The voice of the Spell resounded in the boundless darkness of the ocean, making Sunny shudder.
[You have slain a Corrupted Terror, Sybil of the Fallen Grace.]
[...Your shadow grows stronger.]
As the veiled body drifted down, wreathed in billowing white silk, one last whisper brushed against his ears:
[You have received a Memory.]
The Terror was falling down, deeper and deeper into the cold abyss. Sunny spared one last glance at the pallid blossom of the great burial shroud, knowing that it would be consumed forever by the dark depths soon. Then, he turned away and tiredly pushed himself in the opposite direction.
Sunny… was not in great shape.
His mind was slowly recovering from the dreadful mental assault, but his head was in the throes of a splitting headache thanks to catching the smallest glimpse of the tapestry of fate. His body felt weak and feverish, still suffering from the backlash of draining all of his essence.
