This Is Mortarion, He Poops Often

A blue-and-white round hand extended from the pinkish-red wooden door, gripping a wooden stick tied with a strip of white cloth. The stick struck the Silent King squarely on the head, more than half of which was covered in reddish-brown rust.

The Silent King heard a bang ring out inside his head, like a bell, like a zither, like wind, like thunder, like grand bells, like birdsong, like the sudden peal of a church organ in the silence of midnight, like a melodious harmonica rising from beneath ruined walls, like a musician's song falling from the clear heavens.

A breeze suddenly echoed through the parched valley, carrying distant clouds and rain, bringing warmth unseen for ages, driving away snow that had lingered for so long, and causing something to sprout in the empty valley.

An indescribable sense of fullness began to erupt within the Silent King, gradually dispelling the cold that had never faded from his metal body throughout the long years, warming him until he was even scorching hot.

A burning flame had been placed inside an empty box—searing, blazing, bright, clear.

To his horror, he realized that the hard wall of ice between himself and the world had melted.

Previously, although he possessed exquisitely designed advanced sensory abilities and could perceive this world with a precision surpassing almost all flesh-and-blood bodies, it had always felt as though a thick wall of ice stood between him and the world. He could sense everything beyond it, but whenever he reached out to touch it, he felt only coldness.

Now, he was truly connected to this world.

He could feel the pain of his body rusting away bit by bit. He could smell the stench of the rolling poisonous gas in the air. He could feel the sharpness of the rocks