Inside a dim room, a young man shrieked and woke up covered in cold sweat. The bedsheets were torn apart, and his palms were bleeding, blood flowing down to his fingers.
"Demons!" The man held his head in pain, then knocked on his own forehead. "Why did I dream of such things?"
He could hear bugs whistling about but the man did not care. He left his room. His house was a moderately-sized manor, and it seemed that his family had considerable wealth. With just a thin set of pajamas on, the man stood beneath the moon. The breeze blowing by was somewhat chilly, but he did not look to be affected at all. He took a deep breath, calming himself down.
The man looked at his palm.
"Huh?"
He realized that the wound had already been healed, leaving behind only a light scar. He couldn't believe it and held his palm up high to have a better look. Indeed, it was healing up, and when observed closely, even the scar was gradually diminishing.
