Light flowed among the thorn bushes, and the thoughts of the ancient gods spread through the darkness. The shattered body passed through the narrow gaps between thorns, while the teetering will crossed over the abyss of madness and folly.
How long had she been traversing this space, filled with chaos? How much contamination from the ancient gods had she come into contact with? Was she now a complete individual, or merely a fragment drifting in the chaos, about to be assimilated by it?
Agatha could no longer distinguish; she couldn't make out anything. She couldn't even tell where her own body ended and the vast expanse of chaos began—through her eyes, her body seemed like a blot of ink gradually diffusing in water, with the edges blurring into a liquid, spreading texture. It was as though she wasn't walking through the darkness but flowing forward in a thick fluid similar to her own bodily substance.
