"Huh? Nothing's happening."
Orson paused. The Crimson Lizard King's corpse showed no signs of change—the ashen decay continued creeping upward, now spreading to its head.
"What's going on, High Priest?" Orson turned to Borlog.
The old beast was clearly at death's door too. His six beast-eyes had reverted to normal, and his HP was plummeting at a terrifying speed.
Orson forced himself to stay composed. The more critical the moment, the more he had to keep a cool head.
"Form without soul… the soul is with me," Borlog rasped. He crawled painfully to the Crimson Lizard King's side. The divine silver fur covering him was falling off in patches, his body breaking down like a husk without life.
"Brave adventurer of the US," Borlog murmured, "If the time comes… please protect my children."
With those final words, he exhaled deeply. A flickering ghost flame—Draconis's lingering soul—floated slowly from his mouth.
Orson gave Borlog a solemn nod.
