Having lost the future and all possibilities, they existed merely as phantoms of the past within that Imaginary Zone, independent of time and space. Controlled by the Crimson Moon and the master of the Imaginary Zone, they moved like puppets on strings, following the trajectory dictated by fate.
This was a city that had died.
Countless spirits stripped of their destiny, within this eternal Divine Kingdom, cycled repeatedly through the old phantasms.
"The most pitiable are they themselves." Shiayar's gaze fell upon the blissful faces of the commoners.
They were already dead, turned into phantoms without fate, without a future... yet they still believed they were alive, convinced they possessed the power to decide their own lives.
He gently closed his eyes.
When Shiayar opened his eyes once more, his attire had subtly changed.
Gone was the simple trench coat, replaced by a long black robe with red clouds embroidered on it.
