The spirits wouldn't stop appearing.
Not in waves, in a continuous flow, like water finding its level, each one emerging from the space the last had left behind. The Hall of the Dead was exactly that.
Haru didn't stop devouring.
Each core he absorbed added another layer, not physical weight, the weight of existence. Memories that weren't his arrived in fragments: the taste of meals from three hundred years ago, the feeling of armor he'd never worn, the rage of battles he'd never fought.
And he wanted more.
Not a decision, instinct. The Sarcophagus recognizing nourishment that matched its nature in a way ordinary mana never could.
"This is dangerous." He thought as the third core dissolved into the center of his chest.
"More." Another part of him answered.
The spirits began to fight back.
