Amid those endlessly struggling undead hands, a path had been parted. It stretched from the tree door where Angel stood all the way into unknown depths.
As though it were the same as the previous stretch of road, this method had deliberately been used to point Angel in a direction.
Yet it was both guidance and a threat.
For among the pale, greenish-white undead hands carpeting the ground, Angel clearly saw that some had pupils in their palms. At a glance, he could tell they were composite undead, likely another kind of undead aggregate.
With so many undead aggregates, if they exploded, the consequences were easy to imagine.
Clearly, the one pulling the strings behind the scenes was using this method to tell Angel just how terrifying and dangerous this place was, warning him not to act rashly.
In the face of such a threat, Angel chuckled inwardly and stepped onto the path without a care.
Sure enough, just as Angel had guessed, every few steps he took, the road behind him was replaced by undead hands. Just like the previous stretch of road, it conveyed one message: once in, there was no turning back.
There was only forward, never retreat.
Walking along this narrow trail carved out by undead hands, Angel felt rather strange. The path ahead twisted onward without end; on either side, faintly glowing hands stretched away as far as the eye could see; behind him, undead hands constantly sprouted forth. It carried a peculiar sense of ritual.
Angel recalled the palace of the Shannon Royal House he had once visited. From the king's seat atop the high platform all the way to the palace gates, the floor had been covered in a red carpet embroidered with lavish patterns, with civil and military officials standing around it.