The once prosperous manor is now in ruins, the vibrant lawn baptized by fierce flames, leaving only dead ashes scattered over it, swept by the howling wind.
In the end, there is a certain deathly grayness, everything appears so sorrowful.
Two monstrous figures gaze at each other from afar, their expressions either indifferent or enraged.
"Dean Lawrence, where exactly did you go that night?"
The ghost inquired once more, he was the survivor of the Night of the Holy Arrival, an impossibly existing survivor.
It was truly bone-chilling cold, like a familiar face emerging beneath a frozen lake, clearly dead, yet one day you're walking over the ice and see that stubborn face once more.
Clearly dead, yet stubbornly trying to break through the ice to drag you down.
There are always things relentlessly pursuing you, some are memories, some are missions, and some are vengeful souls filled with rage.
"The Holy Arrival Night, what exactly did you all do?"
