As the fight ensued in the City of Mirage, far away from the mortal world, in the Hall of Void, inside his dark castle, Moros clutched his fingers and screamed in pain, blood dripping from his bones.
As an immortal, a Wraith of Decay chosen by nature, he should not bleed. He should not feel pain. And yet, here he was, writhing and trembling from unrelenting agony. The bones and bits of flesh clinging to his skeletal form rotted, healed, and rotted again, drowning him in endless suffering.
His hollow eyes anxiously fell on the mirror, but the black smoke coil was now gone, the connection he had long worked to forge between the living and the dead was completely severed, stripping him of the energy he had fed on until now.
"Who? Who the hell did that?" he roared.
