The last thing I remembered was the impact.
My Deathly Dazzling Blade and Enthra's supercharged state had clashed somewhere in the Metacarpal's crumbling upper floors, and the world simply stopped providing more vision into my mind after that.
Then came the unending white.
"Ah…"
I stood—or seemed to stand—in a space that offered nothing else to describe.
It had no ceiling, and I could locate no discernible horizon, no floor with real texture, though my boots met something solid without sinking.
White that felt dim rather than bright, pressing gently against the eyes like the inside of a pale cloud, smelling of absolutely nothing.
After a decade breathing the thick, rotting-sweet miasma of the Undead Realm, breathing air this empty of copper sharpness, bone dust, and Demonic Essence trace felt more wrong than any stench could have.
I tried to reach for the Demonic Essence in my chest and found it sluggish, faraway, as if touching it through cotton.
