The armies of the Conclave and the Academy, reinforced by every Arcanist, Adept, and Acolyte they could muster, took full advantage of my paralysis. Spells rained down on me like a storm of light and fire, each one tearing through my flesh, and every one of them was a fresh wound that the cold vitality struggled to seal.
Of course, the Adepts and Acolytes could not hurt me directly with their spells, but they were mostly used as Anima Batteries, with massive formations and fortresses pulled from these people's souls and forged into spells potent enough to tear into me.
The unmaking lances carved deep trenches into my body, and the rot and corruption spread through my channels like wildfire.
But I did not feel the pain, not really; I could not feel anything except the weight of the memory clawing at the edge of my consciousness. The girl with the black hair, the fox with four tails, the blue eyes that were so bright, so familiar, so impossibly precious.
