The city is completely shrouded in winter, gloomy snow clouds pile up on the towering skyscrapers, scattering heaps of snowflakes between heaven and earth. The gusts of wind drag these crystalline fragments, scraping pedestrians' cheeks like razors.
Bologue put on a thick coat, wrapped a scarf around his neck, and walked with uneven steps on the streets of Opus.
It has been more than a week since the end of the Vow Festival, yet the echoes of the festival still linger in the city—the decorations that haven't been taken down, the ribbons mixed with gray-black slush, the celebratory songs occasionally played at store entrances...
Blizzard and strong winds hit his face directly, each breath of cold air scratched his chest. Bologue felt nothing of the festive atmosphere; rather, there was a desolate sense of destruction.
