Hewitt wiped his lips.
The man's clothes were in disarray, his sword nowhere to be seen, and only the green stains on his mouth and body hinted at what had just occurred.
Coming to the Underworld still had an effect on him.
Although he never had anything to do with death, this place was filled with too many elements related to the past.
He had not indulged himself like this for a long time.
Letting instinct and madness control his soul.
Hewitt came to the marshland.
The so-called trials were meant for ordinary people.
He usually wasn't one to take the path laid out by others.
After all, he could fly.
But today, Hewitt chose to take a boat.
After all, he was still a visiting guest, and it wouldn't be appropriate to start a battle right away; perhaps what awaited him inside wasn't Pendragon but Morgan Rutherford.
However, she was no saint either.
The wooden boat was anchored about fifty meters from the marsh's edge.
