That would be the moment lightning strikes him, a bolt centered directly on the scar over his breastbone. The world goes white, then black.

For the next forty-eight nightmarish hours, he will wake occasionally, nerves throbbing, hanging in the darkness from an engulfing web of slime that crawls over him, restoring him enough for his own regenerative abilities to kick in. When they do, he'll be coughed up promptly into the wooden horse Liminal Space, still trailing the odd tendril of milky ooze.