Wu Heng's gaze swept over the humans being devoured, glided across the swelling demon soul bodies, and passed over the figures leaping into the hollow of hell.
He saw the densely packed crowds on the ground, wriggling toward the hollow like ants.
He saw the black mist in the sky growing ever thicker, blotting out the entire world like storm clouds.
Those dissipating soul bodies, those cracking eyeballs, those shattering skeletons. He saw everything, yet his face remained utterly expressionless.
Creation Traits were still gathering from the edges of his perception, like countless streams flowing into a great river. He could sense their scent, temperature, and weight, and the faint currents of air stirred as they slowly revolved through the atmosphere.
He knew the ship had already set sail. All that remained was to wait.
Wait for those powers to gather at their peak, wait for all the fragments to come together, wait to reach out and take the thing he needed.
He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. His gaze remained calm, like a lake after snowfall without the slightest ripple.
In the days after the two worlds connected, demons were everywhere. Pitch-black soul mist swirled and churned through the skies like thunderclouds that would never disperse.
They settled on the rooftops of towns, hung among the branches of dead trees, and piled up in the shadows of ruins.
Some demons crouched in the middle of plazas like small mountains. Some clung to church steeples like wisps of black smoke. Others blanketed entire streets like a thin fog.
They were no longer hungry, because voluntary immortal sacrifices covered the ground everywhere. They were no longer frenzied either, because they had eaten their fill—eaten until they were bloated, eaten beyond anything they could have imagined even