A dark, damp corner of the city, far more unbearable than the main sewer tunnel from before.
The narrow passage was barely wide enough for one person to pass through, hunched over.
Underfoot was viscous, greasy black sludge, mixed with unidentifiable filth. Every step produced a SQUELCH, SQUELCH sound.
The walls were caked with thick mold and unknown slime. The air was filled with the heavy stench of ammonia, the sour reek of fermented excrement, and the smell of a rotting corpse.
Ron walked at the very front, holding an oil lamp in one hand and tightly covering his mouth and nose with the other. His brows were knitted into a knot, and he breathed with extreme caution.
Uncle Scar followed close behind. His injured arm was crudely splinted with a torn strip of cloth and slung across his chest, making his movements somewhat clumsy. With every step, his boots inevitably sank deep into the filth, pulling up a string of nauseating gunk when withdrawn.
