In the ancestral world, Vacuros trudged ahead, his living suit, the mysterious purple Paradox, coiled on his left shoulder like a serpent; its head changed unceasingly-a sign of its strange, changing nature. The land had turned into desolate expanses of snow around them, with white swallowing the once-familiar terrains to endlessness.
The wind howled like a restless spirit, carrying with it a biting cold that formed a misty fog, forcing Vacuros to shield his face as he pressed on. The air was bitterly cold, sharp enough to cut through even the toughest celestial beings, a temperature so fierce it could freeze the unprepared in their tracks. Yet Vacuros strode on, his immense resistance and Purple Paradox's innate ability to absorb any form of energy, endured the brutal environment.
