Night in the Ghost Realm did not fall—it lingered, stretched thin across a sky that had long forgotten the passage of time, where no stars dared remain and no dawn was ever promised. The air was still, yet not empty. It carried whispers—echoes of things long buried, and yet never truly gone.
Beyond the drifting cities and hollow celebrations of the dead lay a secluded garden, untouched by illusion. Pale spirit-lotuses bloomed upon a dark, unmoving pond, their faint glow trembling like dying breaths. Withered trees arched overhead, their silver-black branches heavy with tattered leaves that never fell—as though even decay itself had been denied its final mercy.
At the heart of the garden, beneath a stone pavilion veiled in drifting mist, sat a presence that could not be seen—the invisible Ghost King.
