"Ha, ha..."
Ash had just left the Golden Mist Area when he immediately knelt on the grass, gasping for air.
He watched as his withered arm slowly regained its flesh tone and his breathing, like a broken bellows, smoothed out. His sluggish thoughts sharpened as if rust had been scraped away, filling him with a sense of miraculous escape.
Only now did he realize how blissful a sustained, serious thought could be.
When a soul aged, thought itself became a luxury, the mind like a severely stuttering machine. Forget about executing a task process, even trying to bring up the task manager to organize your thoughts would reveal that the task manager was stuck too.
After one experience, even Ash couldn't help but feel a touch of fear.
Aging was truly an indescribable terror.
Suddenly, footsteps came from behind. Ash was about to look back when he heard a hoarse and old voice scream, "Don't look back!"
