The gods retreated behind the Gate without another word.
Francis stood alone in the wreckage he had made of the outer threshold. Cracked stone. Scorched earth.
He folded his arms and waited.
He was good at waiting.
He had spent an entire year here. A few more minutes meant nothing.
The wind picked up—or what passed for wind in this place—bringing a faint smell of cold, old matter. Things that felt like they had been left behind on purpose.
He turned and looked up the tall walls of the so called 'After life,' they have a limit in his vision, but when he tried to fly up, he would always came back to the ground, there was a space manipulation element there that even Lugar's ability could not bypass
No wonder the two kings had warned him to be wary. Still, he had already surpassed them by a large margin.
