A brown haze blanketed the Asphodel Fields' sky as the ground rumbled under Adam, Garduck, and Achilles' forceful charge. The scenery blurred in their eyes, and their coats flapped in the raging winds, yet the fields seemed to extend infinitely.
Adam didn't know for how many kilometers they had followed the Cocytus' bank. But one thing was sure: he hadn't seen that many cities or travelled that long to reach Jotunheim's permafrost.
However, he had counted the passing nights—twenty. In other words, the expedition had started thirty-five days ago, yet still no sign of Tartarus. He didn't waste his time, though, and converted the flowing energy of the dead into infernal essence, netting him an additional sixty thousand points when he checked this morning.
Despite the disappointment, he exhaled. Complaining when he hadn't met danger sounded more like a kid's tantrum than genuine. Therefore, he banished his growing impatience into a dark corner of his mind to focus on his charge.
