The high-sky clouds above Mount Apex stopped moving.
The wind died. The heat plummeted forty degrees in three seconds, frosting the marble stone railings with black, bitter ice.
High on his floating throne of rusted pig iron, Heretical Scribe Lord Mo Sha was no longer human.
His fine china mask had shattered into dust. His left ear was a smoking crater of burst void-marrow. His black funeral shroud hung in shredded tatters. He showed a chest carved from stone-hard black glass, pulsing with sickly, oily green veins.
In his right hand, Mo Sha held no metal pen. He didn’t need one.
With a horrifying, wet tear of ripping tendon and bone, Mo Sha drove his own blackened claws straight into his chest bone. He plunged deep into his living heart-core!
SKRRRRRRK!
“Guh... Hahahaha!” Mo Sha laughed, coughing up thick, curdled ribbons of black blood.
