When the middle-aged man clad in gray robes appeared, he did not even spare Grey a glance. His presence alone caused the surrounding air to stagnate, as if the world itself had instinctively lowered its head. He merely turned his neck slightly, directing his gaze toward the old man, and spoke in a detached, emotionless voice.
"I can only last for another fifteen breaths of time."
The projection spoke calmly, as though he were stating a trivial fact. From beginning to end, he did not look at Grey even once. Yet despite being nothing more than a projection, the pressure it radiated was overwhelming, more than enough to snuff out Grey's life with nothing more than the snap of a finger.
When the projection's gaze rested upon the old man, it was filled with the same cold aloofness, devoid of warmth or mercy. If someone like Grey could not even earn a glance, then what right did the old man before him have to expect acknowledgment?
The truth was simple.
