Atop the tower.
Black clouds drifted over in the blink of an eye.
The Vanity Sect had been utterly decimated.
Only Lord Ferran and three or four others lay scattered in pools of blood, their faces a blur of flesh and blood, their fates unknown.
All of their masks had been stripped away.
As for the rest, they had long since reached the end of their lives and had turned to ashes.
Whether fortunate or tragic, Lord Ferran was still alive, yet his body was frail and aging, teetering on the brink of death.
Here.
Alfaria roared, "Power, endless power!"
Eleven masks circled around him.
They converged to form a body, a body that was only lacking a head in order to be complete.
"This will be my new body."
Alfaria was on the verge of madness, his consciousness teetering between frenzy and calm.
"Just a bit more."
"Even with only eleven masks, it should be possible to construct an imperfect body, even if it is decaying, but I have no other choice."
