The flame of the soul blazed all over its body, the filthy dirt was falling off in the fire, its eye sockets burned with a bright blue flame. It looked like a Messenger of Death that had crawled out of the ancient abyss. When its gaze focused on him, Old John felt completely frozen.
What on earth have I brought home? I should be doomed, right? Old John murmured absentmindedly.
My legs felt a bit weak, not from fear, but from shock. Surprisingly, Old John wasn't terribly afraid inside.
At the worst, death is just the end, after all. Given his age and lame leg, with little hope for his remaining years, death didn't seem so terrible. All he wished for was a peaceful soul.
It could only be said that people in their fifties haven't seen enough of the world. Someone in their nineties like the silver coin, would understand that falling into the hands of the Undead is not as simple as 'just dying'.
