Countless shadowy black demon phantoms surged frantically through the void, like a cauldron of boiling asphalt, like stirred ink. Their outlines were blurred, twisted, and constantly changing. Some resembled humans, some beasts, and some resembled nothing at all.
But their eyes were clear.
Scarlet, dazzlingly bright eyes like glowing embers were densely embedded in that darkness, like stars in the night sky.
But stars were still. These eyes moved.
They turned, flickered, and stared fixedly at the rift—at the flesh and blood on this side of it, at the vibrant life force on this side.
The howls from hell were deafening.
They were hunger howls released by countless starving souls all at once—hunger accumulated for countless years, suppressed for countless years, finally seeing an exit.
The sound did not come from throats. It erupted from the depths of their souls.
It pierced through the rift and flooded into every immortal's ears—no, not their ears, but their souls.
There was yearning in that sound, madness, endless hunger, eternal despair.
It was like an awl driven deep into the immortals' souls, making their entire bodies tremble.
Eve fell to her knees.
Not out of fear, but excitement.
Her body shook violently.
Tears welled from her right eye. Not murky pus, but clear, transparent droplets like crystals.
The droplets ran down her cheek and fell to the ground.
She opened her mouth to speak, but her throat was blocked.
She coughed hard, then drew a deep breath and shouted with all her strength, "The scent of death! I smell it! It's cold! It's empty! It's nothingness!"
She laughed, cried, and trembled all over, like a madwoman, like a saint, like a traveler who had wandered through the desert for countless years and finally found water.
Kane stood atop the pile of flesh, head