had desperately sucked in was as cold as a glacier. His footsteps became slower and more unsteady, and were often caught by the jagged bluestones on the ground. His mind became messier, and he gradually forgot the current situation that he was in.
He only remembered that he should run—the farther, the better.