"Im... possible..."
The word was a dry, rattling stammer, a poisoned puff of air escaping Chen Wuxian's throat. The blood had vanished from his face, leaving his already eccentric features a pasty, corpse-white mask of pure, unadulterated disbelief. His legs trembled violently, a palsy of terror that nearly sent him to his knees.
The darkness of the Mark of Resentment on his forehead, which had been flaring with triumphant, maddening malice just a nanosecond before, actually receded. Its corrupt light didn't just dim; it flickered weakly, like a candle flame caught in a hurricane, as if it were in the grip of a mortal, instinctual terror.
Its borrowed power, its ancient malice, all of it had been unmade.
