The candlelight converged into a warm ocean, as if an unnamed breeze swept over, gently rippling, carrying an eerie sanctity.
It might have been the most twisted and grotesque scene the Plague Doctor had ever encountered. He had dissected countless demons and created numerous bizarre and sinister entities, but none of these could compare to what he saw at this moment.
Like a ritual of execution sacrifice, this circle of candlelit chairs was the altar, and Dean Lawrence was the pitiful offering.
Dean Lawrence's body began to convulse painfully, as if something was draining his life force; his already aged figure was rapidly deteriorating, skin shriveling to reveal densely packed blue veins, blood unstoppable flowing down, pouring from his ears and nose.
The Plague Doctor knew that Dean Lawrence was in trouble, but he did not understand anything about the [Gap], nor did he know how to help him.
