In the pale and illusory fog, a figure floated quietly in it.

He was dressed in a jet-black robe, with black hair hanging down to his shoulders naturally, his face resolute, and a thick beard around his mouth.

His eyes were closed, and there was no life.

He is the dead Edward Leto.

But on his chest, a black translucent heart is still beating slowly and firmly, and the surface of the heart is covered with dizzy blood vessels.

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