A gentle voice echoed around his ears.
Lance, who had been rampaging through the room, suddenly stood still, and his once chaotic consciousness seemed to have regained a bit of reason. His gaze instinctively surveyed his surroundings.
In this mess of a room, already torn apart, there was no other figure but himself.
"Who is it? Who's speaking?" Lance called out with a deep voice.
Perhaps because he had roared too forcefully before, his voice was hoarse. He was certain it was not his imagination; he truly heard... no, directly felt that voice bouncing in his mind.
Dimly, the room seemed to grow more somber.
In the air floated thin traces of black and purple, almost like spider threads, a faint, sweet stench gradually invading his nostrils.
"Do you crave power?"
The weird voice sounded again.
The dark purple filaments suddenly began to wriggle rapidly in mid-air; the dense and numerous threads interwoven, forming a strange yet graceful silhouette.
