At twenty, Lu Zhao took apart an old pocket watch. When he opened his eyes again, he had become a girl who looked twelve or thirteen, in a dilapidated church, with the crystal that had brought him here clutched in his hand.
The crystal could absorb strange powers, but the price was that bizarre things would grow on his body. A white-haired girl was hugging him and calling him "big sister," though he had no idea who she was. There's a shelter to the south. Those who've been there say it's not cold over there.
The bells of Saint Ellis still toll dully in the depths of the dense fog.
There is no sky here, and no dawn.
Only the endless fog and despair.
