The crystal window shattered with a bang, and Francis II crashed through it, landing on a layer of soft carpet.
Carpet?
The old King instantly realized something was wrong, flipping over quickly—at this moment, he almost forgot he was an aging old man. In fact, he truly performed an action that his age shouldn't have allowed—once he had steadied himself, he swiftly surveyed the surroundings. What met his eyes was the familiar lounge, with its familiar gold-red intertwined carpet and couch, while a completely regenerated monstrous creature stood not far away in a predator's stance, with remnants of a chamberlain's uniform hanging in strips on its twisted, deformed human body. Yet the window that should have been shattered was perfectly intact.
Hallucinogens? Mental suggestion? When?
