"Roots? Impossible. Pen Fun Pavilion www.biquge.info What tree roots can grow so deep, a full 500 meters above the ground. The scrivener immediately denied his idea, but what could it be from the roots? He involuntarily slowed down, intending to reach out and take a closer look. I pulled it several times in a row, but it didn't come off. The scrivener was secretly surprised, these roots-like things were unbelievably strong.

The further you go, the denser the roots become, and the scrivener box has to be divided to both sides by hand. Suddenly, a black thing appeared in front of him, tangled in roots and hanging upside down on the rock wall.

The scrivener pointed his pistol at the target, slowly approached, and the "glimmer of sky" above his head sprinkled a faint light, and sure enough, it was a corpse. The whole body is tightly wrapped around the roots, like a fly stuck in a spider's web. Countless tendrils burrowed through the clothes, all the way into the muscles, and wisps of tendrils burrowed into the nostrils and mouths of the corpses, and then out of the eyes and ears, and the whole skull was made like a fluffy toy. The corpse seemed to have struggled violently before dying, and its limbs twisted in a very exaggerated posture, and if it were not for the comminuted fracture, it would never have been in such a strange position. The corpse's skin was black, but it was not decomposing at all, and its facial features were completely covered by roots, and no expression could be seen.

"Japanese!" The scrivener secretly made a judgment, and he was familiar with the corpse's costume. A very bad premonition rose in my heart, and in less than a day, I turned into a dry corpse. What kind of place is this, how can the damp and hot Savage Mountain become a dry corpse!

The scrivener had a very bad premonition, he broke into the forbidden land, and the Japanese and natives were no exception, a Japanese died, what about himself?

The scrivener quickened his pace, trying not to let his body touch the roots, he faintly felt that the roots were trembling, as if there was life, which was definitely not a good phenomenon.

The roots hung down densely and covered with cracks. Although I was very careful, my bare skin still touched and scratched on my body.

In front of him, another corpse appeared, tangled in a tendril-like thing, like a lurking spider-man. Still Japanese, equipment bags and guns were scattered on the ground, and the companions did not pick them up, so they should have left in a hurry.

The scrivener is turned sideways, as far away from the body as possible. When I passed by the corpse, I couldn't help but glance at it a few times, the military uniform was intact, the skin on the face and hands was black and purple, and only a layer of skin remained, which was tightly attached to the skeleton. The facial features are exaggerated and distorted, and you can imagine how painful it was before dying.

The scrivener has seen many, many corpses, and he can't help but be moved at this time. He could smell a breath of death, strong, irresistible. The equipment of the Japanese soldiers is extremely advanced, it can be said that they are armed to the teeth, and when they arrive here, they can only wait for death, and their companions do not even have the intention of rescue, so they flee in embarrassment. No equipment, no weapons, nothing is more important than life.

There is definitely something wrong with the roots! The scrivener, of course, does not think that the dead bodies of the Japanese are accidental. The roots of terror are like patron saints, guarding an ancient and mysterious passage. He pulled out his scimitar from his waist and slashed the messy roots. He was so surprised that he couldn't cut a single one.

The scrivener box is very familiar, and if it can't be cut, it won't fight anymore, and the scimitar will be inserted back into the waist. Six more corpses of Japanese soldiers appeared in front of them, all of them dried corpses.

"If this continues, the Japanese soldiers will be completely wiped out." The scrivener thought to himself, and at the same time it was very strange, how could there not be a single corpse of an indigenous person?

Oh, no, the roots seem to be moving! The scrivener was lit again, the flames flickered and flickered, and the nearby area vibrated to the rhythm of the flames. He held his breath and stared carefully at the dense tendrils, yes, they were shaking. A sense of powerlessness rose in his heart, the Japanese could not be spared, could he?

My neck felt itchy, as if something was scratching. The scrivener instinctively reached out and touched it, and a ball of silk thread was burrowing into the neck. It's the roots, and they came.

The scrivener jumped to its feet and broke free of the roots. I can't help but speed up the pace of progress. Both sides of the stone wall are full of roots, and it is impossible to get rid of them completely. At first, it was just a small area of roots moving, but soon it was like a large area of contagion. As soon as the scrivener box was relaxed, the roots immediately invaded, and the momentum gradually became fierce, constantly drilling into the neck.

Suddenly, there was a heart-piercing pain in the back of the neck, very painful, as if it had been stung by a scorpion. The scrivener was touched with his hand, and a frizzy mass was burrowing into his skin. I didn't have time to think about it, so I dragged it out. The pain spread even more intensely throughout his body, as if he was pulling his own flesh and skin.

In the blink of an eye, the scrivener's forehead was sweating profusely, and his teeth were chattering. The last ruthlessness finally dragged the roots down. It was bloody, and some of the roots still had granulations sticking to them. The flesh on my body, the scrivener hurts so much that I almost lose my strength. A huge sense of crisis hung over my heart, and death was very close to me.

The scrivener is not afraid of death, he has experienced so many life and death, and has rubbed shoulders with death several times, he has seen life and death very openly. But no one wants to die, and he has been fighting hard to say goodbye to death. But now, he has a sense of powerlessness, and he has no pistol scimitar, but he can't use it. The existence of the root whiskers was beyond his knowledge.

The roots around him became frantic and wrapped around him one by one. The focus is still on the part of the neck, a large number of roots and tendrils drill into the wound, first itchy, then painful, then numb, and the whole neck has to lose consciousness.

The scrivener struggled to break free of one hand and pluck out the roots that had penetrated deep into the wound. Pulling the whole body hard, the roots were very tightly entangled, and they didn't pull it. The scrivener gritted his teeth and exerted himself again, without the slightest reservation, using up the strength of every pore. Thin roots cut into the flesh, and thin scars were everywhere on the arms and legs. The wound was thin, but not shallow, and the thin blood line soaked through the clothes, and it was red.

The scrivener didn't dare to vent his strength, or he would be entangled like a scarecrow. The tendrils paused for a moment when they came into contact with the blood, and then they became frantic and drilled into the wound frantically. The scrivener grabbed the extremely brief pause and pulled out. Then it was a wild run, which was said to be a wild run, but in fact it was stumbling forward, and the speed was slower than before.

In the left pocket of his jacket is a home remedy for wounds, which he learned from the indigenous tribe, and according to the shaman, it is still a secret recipe of the tribe, and he was passed on to him in gratitude for the scrivener.

The scrivener took a handful of leaves from his pocket, stuffed it in his mouth, chewed it, and applied it to the wound. Neck, limbs, where there are wounds, where to apply. A pungent smell diffused, the wound was cold, and the bleeding quickly stopped. He didn't pause and continued to run.