Bologue struggled forward on the ashen ground, the sharp blade now pitted and dented, clutched in his hand like a trekking pole.
This was the seventh day since Bologue had fallen into the Great Rift... or maybe the eighth; Bologue no longer cared about the passage of time.
His stamina was continuously being depleted, and the ethereal amount within him was steadily decreasing in this ether vacuum, making Bologue feel like a balloon with several holes, leaking air with a rustling sound.
Aimou remained silent, like a lifeless corpse carried on Bologue's back, and it had been a long time since the two of them last spoke, the silence lingering between them.
Bologue considered himself somewhat talkative; if he wanted, he could chat with Aimou about random topics, like movies, music, or even the ultimate questions of life.
