The cold black steel slid into flesh without a sound as Haoran drove the dark edge of Azathoth straight into the base of the throat.
The metal did not stop at meat and bone, but even sank into the spirit itself, drinking the heat, the life, and every drop of light until the wound gave off no blood, only cold black smoke that smelled like a burned ditch.
"Eat up. This will be your meal."
*
*
*
Inside Ye Fan's sea of consciousness, everything was flat and pale gray.
Ye Fan opened his eyes.
He sat up from the floor of mist, rubbing his temples with trembling fingers, his hands felt light, with no weight of bone or skin.
The sound of ringing bells echoed in his ears, and the smell of blood was gone.
He looked around and wondered where this place was.
The sky above was an endless sheet of dirty white clouds that did not move. Below his knees was a quiet lake of silver mist, cold as pond ice in the dead of winter.
