The demon-level Cursed Disciples heard this moving speech and seemed to see hope in life. Excited, they looked around wildly.
Then they spotted Spencer still standing there.
In their excitement, they hurriedly brought him a chair kneaded together from flesh and bone.
At the back of the chair, a Cursed Disciple's head hung down behind it, bowing as it strained to stare upward with wide eyes, endlessly letting out silent wails.
The chair's backrest was its spine.
Its legs had been folded backward and mixed with the bones of other corpses to form the seat.
The eyes in that lowered head kept darting back and forth toward the rock wall behind it, rolling constantly, showing that it still retained consciousness.
Only, its body had already been twisted into a mangled mass.
Ribs, pelvises, blood vessels, and the flesh of other corpses had been mixed into a chair filled with bloody artistry.
Though the blood vessels across the chair's surface were tangled, they remained unobstructed, connected to its head.
Keeping it alive.
Such a chair was quite comfortable. The writhing of its blood vessels made it feel as though one's buttocks were being massaged upon sitting down.
At least, that was what Spencer thought.
He calmly sat down. In that instant, he became certain of one thing: he had earned the trust of these Cursed Disciples and gained this patch of hell, along with these sinful souls.
That meant his plan was already half successful.
A rumbling sound came from the clouds in the distant sky. A gray, cone-shaped fighter jet streaked through the clouds high above, trailing a thick, long exhaust plume.
Spencer raised his head and stared at the plane passing overhead.
"Speaking of war."
"Our era may arrive even sooner than I expected."
He clenched his left hand.