And what he saw was enough to quiet even his curiosity.
Millions of souls, Old and young. Women and men. Newborns that never took a breath. Fetuses torn from silence—not one, but many.
All of them bound to the old man like rusted chains forged from suffering. They clung to him in layers, draped over him like a cloak of the damned, their translucent forms barely visible—moaning, screaming, whispering.
And they cursed him. Not with magic or hexes, But with emotion. Pure, unfiltered rage. Crushing sorrow. Jealousy so sharp it could cut through reality and was having effect on the old mage.
Ikenga could hear them.
Whispers not meant for the living, echoing through realms—curses he'd never encountered before. Languages long dead, carried by unborn tongues. A child whispering hate with the knowledge of an elder. A mother weeping promises of vengeance as she hovered beside her killer. A fetus… cursing the very idea of its own conception.
