The moment his Soul Corruption hit the critical, fifty-percent threshold, the world as he knew it ceased to exist. The agonizing, physical torment of the war raging in his soul did not stop. But it became a distant, muffled echo. His consciousness, the part of him that was still Edward, was violently, brutally, and unceremoniously ripped from his convulsing body.
He was not floating in a void. He was not drifting in a sea of light. He was falling.
A long, terrifying, and impossibly fast descent through a dimension of pure, screaming, geometric chaos. He saw colors that had no name. Heard sounds that were mathematical equations. Felt emotions that were alien and vast. The place between places. The raw, untamed static between the channels of reality.
And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the falling stopped.
