Mist swept in from the land of the dead, covering everything. It cradled him gently and began drifting through a filthy torrent.
In his daze, Thoreus thought he seemed to be drifting with the wind. He felt as if he had become a withered leaf, carried and tossed about by the wind, never knowing when a falling foot would crush him without mercy.
He was afraid—he admitted that.
Facing death fearlessly was one thing, but truly experiencing death was another. Courage had never meant fear did not exist. Courage merely let you ignore fear for a short while.
And now, all sensation was leaving him.
Thoreus realized he could not see, could not hear, could not speak, and could not touch. Yet he was also clearly aware that he was dying. That fact was utterly real.
Unlike his past experiences of being gravely wounded and on the brink of death, this time, it was true death.
He could no longer sense the existence of his hands or feet, nor could he speak naturally as he once had. In fact, the fact that he could still think was already enough to astonish him.
Thoreus suddenly realized that "sensation" was such a precious treasure.
A dense, pitch-black mist wrapped around him. He did not know where it had come from, nor where it intended to take him. As he drifted in confusion, he abruptly saw a hazy light rise ahead in the darkness.
The light was neither gentle nor cold. It surged like Flash, hatred and Anger roiling endlessly within it, like an ignited torch, awe-inspiring. Beneath its radiance, the filthy torrent fled in fear.
A thought rose in his mind—yes, I will go there. The thought was so natural, so calm.
"Home."
The word slowly rose from what remained of his