Deep beneath the fractured crust of the Dark Continent, where light had long since surrendered and shadows clung like living tar, Atlas descended.
The air changed the deeper he went—not merely thinning, but remembering. Every breath tasted ancient, metallic, layered with the bitterness of sulfur and the cold sweetness of sap older than stars. Pressure wrapped around him from all sides, not crushing, but measuring, as though the world itself were aware of his passage and weighing whether he belonged this deep within its bones.
The cat balanced easily on his shoulder, its weight negligible yet grounding. Its fur rippled faintly, reacting to unseen currents of mana, golden eyes unblinking as they scanned the abyss below. Atlas could feel its awareness brushing against his own—not intrusive, but present. Watchful. Learning.
You shouldn't be here, a distant instinct whispered.
No one should.
Below him, the roots of Yggdrasil emerged from the dark like the ribs of a dead god.
