At this moment.
Africa.
South Africa.
Within the tribe.
Wei Song lay half-dead with his hands tied behind his back, fastened to a post in a thatched hut. His legs were wrapped in bleeding gauze, and his body bore multiple wounds. He hung his head, his feet barely touching the ground, all in a state of utter listlessness.
His chest rose and fell weakly.
Indicating he was still alive.
Anyone.
Already shot.
And then brutally beaten.
To not be dead.
Was a testament to his tenacious vitality. He knew that the reason he had not died yet was that the other party wanted to sacrifice him—it was just a matter of the next couple of days. The reason being, he had killed an important figure of the tribe.
However.
He felt no regret.
His vendetta.
Was avenged.
He had no further regrets.
