The desert wind whipped Ba Gấu's fur into a frenzy as he crested the dune's peak. Below, the sands stretched out like a molten sea, shimmering under the merciless sun. He closed his eyes, welcoming the abrasive caress of the windblown sand. It wasn't just discomfort, it was a weapon. Each grain, imbued with the desert's unforgiving spirit, acted as a microscopic scrubber, scouring the venom from his energy pathways. The metallic tang of the poison mingled with the sharp bite of sand, a testament to the agonizing yet necessary cleansing.

He gritted his teeth, channeling his pain into a primal howl that echoed across the dunes. It wasn't a cry of agony, but a song, a hymn passed down through generations of his people. A song of resilience, of weathering storms both literal and metaphorical. It spoke of the ghost societies that dwelled at the world's edge, in a spectral city called Feins, where memories danced on the wind and echoes whispered tales of forgotten glories.

The Song of Feins:

(Sung in a guttural, melancholic tone, with Ba Gấu's voice raspy from the desert's harshness)

In Feins of mist, where shadows roam, Memories flicker, find no home. Whispers dance on wind's soft sigh, Echoes paint tales in moonlit sky.

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Once vibrant streets, now cold and still, Haunted halls where laughter chilled. Grand palaces, now crumbling stone, Where kings of dust once held their throne.

But though they fade, their spirits gleam, In moonlit beams, a spectral dream. Their stories linger, soft and low, A lullaby the night winds sow.

We, the living, walk the earth's embrace, Yet Feins' faint touch we cannot erase. For in each heart, a ember glows, A memory's spark, where spirit flows.

So raise your voice, let echoes rise, Sing to Feins, beneath starlit skies. Let stories live, though bodies fade, In Feins' embrace, forever laid.

As Ba Gấu sang, his voice resonated with the desert wind, carrying the song across the vast expanse. The pain lessened, replaced by a strange sense of peace. The desert wasn't just purging the venom, it was purging the darkness within him, the rage that threatened to consume him. With each gust of wind, each grain of sand, he felt lighter, cleaner, closer to the dog-man he once was.

He continued his journey, the song a constant companion. The melody intertwined with the wind's howl, a testament to his resilience, a promise to himself and to the spirits of Feins that he wouldn't succumb. He would emerge from the desert's crucible, stronger, harder, forever marked by the scars, but his own dog-man once again. And when he did, he would carry the song of Feins, a reminder of the ghosts that whispered in the wind, and the strength they offered to those who dared to listen.