In the center of the room sat a wheelchair.
Seated in it was a shriveled old man, skeletal in appearance—the vessel of the sealed Famine Rider.
He was even more emaciated than before, his skin drawn tight over his bones. Only the two faint glimmers deep within his sunken eye sockets still burned stubbornly, representing an insatiable hunger.
Whenever the "waste" of negative energy flowed through the pipes into the room, that desiccated body would convulse violently, his throat emitting urgent rasping sounds like the gasps of a dying man.
He opened his nearly lipless mouth and, with an almost instinctive motion, greedily swallowed and devoured those intangible remnants that contained the utmost pain and desire.
Wu Heng stood outside the room, calmly watching through a one-way energy barrier.
He was not merely sealing the Famine Rider. He was feeding Famine.
The dregs of those souls and remnants of desire might have been deadly poison to other beings, but to the entity embodying the concept of "Famine," they were sustenance that maintained its existence—and might even stimulate some kind of change.
The wheelchair gave off a faint creak in the darkness, while the swallowing sounds from that shriveled throat rang especially clearly in the silence.
Wu Heng watched for a while before turning and leaving.
The factory's roar drowned out the endless craving for "more" coming from the room behind him.
Meanwhile, at the training camp, the sandy ground had been baked scorching hot by the midday sun.
Twenty rookie demon hunters stood in a crooked formation, sweat sliding down young—and not so young—temples.
They wore a mishmash of clothing, and their weapons ranged from inherited hunting knives to newly issued guild rune daggers. Their eyes held a mix of nervousness, excitement, and a trace of barely perceptible fear.
Dean