Many images unfolded in Meng Hao’s mind. He thought of how he and the mastiff had rushed together head on into battle in the third matrix. He thought about how it had happily run back and forth around him in the desert of the fourth matrix.
He thought about how the poison flare-up had reduced him to little more than a mortal in the fifth matrix, and how the mastiff had protected him regardless of everything. He thought about how after every battle, it would crawl back to him, lick his hand and lay next to him, watching over him vigilantly.
He had tried to make it leave, but it chose to stay.
In the end, in the sixth matrix, it had chosen to help its master escape even at the cost of its own life. The last thing Meng Hao remembered was watching as the myriad of grasping hands pulled it away from him, not even giving it a chance to lick his hand.