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Am I still dreaming? He sat alone in an empty room on the third floor of Building 12, staring blankly at the blood-red moon hanging low in the sky.
The entire scene twisted grotesquely into surrealism. The view before him, his dire situation, even the faint echoes of battle drifting through the hallways—all felt severed from reality. It was as if he had been cast into hell itself.
He focused on the sounds of combat. Special Forces members, hero disciples, and students fought desperately together against the relentless advance of the dolls.
What was the battle's true state?
Marco must be worried. His loyal aide's face flickered in his mind—stern, resolute, and unyielding as he insisted Glenn stay where he could be protected at all times, ready to lay down his life for him.
He had ignored the warning.
If the third floor fell and they had to retreat to the fourth, escape would be impossible. Yet dying by those dolls no longer seemed like a dreadful fate.
Is this what madness feels like?
He had witnessed the disgraceful conduct of the academy's students who couldn't resist the miasma. Those whose minds had been consumed by madness lost control of reason and emotion, transforming into wild beasts stripped of humanity.
If that was madness in its universal form, then sadly, Glenn hadn't reached that point yet. His mind remained cool, his emotions steady. Only the disaster itself seemed to spiral...
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