Library

He wrapped himself tightly around his old cloak, which was as weather-beaten as his face. He tightened his grip on his dust-covered staff, which was as stained with dead souls as his hands. He lifted his tattered hood, which was as weathered as his hair. When he recited the ancient mantra, colorful brilliance waved at his fingertips, when angelic demons descended, and the earth echoed with the cries of the dead souls. When the gears of fate started to turn again, who could stop this game of the gods? ... He walks in the darkness, looking for light that may not exist in the world.