They were like countless black snakes, burrowing out of the void and into that mass of liquid.
The obsession of fear was the final fragments of consciousness that those remnant souls had erupted with before death.
Some feared Morko, some feared Kloz, and some feared death itself.
These fragments mixed together, churning into a chaotic mass of thick, gray-black liquid.
The liquid spun, condensed, and contracted.
It spun faster and faster, condensed with greater and greater force, and shrank smaller and smaller.
At last, it condensed into an evil spirit core.
It was the size of a fist, a mass of pitch-black shadowy mist. Fine patterns covered its surface, like tree rings or human fingerprints.
Two faint green ghostfire eyes were embedded within it, tiny and dim, like two stars on the verge of going out.
The ghostfire eyes slowly turned within the core, as though searching for something.
The instinct to devour living souls lingered around it. It was not conscious, but instinctive, like how a baby knew how to suckle from the moment it was born.
It drifted unsteadily through the center of the rift, floating left, then right, without direction or purpose, simply drifting on instinct.
It radiated a cold, deathly aura.
It was cold enough to make one shiver, so deathly still that it made people feel as though the world had already ended.
The remnants of the Flesh Realm were gathering as well.
The flesh corroded into black powder by ghostly energy, the red rotten meat that had not yet been corroded, the indigestible scraps Kloz had spat out, and the golden-red saliva that had flowed from his body all surged toward the center of the rift.
It was as though something were drawing them in, as if an invisible hand were picking up the