It was a butterfly of indescribable beauty.
Its wings were covered in disordered beauty.
Merely sensing its outline, Mo Ling could feel the chaos spreading wildly from it...
"That description feels so familiar."
Mo Ling suddenly felt a sense of déjà vu, as if he had seen such a scene somewhere before.
Yet there was no fragment of this scene in his memories.
The erupting chaos caused time itself to briefly overlap, allowing the future and the past to appear in the same person's eyes at the same time.
The human brain often experienced such inexplicable déjà vu. It was perfectly normal for a simple system formed from the collisions of countless neurons to occasionally malfunction. Mo Ling did not pay much attention to that fleeting sense of familiarity, focusing instead on the butterfly dancing gracefully before him.
Mo Ling could not describe this butterfly in words, but he knew that it filled his mind—and even this drab world—with color.
Absolute chaos was colorless, yet every pixel was colored. And calling it merely colorful was not quite fitting; it was a palette containing every hue in the world.
The leaping text existed only in his thoughts, yet it gave his thoughts color and transformed the monotonous verdigris of the Outside World.
Verdigris ink spread outward. The lake shimmered with iridescent oil slicks, which rippled into the distance before the wind split them into different colors.
That was the airflow stirred by the butterfly's wings, and also the wind born from thought.
Words were an extension of thought, and the butterfly's wings extended into the Outside World as well, slowly flying out from Mo Ling's imagination...
Its wings scattered scales of every color, glittering like roadside neon lights, though their colors were far more complex. Red, orange, yellow, green, cyan, blue,