Gazing at the black ink in his hand, Ian seemingly saw the blackened, coagulated blood overflowing throughout Azure City.
The innocent people who died for no reason.
Those things that disappeared with ease because of the high and mighty, their schemes, their conspiracies, their strategies, their hatred…
—What's the difference between here and hell?
Filled with unwillingness, regret, remorse, despair, and agony, a wish to destroy everything converged here.
This was a doubt that surfaced in Ian's mind.
But soon after, he sighed.
—There really is no difference.
"Humans are creatures destined to die."
As he gazed at the ink, Ian's hair trembled slightly, taking the shape of a pen tip, and he began writing a report on the Phantasms on a piece of paper nearby: "Many a life doesn't reach a century, with deaths befalling in myriad odd ways, perhaps due to a fall, perhaps because of a sneeze hitting the head on a cabinet, or possibly just dying without rhyme or reason, suddenly."
