Bound to the cold stone altar, Xie Lian felt the weight of their misguided desperation pressing down on him. Each stab tore through the fragile fabric of his immortality, the air heavy with the acrid scent of incense and the metallic tang of his own blood. The dimly lit temple witnessed a cruel symphony playing out before its solemn walls. As the crowd surged forward, faces contorted by fear and the false promise of immunity, Xie Lian found himself unable to muster a cry for help. Silent pleas echoed within the confines of his tormented mind—a desperate chorus begging for release, for someone, anyone, to intervene. The fatal blows landed with a sickening rhythm, a macabre dance of despair painting the altar in shades of crimson. The pain, both physical and spiritual, became unbearable, yet his voice remained silenced, stifled by the cruelty of his immortal existence. Longing for the solace of death, Xie Lian silently begged for the embrace of oblivion to free him from this gruesome spectacle. In the midst of the torment, his consciousness clung to a fragile thread—a tether to the hope that someone, somewhere, would recognize the injustice unfolding. But as the darkness enveloped him, the silent echoes of his mental pleas faded into the void, leaving only the haunting realization that even immortality couldn't shield him from the depths of human cruelty.