Millions began to move. Stumbling, gliding, crawling, marching. An endless tide of death converging from every corner.
But not all responded.
In the shadow of a crumbling obsidian fortress, a figure stood unmoving—his long white hair fluttering in defiance of the stagnant air. His skin was pale.
His eyes were dim coals. Dead… and yet thinking.
Li Yang.
Among the countless dead, he was different.
He remembered.
A fragment of a life long past still clung to his spirit like a dying ember refusing to go out.
He did not move toward the gate.
He simply watched.
"…An anchor has opened," he muttered. His voice was hoarse, dry as wind over tombstones. "So… someone dares to breach the World of Samsara?"
He didn't move. Not yet.
But his fingers, long since dulled to sensation, curled faintly at his sides.
A hundred years.
