The little werewolf Sylar standing before John had been transformed into something resembling the living dead.
His eyes were void of pupils, a solid pale white.
John sighed internally.
As expected, it was just as he had guessed.
The moment Sylar unwittingly entered the Twisted Grove 20 years ago, he had become prey for the Abyssal Mist.
"Human, I have honored my word and brought the werewolf here. Shouldn't you answer my question in return?" The voice of "Beyvis" gradually grew shrill.
It was clearly running out of patience.
Creatures of the Abyss were always like this: unpredictable and inherently violent.
Even the collective consciousness like the Abyssal Mist found it hard to maintain shrewdness for long.
