In the northeast corner of the High Tower, there stood a small, three-story, deep-blue building.
The lights were off in the third-floor room.
Something was seeping out from the cracks of the window.
It was a viscous, dark purple substance, something between a liquid and a gas.
It trickled down the walls, emitting a faint sizzle as it touched the brickwork.
Inside the room.
Grey Falcon—if one could still call him that—was sitting cross-legged on a Meditation Mat in the center of the room.
His gray robes had long since rotted away, and something was moving under his skin.
Strips of it pulsed and bulged, stretching his flesh so thin it became transparent, revealing the dark purple web of veins beneath.
His neck was twisted one hundred and eighty degrees, his face pointed backward, his chin resting on his spine.
His eyes were open, but the eyeballs were gone, replaced by two bottomless, dark purple vortexes.
