Evensal was humming a tune while walking in the deserted White Deer Corridor. His lonely footsteps echoed in the quiet corridor, and the sunlight falling from the first snow outlined his thin and tall silhouette.
He closed his eyes gently and recalled the little girl named Micah. Her pitiful appearance was really touching: her eyes were red but she still gritted her teeth and refused to admit defeat, but her tears fell one by one, as if she had a kind of fragility that people couldn't bear to touch.
But he still let her go, after all, he couldn't go back on what he said. Besides, he didn't want to see her die in pain and struggle in his hands. One day, he will give her that sweet and gentle death with his own hands, and then recite the Lord's Prayer with his own mouth. That will be a ceremony suitable for her.
Thinking of this, a smile appeared on Evansar's lips inadvertently, and a clear tenderness flowed in his green eyes. But just such a look is enough to make people avoid him, become frightened, and flee as if seeing demons from hell.
But where can they escape to? He is the high priest of the last days.
Evansar gently stroked the giant scythe in his hand, like a tender caress for his partner, with a mysterious light hidden in his eyes.
The next prey he was looking for was in this quiet White Deer Corridor. He heard the name of the dying man from the mouth of the Black Son. Now the blade in his hand is hungry, waiting to harvest the next human's consciousness.
Intention: The long night is coming, death is justified
