Abyssal Prison (3)

Ang lay behind a charred rock at the foot of the slope, his aura blending into the surrounding environment.

Nearly an hour passed. He remained silent throughout, observing the activity around the Gate of Foul Spirits above the slope with only subtle glances and tiny movements.

Through magical perception and feedback from the tremors in the ground, he gradually confirmed something.

The Gate of Foul Spirits had mainly drawn in scattered groups of Demons, whose behavior resembled primitive tribes roaming separately.

That allowed Ang to relax slightly.

If it had been a large Foul Spirit Legion, the situation would have been several times more complicated.

Although the Demons before him were numerous, tactically they remained at the level of savage impulses. They were dangerous, but still manageable.

Moreover, he could sense a faint magical presence permeating the area.

The explosion caused by the magic bomb had clearly inflicted casualties, and that oppressive aura had yet to dissipate, leaving many Demons afraid to act rashly.

After confirming that there was no immediate danger, Ang slowly rose from the ground and brushed the dust off himself.

He glanced back at the Gate of Foul Spirits, then turned and strode in the direction where the rocks had shattered.

The direction he chose led toward relatively higher ground.

From afar, the mountain looked steep, but its summit was bare and offered a wide field of view.

He needed a broader perspective to determine the overall structure and movements of this land of the Abyssal Prison.

Along the way, the ground beneath his feet looked as though it had been scorched by raging fire—blackened and cracked, with faint magical energy flowing through its surface.

Every step he took stirred up a wisp of black vapor.

The surroundings were silent. Apart from the occasional deep roar