After speaking with Angers, Amon returned to his bedroom, took off his coat, lay down on the bed, closed his eyes, and drifted into sleep.
In his dream, he felt his consciousness being summoned by something unseen, continuously rising.
He did not resist the pull on his consciousness. When he opened his eyes again, he found himself in an ancient, vast palace so empty it made his heart tighten.
Countless intricate patterns were carved into the soaring dome, with all manner of incomprehensible strange symbols intertwined as though recounting the secrets of a forgotten era. Endless gray mist surrounded them, shrouding the palace in eternal haze.
At the center of the palace stood an ancient long table. At its head sat a man whose features were indistinct, though his lean build could barely be made out.
Directly across from Amon sat the woman who was highly suspected of being a Naga and called herself the "Shaman." Amid the flickering shadows and light, her eye-catching red robes could be seen.
Amon's gaze finally settled on the tall man on the other side of the table. He stood straight and had a well-proportioned physique, yet an unsettling aura emanated from him—chaotic, dangerous, filthy, and ominous.
He apparently had not mastered the power of God's Blood as perfectly as the "Daoist Priest" or the "Shaman." His mental state showed an unstable agitation.
As Amon studied him, the man's eyes, hidden in shadow, were also examining Amon. He was the first to speak, his voice low and resonant.
"Are you the newcomer? You can call me Feather Spirit."
"Hello, Feather Spirit." Amon wore his usual faintly inquisitive smile. "I'm Amon."
The Shaman glanced at him and giggled. "You look much calmer than last time."
"I have to thank you for your explanation, ma'am. Otherwise,