Canvas and Suiyin walk through the streets of Grand dome , bypassing messengers that are cleaning the aftermath of Unknown Existences.

Their pace doesn’t match the swift pace of messengers , slow and floaty , like a walk in the park or a visit to some kind of museum.

Then they stop at a crowdless building , right before the remnant of a holed silver tree.

‘‘Why would anyone build a nuthouse right in the centre of country?’’

‘‘I don’t live here Canvas,’’ Suiyin says.

‘‘Doesn’t matter.’’

Canvas feels a warmth on the red handle , he puts his hand onto it and knocks with his right hand.

He wobbles on the door , shifting his position from right to left , using every muscle of his to open the god-damn door.

‘‘If i ever found the guy behind that door , i will slam his head with a piano.’’

‘‘I recommend peeling off his skin and pour alcohols on it.’’

‘‘I was joking,’’

‘‘I wasn’t.’’

——

The mist is cold , bone chilling and soul knocking cold , Fosfor regretted that she didn’t wear thicker clothes. The right hand that is holding her scar-ful blade is numb as a stone , lost in the desert of time , waiting to be degraded to sand.

She walks in the fog , not a single sound except the typing of a typewriter and unknown keyboard instrument. She is devastated to find the Letter-Writer and pull the words out of his mouth.

From the weak scent of Letter-Writer , Fosfor navigates herself , but the more she walks , the more lost she is.

Then the typewriter stops. Sometimes , silence is scarier than noises ,especially when you are not alone.

The mist thickens , blades that are unnamable rusted pierce the air , marching towards Fosfor’s flesh. The clocks tick , she sees the airborne weapon flying in slow motion , marching towards her lukewarm body , ready to turn it cold.

So the blades pierce through , crimson blood showers from her hoodie , like a high pressure water outlet.

She almost stood on one leg while the echoes of falling metal explodes non stop and Fosfor’s hand moves shadowless.

The weapons became ashes the moment she pulled them out , like they are the phantom of this mist , only the running blood proves that they once existed.

I’ve lost something, she thought.

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What is it? I could stop those blades, why didn’t I do it?

Darn it!

Oh right , I am fighting a Barricade , nothing is weird in the power of concept manipulation.

Now what concept does he control?

No wait, he isn’t a Barricade.

He is a copy of Barricade , but which one?

The Letter-Writer did not give time for Fosfor to think, his attack emerged again , swords and spears rallying towards Fosfor.

The blades never reached her.

White bones , painted in gray cracks and dim blood , stops the accelerating weapons.

‘‘Thanks , Gasha.’’

The skeleton nods , and is also affected by Letter-Writer’s power.

Fosfor stands steady , mind and sense expands to all directions , holding her blade under the defense of the giant skeleton.

Soundless mist floats there , less dense than before , but Fosfor still needs to keep her eyes on unnatural shadows that randomly disappear.

They are dancing a mocking dance , floating round and around.

Out of nowhere , the mist starts to change its color. The mist was just like ordinary mist-gray and cloud alike , but now the grayness is no more. In a time of blink , the mist shifts to the color that no one has ever understood , a color nowhere to be found on the spectrum.

The fallen warrior knows this color-the aura of their god.

For the messengers it is the color of wicked hope , victory and madness filled pride, something worth them to raise their weapons and applause.

A story to be told by their great-grandchild , even if it meant that they will be facing nothing but four white walls.

But for the abnormalities and Euth's foe , it is the direct ticket to the inferno that they never asked for.

Sadly or unfortunately , the world hasn’t seen that unearthly hue in centuries.

Last time it appeared was in the war of sunrise trees at Letland that burnt the holy tree of the Moon of Nature.

Being the first one to see that color of doom that has disappeared for centuries is like being the first one to arrive at a concert , except the band is lighting up your seat on fire and forcing you to stay before the concert ends.

That’s the situation Fosfor is in , if the Existences were a rock band , Fosfor would vomit her organs out when she hears their song playing on the radio.

From the eyes of Fosfor , the color is something more than head hurting aura or paint , transcending the reality to something more , she feels the color , something that can’t be told by human mouth.

She was left with no choice but to run and not to turn her head around.

Whispers , laments , screams from the past , the radiation of out-outer space and the unconscious dream-talks of the ones who shall remain their prolonged sleep lingers in the mist.

She hears the bone cracking sound from behind , the unnamable mass from the mist spreads faster than Fosfor’s leg , the sound of colors clashing together forms a choir of unspeakables , syllables that repeats and echoes slowing worms into her ears.

Her sword’s falling sound echoes and silence , her entire body is sweating cold sweats , she tries to open a wound on spacetime , but it won’t open.

Thanks to her extraordinary sense of direction , she is meters away from the red rusted door. The voices that are not our world are breaking her mind apart , invading her sane til the last brain cell of her is twisted.

Then the door creaks.

‘‘We’ve got troubles,’’

‘‘Suiyin , get Nameless here.’’

‘‘…I’ll take care of her , you’ll get the Priest here.’’

Canvas puts his hand on his chin , without a word , he fades away.

Seeing Canvas is gone , Suiyin grabs his tea and drinks it down with the ashes of the talisman.

Then he walks inside , ignoring the absurd color of mist and the pain inside his skull and carries Fosfor outside.

‘‘It’s been a while isn’t it?’’