A sharp and cold breeze brushed past Will's ears as he stood atop a jagged outcrop of blackened stone, his posture steady and unmoving as his gaze remained fixed on the demonic stronghold several kilometers away.
The wind carried the stench of sulfur and scorched earth, whispering across the ruined landscape as if warning anything foolish enough to remain exposed for too long in this hostile land.
The terrain stretching between Will and the stronghold was scarred beyond recognition. Cracks split the ground like open wounds, and faint traces of demonic energy seeped out from them, curling lazily into the air before dispersing.
The land appeared hostile and corrupted, yet Will did not feel any oppressive pressure from it. He circulated demonic energy through his body smoothly, adapting his physique and masking his presence instinctively.
To him, the environment felt no more uncomfortable than a harsh mountain wind.
