Time in the Netherworld seemed perpetually frozen in a silent twilight. Clouds and mist coiled high in the sky, and a blue-purple glow unique to this realm filtered through the overcast veil, casting its light upon the bleak and barren land.
The vast world was exceptionally quiet. Zhou Chen had flown fifty kilometers on his Christmas Sled without seeing a single moving thing. The entire journey was nothing but desert and ancient mountain ranges.
In any other place, such a desolate and cold environment would have been terrifying. But in the Netherworld, it was actually reassuring. At least he didn't have to worry about running into any Undead.
If the Star Association hadn't taken control, the Netherworld would surely have become the land of the dead depicted in myths and legends, teeming with Undead. It certainly wouldn't be as desolate as it was now; it would be bustling—which would be terrible news for any visitor.
