Thick, rolling dark clouds obscured the light, as if devouring the entire world. The cold rain poured down like sheets, and with the blessing of the fierce wind, each droplet was like a piercing ice pick. The howling gales carried the sounds of colliding waves and shattering noises by his ears, like innumerable wicked spirits shrieking.
The candlesticks on both sides of the Stone Bridge were like behemoths drained of life by the storm, clinging to the last strands of flickering light, stubbornly persisting. The walls were mottled and uneven, scarred everywhere. The farther he walked, the more he could sense an aura of desolation.
Lin Yi soon caught a whiff of blood and decay in the wind, scents that seemed to drift from the Art Building. They should have been overwhelming, but the storm fragmented them into thin, sparse traces.
Lin Yi could no longer imagine the sort of human tragedy that had transpired inside the Art Building.
