The monochrome sky at the bottom of the Abyssal Chasm felt like a giant canvas painted with the ink of despair. No wind blew, only the spatial distortion created by the pure murderous intent wafting from thousands of red eyes surrounding Sylvia. In this place, in the deepest depths of the Underworld, the concept of mercy was never born.
For mortals or even low-tier gods, being in this place was equivalent to suicide. But for Sylvia, this was her own stage, and she was the sole director.
Sylvia stood gracefully atop a black bedrock pillar. Her Dress of Death fluttered slowly, absorbing the surrounding miasma energy and boosting her death magic power by 220%. She could feel the power rippling within her dead veins.
Thanks to the EXP absorption in Aeloria and her dimensional travel, her Level had reached a brand new limit. She was a walking catastrophe.
