Dust

It hovered there, utterly motionless.

The blackness on its surface began to fade.

Starting from the edges, it gradually turned gray, then pale gray, and finally a translucent white.

Where eyes had once been were now patches of smooth skin.

Fine, dense patterns could faintly be seen upon that skin—the hand's original appearance, what it had looked like before being corrupted by the Abyss.

But those patterns lasted for only a single breath.

After that breath, the palm began to collapse.

Starting from its center, cracks spread in every direction.

With every inch those cracks extended, large portions of the palm peeled away from the main body.

The fallen fragments varied in size. The large ones were as big as millstones, while the small ones were no larger than fingernails.

They drifted through the void, every shard glowing faintly.

The light was so dim it was almost invisible, yet it was undeniably there.

It was the last trace of purity remaining from before the hand had been tainted by the Abyss.

As the fragments scattered, countless faint phantoms poured out from them.

Some of those phantoms were humanoid, some beast-like, while others took all manner of grotesque and bizarre forms.

They were the souls of living beings devoured by that hand. Imprisoned within its palm for who knew how many years, they had long since lost their complete consciousness. Now, as the palm disintegrated, they finally broke free of their shackles.

They poured out from the fragments and drifted through the void.

The phantoms were faint, nearly transparent.

As they floated there, their faces bore bewilderment, confusion, and the blank daze of not knowing where they were.

Then, light enveloped them.

That light was gentle, as gentle as morning sunlight.

The instant the phantoms were bathed in it, the confusion