Barren Marshlands.
At twilight, the sun struggled to pierce through the ashen treetops, casting its rays onto the ground carpeted with decayed organic matter.
Crevices hid in the cold air, and from time to time, a pair of eyes darted from within them.
Suddenly, a muffled blast sounded, its origin indiscernible.
Immediately after, collisions and energy fluctuations emanated from around the crevices, yet the clashing sides remained unseen.
Before long, a figure stumbled out of a crevice and then desperately tried to escape.
If Anson Gittler were still alive, he would have recognized that this was indeed the Zanluo soul who had spoken on his behalf back then.
On his head where once were three faces, now two had vanished, making him seem almost normal.
Before he could get far, a war spear wrapped with chains shot out from the crevice, nailing him precisely in the thigh.
Then, with a yank on the chains, the man was dragged back into the crevice.
