Under Wu Heng's perception, these people kept climbing the pitch-black staircase. Every step they took was exactly the same size.
It was as though they could see in the darkness.
Yet their eyes were unfocused, their mouths opening and closing continuously as if chanting some kind of incantation.
At this moment, they looked more like a group of puppets on strings.
Within their bodies, the strange aura lodged in their souls grew increasingly active. Like parasites within a human body, it continuously siphoned away the spiritual essence of their souls.
Their auras grew weaker and weaker.
Wu Heng's door was tightly shut. He had no intention of making a move yet. Instead, he sliced up a plate of cold dishes and watched television while eating.
But whatever was outside the door did not seem inclined to let Wu Heng off.
As he relaxed, the window was suddenly battered repeatedly by the wind, as though something invisible wanted to get inside.
Through the window, a patch of curved darkness could clearly be seen, thicker than the darkness elsewhere, like a face pressed against the glass.
Faced with this situation, Wu Heng walked to the window and directly opened it. The face swiftly vanished, seemingly caught off guard.
As the window opened, a gust of icy wind rushed into the room and circled around inside.
"Much cooler now!"
Wu Heng sat back down.
On the wall hung an aged printed reproduction of an oil painting representing "motherly love."
The woman in the painting suddenly opened her eyes, slowly turning her head.
Then blood flowed from the corners of her eyes.
"Rahmat." A bizarre voice came from the painting. "You must heed our summons. It has come."
"Rahmat, can you feel it? Join us!"
The strange voice was soul-hooking, filled with a deep,