Clyde stepped onto the ninth floor and felt it immediately.
The pressure in the air was different. Not heavier like the usual greenish poison, not colder like the Demonic's artifact presence.
It felt tense, stretched thin, as if the space was holding its breath. There was no fog or corrupted flesh pulsing from the walls. The floor was clean unscarred stone, almost respectful.
Someone stood at the center.
She looked like a woman. Tall, slender and her body was not mutated and intact. No swollen flesh, exposed organs, or green smoke leaking from her skin.
She wore torn, dark clothing that clung to her frame, and in her hand was a sword that looked forged.
Its blade was narrow and worn, chipped at the edge as if it had seen too many battles.
Clyde slowed.
Her head lifted the moment he entered. Their eyes met.
