The fog grew thicker and thicker.
The Demoness Pickup Truck drove through the fog. Most of its headlight beams were swallowed by the gray-white mist, illuminating only two or three meters of road ahead.
The tires rolled over loose gravel with a dull, muffled rasp, as though rolling over soaking-wet cotton.
A fine layer of gray-white droplets condensed on the windows. A swipe left the fingertips cold and sticky.
Yang Yong leaned back in the passenger seat, not watching the road.
His mind was filled with that stone slab, the chains, and the patterns on the scroll.
The three sets of patterns spun through his head like three keys, each fitting a different keyhole, but he had yet to find the locks.
"Master, isn't your hand cold?"
Long Ya leaned forward from the back seat and saw Yang Yong's hand resting on the window ledge, its knuckles white with cold.
Her own hands were tucked inside her sleeves, a gun cradled against her chest. Its barrel was as icy as an iron bar.
"No," Yang Yong said.
He really didn't feel cold.
Ever since entering this Gray Mist, his body had remained in a very peculiar state.
His blood felt as though it were simmering over a low flame, neither hot nor cool, just enough to keep out the damp chill of the fog.
He knew this was no good sign. The Ten-Thousand-Forged Primordial Furnace and the Nine Nether Yuanchen White Bone Ring were both slowly "eating" his physical and mental energy.
But he had no time to deal with that now.
Liu San huddled in the back, his whole body curled up like a shrimp.
At first, he kept muttering, "Heaven protect us... Heaven protect us..."
Eventually, his muttering fell silent. Yang Yong glanced in the rearview mirror...
The