Mould grew in the spines of the books, each page festering and vile at the centre. Ink dripped slowly, a wet rot spreading from the shelves across the cold, damp flagstone floor, puddling among the cobwebs; on the surface, the small space was pristine. It was only under covers that the truth mouldered.

Sephiroth tossed a fireball into the heart of the mansion, and never looked back.