Consciousness floats up and down in a boundless, pure white wilderness covered in gray ash.
The sky is as black as ink, without stars.
Only the dim, seemingly crying meteors drag their cold tails slowly across the firmament.
Ron found himself struggling with Uther through this soul-freezing snowfield.
Upon closer inspection, the falling "snowflakes" were actually charred book remnants, with old writings that could no longer be deciphered faintly visible on them.
Some were medical classics in the Ancient Mage script, some were poems in the Ancient Elf Language, and others were mysticism manuscripts written in long-lost writings...
They fluttered in the air, emitting the subtle sound of paper being torn by the wind, like thousands of tiny sighs.
The cold here was not just a physical low temperature, but an absolute loneliness and deathly stillness emanating from the complete forgetting of "knowledge" and "memory."
