The transition did not happen with the clinical efficiency Lin Yue had come to expect from the System.
As the shimmering void of the system's backstage receded, the pull became heavy. It was as if the vacuum of the data-void was trying to filter him, or perhaps, something from the instance was clinging to the hem of his consciousness, slowing his ascent.
Amidst the rushing white noise of the transport, sensory ghosts began to bleed through.
Beneath the hum of the System's architecture, Lin Yue could still hear it: the distant, rhythmic wailing of a professional mourner. The scent of heavy, cloying sandalwood incense clung to his lungs, refusing to be purged by the sterile air of the void. He felt a phantom weight on his shoulders, as if an invisible hand was pressing down on him, urging him to turn back, to stay, to sink back into the grey ash of the funeral hall.
And then, there was the sensation of being watched.
