The Sacred Sword pierced through the flesh, its sharp edge gleaming as it passed right through.
It happened almost instantly. The ancient golden mystery spread from the wound, utterly devastating the body's organs and every single vein and artery.
Time moved slowly, yet it could not be reversed.
Under the dim sun obscured by dust in the Valley of the End, the desolate wind blowing through the canyon lifted a mist of blood, which splattered upon Isadella's exquisite, unparalleled face.
The blood was scalding, yet to Isadella's senses, it felt ice-cold and bone-chilling.
The whirlpool mask shattered. Beneath it, the young man's mouth bled, yet he still smiled.
Gazing at the handsome yet gentle face of the black-haired youth beneath the broken mask, Isadella, the King of the Imaginary Zone, froze for the first time in a thousand years.
