At the end of the Styx handprint, millions of feet away, at the top of the towering mountain, there was a magnificent statue. It was a middle-aged man whose face couldn’t be seen clearly.
He had his head lowered, as if he was looking into the abyss. A thick aura of death emanated from his body, as if he had become one of the origins of the Styx River.
Under the statue, outside the Black Temple, Wang Baole pushed open the wooden door of the temple and walked in with determination.
Regardless of who had entered before, regardless of whether there was an insurmountable danger after entering, Wang Baole had to enter. He had entered this place not for himself, but for his senior brother.
He had entered for the sake of the friendship he had once had, and to repay the debt he owed.
Danger and non-danger were no longer important. What was important was that Wang Baole felt that he should enter this place and do so.
