The words "I seek a way to last until tomorrow" had yet to fade.
Yet in that same instant, the river wind in the Ink-Wash River Forest turned abruptly cold, as though deep winter had descended.
The river's waves churned.
Deep within the mist, a shadow slowly rose.
First came a wisp of disheveled white hair, spread wetly over the river's tides like a tuft of lingering snow in the wind. Then half a hunched figure staggered out of the darkness-
He leaned on the river water to support himself, his steps like dead branches on the verge of snapping.
At last, an old man steeped in the rusty stains of old blood stood upon the river's waves.
His Daoist robe was tattered, still bearing the patterns and stitching of that era. Time had torn the entire garment into something resembling a remnant banner dragged back from an ancient battlefield.
The fabric was stiff and cracked, stained with dark traces of blood far too ancient, far too old-
The bloodstains were so deep they seemed to have fused into the robe, beyond even the river's power to wash away.
His white hair was tangled like wild grass, every strand jutting sideways or standing on end, as though countless battles had left him no heart to tend it.
He was barefoot, broken chains wound around his ankles.
Every mark upon those chains looked as though heavenly lightning had hammered it ten million times.
Stranger still, his eyes were so clouded that he seemed liable to forget who he was at any moment. He kept muttering to himself like a madman:
"How could the likes of you deserve to be immortals?!"
"The immortals of myriad races have fallen, heaven's history lies in ruin, and vermin rule the world!!"
"...Today...which battlefront is this...who