Harshing sat in the ruins of Wittle's last hiding place. A blank portrait hovered near the wall - Harshing remembered that Wittle once stood in that portrait, training new naturalists to conquer the world. He looked around at the ashes and skulls Harshing had placed in this shrine. He often came here to cope with his guilt and emotion, it harbored his triumphs and goodness - rare things for someone like Harshing.

He took out a dagger and stabbed the canvas, black blood trickled from it. Wittle's remains. He had placed himself inside the picture.

He knelt down and fingered the black substance, then tasted it. Bitter.