Stepping through the gray fog, Zhou Yuan set foot on the desolate land.
Gravel was scattered everywhere, the sky was dark, and the ground was blood-red—lifeless, dead silent, and devoid of vitality. Dryness and desolation were the eternal themes here.
In the distance, sporadic boulders were scattered around. Occasionally, dust would swirl up, becoming the only "living" thing in this silent world.
"These soils have been stained by the blood of Quasi-Immortals, and still contain weak spirituality. They might breed some strange evil spirits. Be careful," Ye Wushuang warned.
"Hmm..."
Zhou Yuan and Jiang Wuming bent over at this moment, clutching their foreheads in pain. A terrible muttering was echoing in layers within their minds—intermittent, hoarse, and sharp, like the cries of lost souls in the depths of Hell.
Soon, these chaotic mutterings transformed into earth-shaking roars, like the shouts of millions of armies, forming a stormy sea that directly attacked their minds.
