A Stab in the Back?

The question pierced into Master Bitter Cicada's heart like a piton.

Master Bitter Cicada's face had no hint of blood at all, and his lips were terribly pale. The handsome, dustless man before now could not have looked more devastated.

In a voice as soft as a falling dry leaf, he said, "Who else should go to hell if not me?"

There was no telling whether it was an excuse or just his self-comfort. The monk fell back to his seat after saying that, breathing heavily against the back of the seat.

"Enough."

Observing his face, Meng Chixin knew that Master Bitter Cicada had reached a critical moment where he was wrestling with himself.

Two days earlier, the monk had vomited blood and almost gone mentally deranged. It must have been because he could not overcome the reluctance in his heart.

If other people pushed any further, it was very possible that the monk's head would get caught in a dilemma, and he could die abruptly!