Bologue stood on the stalled tank as soldiers swarmed towards him like ants; it was at this moment that Bologue suddenly remembered the question he had pondered earlier.
How long has he truly spent in this Hell?
Bologue questioned himself and answered, "Perhaps... ten years?"
Ten years.
For an ordinary person, this is a despairing time scale, but for Bologue, it's merely a somewhat harsh trial; long ago, in the endless darkness of the Black Prison, Bologue became accustomed to all of this.
Bologue never felt despair or pain; he only felt boredom and monotony during this prolonged slaughter.
Monotonous and tedious life.
Indeed, that's how Bologue describes this torment that has lasted for ten years.
The first soldier clambered onto the tank, yet before he could launch an attack, Blade severed his head, followed closely by the second, third... countless others.
There's no life more monotonous than this.
