Last Of His Kind

Deep inside Paradise, beyond the reach of myriad worlds, lay a special realm.

The space was folded and compressed, causing the area to distort and look like a glass house. Black mists pervaded the entire space, coming together and drifting apart as they pleased.

The mists carried with them a scent of depravity and the muffled wailings of souls that died in Paradise.

These souls shone white in the black mists, like stars in the night sky, as if they were trying to escape the imprisonment. Bright was their light but the darkness was darker.

All struggles, of the largely unconscious souls and the few barely conscious ones, were futile in front of a power that far eclipsed them.

Bubbles popped from these souls, colorful bubbles that contained wisps of the most essential memories of the individuals—the few moments they held as irreplacable in their centuries old lives.