There are no good faces in the grotto, only evil!

Even the Buddha's light came in and turned an inauspicious blood-red color. Pen × fun × Pavilion www. ｂｉｑｕｇｅ。 ｉｎｆｏ

Before the red candle was lit, he was already kneeling in front of the black shrine, on a bloodstained futon.

The fishy curtain was slightly propped up, and it was vaguely seen that what was enshrined inside was not a god, nor a Daluo immortal, but like a mud statue covered in blood, and no one could see his face clearly.

He wore an iron mask on his face, and his black robe hung dirtily on the ground, revealing only a pair of trembling, white, bloodstained hands.

He folded his hands, choked and sobbed, and muttered to himself, but he was not praying for the immortal path to be open and proud of the fairy firmament, but regretting and breaking his intestines, cursing the heavens, cursing the world, and cursing everything in the Hongmeng sky.

The black-clothed young man knelt motionless in front of the shrine, like a stubborn stone kneeling for thousands of years, unchanged for eternity, and even kneeling until everything was destroyed, Hongmeng was shattered, and everything was reduced to nothing.

He was waiting for an answer, an answer that would make him put down the butcher's knife and become a Buddha on the spot.

Next to the ancient Buddha clay statue of the god mantle, a little monk wearing coarse linen opened his eyes, lit a red candle, looked at the ancient chess game and the dark Buddha pattern Ding placed on the shrine, and suddenly realized, as if he had participated in Zen for thousands of years, and finally found the answer, an answer that made the young man in front of him put down the butcher knife and become a Buddha on the spot.

The candlelight shone on the iron mask, outlining a handsome face, and under the black robe, the killing intent and cold aura carried by the black-clothed young man gradually dissipated.

Bai Zi fell gently, life and death, the little monk folded his hands and sighed: "Amitabha"

The candlelight is enhanced, and tears flow in the heart.

Holding on to the sunspot, raising the flag and trembling, choking and sobbing, the young man in black lowered his fingers and sighed: "Robbery, black is white, white is also black, I lost!"

The chessboard of the ages, divided into black and white, staggered, intangible and tangible, tangible and intangible.

The young man in black could no longer hold back the emotions that had been suppressed in his heart for thousands of years, and finally stood up, tore open the black veil, and held up a bloodstained black ding.

Could it be that there is an answer he was waiting for in the black ding?

He held it hard, the green tendons on the back of his hands bulged, his hands were still trembling, and tears flowed vigorously in his heart.

A sword stained with dragon blood had already been placed on the shrine, the hilt was pitch black, and the sword body was also pitch black, the color as dark as the netherworld, and three blood lines wrapped around the scabbard, emitting a blood-red light.

He suddenly drew his sword, ignited the true yuan, and split the dark Buddha pattern ding with a sword.

There is nothing else in the black ding, a head rolls out, a dragon head flowing with fresh blood.

The little monk was not surprised, picked up the dragon head that rolled to the ground, put it on the shrine, and said with relief: "You still put it down!"

Except for two, no third person knew what he meant.

"Hanxiang!"

The young man in black was silent for thousands of years, and shouted a name that he regretted for the rest of his life.

"Amitabha, open it, let me transcend the red ice spirit for her!"

The little monk was as quiet as water, his hands were folded, and the Buddha was shining behind him.

The pitch-black sword was raised again, and the black aura was permeated, and after hesitating for a moment, it slashed at the dragon head on the shrine. The dragon's head burst in half, and a red like blood, a crystal of ice that was bubbling with the most cold breath rose.

"Red Bingluo, her soul, my last memory of her, three lives, eternal regrets. ”

The black-clothed young man couldn't cry, holding the red ice spirit that gradually dissipated, he wanted to keep it but couldn't keep it, he suddenly ripped off the iron mask, and knelt in front of the shrine almost pleadingly: "Hanxiang, remember my face, don't forget, eighteen layers of hell, I will go to you." ”

The little monk clasped his hands together and muttered to himself, the complex Buddhist scriptures were transformed from the invisible into the tangible around the dissipated red ice spirit, calming the soul and collecting the soul, suddenly, the golden bowl in his hand exploded, and the Buddha's light leaked out, he sighed: "The little monk tried his best, the cold ice spirit is too strong, and the destiny of heaven cannot be violated." ”

The long sword in the hand of the black-clothed young man was restrained, the golden light was turned over, and it was plated with a layer of Buddha light, which seemed to merge with the darkness and was close to the light at the same time, and the three blood-streaked Buddha lights flashed, burying the dark light of the netherworld.

The tears are no longer flowing, and the heart has the hope and courage to live again.

"If the sky is ruthless, it will stab the sky, if the earth has no love, it will break the earth, the cold incense, the three thousand flames will not extinguish the love and infatuation, and the eighteen layers of hell will not block the promise of three lives. ”

The cold air of the red ice spirit was frozen three feet, ethereal, shattered into red and pink ice crystals, and disappeared in the Hongmeng universe in an instant.

Delicate face slightly kicked, face like fat jade, Qianqian posture, illusory and hazy, as if crying: "Ling'er, love you, three lives without regrets, waiting for you, the green mountains do not change, and the green water flows forever." ”

The little monk jumped up, his hands were sick, and the purple and gold robe of the ancient Buddha rose up with the trend, and quickly wrapped a trace of red ice broken crystals like lightning in his ears, and read: "Amitabha, Ling'er, the little monk did his best to keep a trace of the essence of the cold incense, and whether it succeeded or not depends on creation." ”

Jiang Ling shook off the stained black Dao robe stained with blood, grabbed the bloodthirsty Nether Sword, and said, "Even if the demons and monsters run rampant in the eighteenth layer of hell, I will destroy the ghosts and spirits and restore the soul." ”

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