The Forgotten Sky Basin was a place where logic dared not tread.
Up was sometimes down. East was sometimes yesterday. And the blood-red mist that veiled the basin like a mourning shroud whispered unintelligible things to those with weak hearts and wandering minds.
Necro stood calmly atop the cliff's edge, his arms at his sides, letting the chaotic winds brush past his robes. The shimmer trailing him moved closer—fast, yet cautious, barely disrupting the ambient spiritual pressure. But to Necro, it was like a glowing flare in the void.
'They sent someone this early?'
From the trees below, a glimmering bolt of sword light suddenly lashed out, aiming for his jugular.
FWOOOSH—!!
Necro tilted his head slightly. The blade light screamed past him, missing by a single strand of hair.
"Now, now," he muttered. "That wasn't polite."
