Dark King.
Malcador had once entertained many conjectures about the Dark King. In those moments when he lifted a hand to rub his neck after poring over documents, his vacant eyes would occasionally flash with his own imaginings.
What would the true Dark King be like?
Hatred, destruction? Or death and finality?
The silver-haired old man gazed toward the pitch-black starry sky. There, the void no longer looked clear and cold as it once had, but had become utter chaos, light and darkness intertwined.
He saw his former king, master, friend, and enemy.
That too was a field of dripping gold, colorful and brilliant.
He stared directly at Him. The sight of the Dark King made him dizzy, like staring too long at some radioactive toxic substance. That dazzling gold gradually dimmed in his eyes, darkening bit by bit until it became a blackness like some impurity.
Malcador felt as if his thoughts were sinking. His expression was dazed, his head heavy and his feet light. Merely looking upon that starry sky, merely trying to sketch the rough outline of the Dark King in his mind, had already plunged the old man into a weightless faintness.
?!
Malcador suddenly jolted. He stood upon the smooth deck of the warship, the cold air from the ventilation system blowing over him and making the beads of sweat on his cheeks painfully cold.
Something was very, very wrong.
Stiffly, Malcador tried to shift his gaze away from that starry sky—the phantom-like black mist abruptly vanished at a certain angle, turning once more into that breathtaking, magnificent gold.
When Malcador looked upon Him, upon that descending god, it was as though he had already heard a promise. He felt himself instinctively preparing to take a step, to climb those high stairs toward heaven