The isolated island nun with black eyes weeping blood, appearing almost deranged, had black mold spots climbing up her body, resembling a dying or already decaying living corpse.
Muddled magic power seeped from those black spots, billowing around her like mist, making the scenery beside her waver like a mirage.
The mist of magic sometimes condensed into twisted shadows, sometimes scattered into formless fears, transforming into indescribable things, like countless abstract paintings of horror and wailing overlapping.
Each image vanished in a flash, hard to discern, leaving an indescribable terror in the viewer's heart, shattering yet inescapable.
The more one stared at that magic mist, the deeper the fear, like falling into an endless nightmare abyss.
Let the dead dream of rebirth, let the living crave silence.
The Liberation Saintess was not affected by this horror, but solemnly raised her hands, clenching her fists.
