They had already caught the scent of fresh food. Their bodies had yet to awaken, but their instincts already had.
Soon.
Wu Heng silently repeated to himself: Soon.
In the void between the two doors, the auras of the Evil Spirit World and the God-Devouring World had begun to converge within the passage.
Yin energy and hunger, plague and infection—they coiled around one another like two venomous snakes trapped in the same cage, testing each other, biting each other, and devouring each other.
The silver-white cube spun above his head, taking in everything. He did not need to do anything extra; he only needed to keep the two doors open and let them play on their own.
In the Evil Spirit World, gray mist eternally shrouded this deathly land. It was no ordinary fog, but a gray-black broth brewed from yin energy, resentment, and decaying soul fragments, fermented over countless millennia.
The mist had weight, pressing on one's chest until it was hard to breathe; it had a temperature, cold as ancient frost in an ice cellar.
Visibility was less than ten meters. Beyond that, the world seemed to lie behind frosted glass, blurred and impossible to see clearly.
On the Bone Wasteland, bones carpeted the earth.
One corpse, two corpses, a hundred corpses, a thousand corpses—until there were tens of thousands, countless bones piled densely atop one another. Some were intact, some shattered, and some had already been crushed into powder.
They crackled beneath one's feet, like the sound of chewing brittle bones.
There was no grass on the wasteland, no trees, nothing alive. There were only bones, gray mist, and the faint, intermittent wails drifting over from deep within the fog.
Morko floated above the Bone Wasteland.
His body was a semi-transparent gray-black mist with no fixed shape,