He stood motionless, his breath pluming in the cold air as he looked down at the spot where he had knelt moments ago.
The corpse of Willow Lockhart was gone.
It hadn't vanished into a dimension of storage, nor had it walked away. It had simply disintegrated.
The armor, the flesh, the bones—all of it had collapsed into a fine, grey pile of ash that looked like the remnants of a burnt log in a cold hearth.
Even her sword, the Oathkeeper, had crumbled into metallic dust.
Percival stared at the mound of ash, a flicker of surprise crossing his face.
"Interesting," he murmured. When he had found Mercius, he was already an old brown skeleton, and he hadn't cared to look into the coffin after raising him.
It seemed that the system completely consumed the physical vessel entirely, burning it with Soulfire. Likely to forge the spiritual contract or to ensure that the corpse couldn't be trifled with.
