Lumian looked at the gold mask in his hand, white and black paint covering the eyes and face. Without hesitation, he put it on.
A cold sensation quickly seeped into his skin, and the weight of the gold felt unusually real.
His mind spun as he gazed through the mask at the entrance of the black ancient tomb and the end of the still river, which had mostly receded.
This time, he finally saw a slightly indistinct figure.
The figure wore a strange rusted iron crown and a dark robe with peculiar patterns. Its skin was milky-white, and its eyes were so dark they seemed to hold the entire night. A pale-white beard fluttered around its mouth and chin.
The old man sat cross-legged, hands tucked into his sleeves. He leaned against the open door of the black ancient tomb, his expression cold and impassive, like a statue.
As Lumian looked over, the old man met his gaze. His dark eyes seemed to reflect Lumian, as if numerous phantoms had appeared.
