As time ticked away, Lumian sensed his body temperature slowly dissipating. Even the blazing sun outside the public carriage window couldn't stave off this change.
His thoughts dulled, and the skin on the back of his hand turned a pallid white.
At last, Lumian made it to the market district.
As he disembarked from the public carriage, his limbs seemed to stiffen.
Just as he turned onto Rue des Blouses Blanches, a man who approached him was taken aback. He let out a quiet gasp, his eyes filled with fear.
Lumian instinctively glanced to the side, assessing his reflection in the café's glass window.
His blonde-black hair appeared as if it hadn't been washed for days, and his face had turned a sickly shade of pale blue. There were purplish-red patches and signs of decay on his neck, and his eyes mirrored the cold emptiness of a corpse that had lain dead for many days.
