Thomas raised a hand. "Fifteen cities in the human world. We don't have enough manpower."
Wu Heng looked at him.
"Even if we don't, we have to make it enough. Hold the key locations and put the rest on the back burner. Regular armies can be deployed to the fringe areas of darkness."
Thomas asked no further questions.
With the assignments made, no one spoke. They all turned and left.
Isaac followed behind Wu Heng, with Martin behind Isaac. The three of them headed toward the bottom level of Hell, toward that surging darkness.
The ice layer of Ice Prison had completely melted.
The ground was black, as though it had been scorched by fire. It felt soft beneath their feet, like stepping on rotting flesh.
The air was thick with a sickly-sweet stench of decay, mixed with sulfur and blood. In the distance, dark energy writhed like a living thing, gathering into thick tentacles that lashed through the air.
Crowley emerged from the darkness.
No, he did not walk out. He floated.
His feet never touched the ground. His body hovered in midair, surrounded by those tentacles. His eyes were pitch-black, with neither pupils nor whites, only two pools of dense darkness.
He wore a tattered suit stained with black liquid, as if he had just been dragged from an ink vat.
Amara's voice came from his mouth, ancient and cold, like an echo from somewhere unimaginably deep. "Three? You brought three people and think you can stop me?"
Wu Heng said nothing.
He raised his left hand, and the Hell Mark in his palm lit up.
The black tentacles recoiled as if burned by something, then stretched out again—faster and fiercer.
More than a dozen tentacles lashed toward Wu Heng at once, as fast as lightning.
Isaac charged