The wind in the Holy City was wrapped in ashes, clinging to Jiang Linzhou's face like a hypothermic shroud. He stood on the ruins of the collapsed dome of the temple, with charred gravel beneath his feet, and every particle was soaked with blood - from the minions of the Gray Tower, from the rebels, and from the innocents swallowed up in the name of "purification". The gray iris of the left eye is like solidified ink, with fine light patterns of sin swimming in it, reflecting every crack on the ruins very clearly. Those cracks seem to be whispering, telling the story of the fighting and collapse here not long ago.
