Caelum watched the violence unfold with the strange clarity that came only when panic had nowhere left to go.
The air was thick—wet with blood and breath, heavy with heat trapped between stone walls that leaned inward like ribs. Every sound layered over the next: screaming voices tearing themselves raw, the dull crack of bone giving way, the sick slap of bodies hitting stone that had already learned the shape of dying flesh.
He did not move.
He could not look away.
Aurelian stood at the center of it, massive and unyielding, his armor already dark with blood that did not all belong to his enemies. Every time his weapon fell, it landed with catastrophic force—stone and sinew exploding apart beneath the blow. And every time it did, the echo answered.
His body shuddered violently as invisible damage tore back through him. Ribs fractured inward with wet pops. His shoulders spasmed as though struck by an unseen hammer. Blood sprayed from his mouth as he roared, the sound ragged and furious, equal parts defiance and agony.
Still, he swung.
Each strike made it worse.
Each refusal to stop stacked the pain higher, deeper, until his legs trembled beneath him and his breath came in choking, bubbling gasps. He laughed through it—raw, broken laughter that ended in a cough that splattered red across his chestplate.
Mireya moved like a blade drawn slowly from a sheath.
She did not rush. She did not overextend. Her katana cut clean lines through the chaos, precise arcs that ended fights before they could grow ugly. Each kill came with its own echo—a thin slice of pain across her own body, shallow but sharp, like a warning carved directly into her skin.
Her jaw tightened with every recoil.
She adapted.
Ysara barely struck at all.
She moved through the edges of the conflict, whispering at the right moments, pushing people forward with words instead of steel. When she did cut, it was quick and purposeful—a tendon severed, a throat opened just enough. The echo brushed her lightly, almost respectfully.
She smiled once.
Seraphine did not fight at first.
She stood apart, eyes cold and measuring, issuing commands that cut through panic better than any weapon. People listened without realizing why, falling into formation, backing away when she said back, advancing when she said forward.
Iscahrel knelt near her, lips moving in rapid prayer, fingers slick with blood as he traced symbols in the grime at his feet. His faith did not shield him from fear—but it kept his hands steady.
The first rival died screaming.
She was young—too young to be here, too fierce to survive. She hurled herself at an Echo-Bound with wild desperation, striking again and again, every blow landing harder than the last.
The creature barely reacted.
Her body did.
Each strike rebounded into her chest, her shoulders, her spine. She staggered, gasping as blood filled her mouth, ribs collapsing inward like rotten scaffolding. When the Echo-Bound finally crumbled under her assault, she fell with it, crashing onto the stone in a spreading pool of red.
Her body twitched.
Once.
Twice.
Her eyes rolled blindly as her fingers clawed weakly at the floor.
"Don't… stop…" she rasped, voice shredded and wrong, the words dragging themselves out of lungs that had already failed.
Then her mouth went slack.
The silence that followed was worse than the scream.
Caelum felt the after-image ripple through the air like a bruise left behind by reality itself.
That was when the betrayal began.
A voice cut through the chaos—familiar, calm, reassuring.
"This way," it said. "I found a safe path."
Two members of the rival group turned without hesitation, relief breaking across their faces as they followed the sound into a narrow side corridor. The light dimmed there, shadows thickening unnaturally.
Caelum's breath caught.
The voice carried no breath.
The Vestige Mimic stepped out of the darkness wearing the shape of a man they had spoken to only minutes before. Its face was right—too right—but its movements lagged, like a memory struggling to keep pace with the present.
It smiled.
One of the rivals reached for it.
The Mimic's arm wrapped around his chest from behind, compressing ribs with terrifying strength. The man screamed as bones folded inward, lungs bursting with a sound like wet paper tearing. The Mimic dragged him into the shadows, suffocating him slowly, deliberately, until the body went limp.
The other rival ran.
He didn't make it three steps.
Aurelian turned too late, his massive weapon crashing down on the Mimic's shoulder. The blow shattered stone and shadow alike.
And the echo tore through him.
Aurelian collapsed to his knees as his own shoulder imploded, armor cracking apart, flesh pulping beneath it. He screamed—this time without laughter—as blood poured from his mouth and nose.
The rivals saw their chance.
They swarmed.
Mireya intercepted one, her blade slipping under his jaw in a clean, intimate motion. His body dropped instantly.
The echo kissed her throat again, deeper this time. Blood trickled down her collarbone as she staggered, forcing herself upright through clenched teeth.
Seraphine moved.
Her hand shot out, fingers locking around a rival's throat. She squeezed without hesitation, eyes unblinking as his face purpled and veins burst beneath her grip.
The echo hit her hard.
Her voice tore from her in a choked gasp as invisible pressure crushed her own windpipe. She released him just as his body fell, coughing violently as blood stained her lips.
The Quiet Zone shattered.
Another survivor—eyes wild, mind gone—lunged at Iscahrel with a shard of stone. The priest barely raised his arm before the shard sank deep into his side. He cried out, dropping to the floor as his ritual tools scattered, metal clattering uselessly across stone.
Caelum moved then.
Not to kill.
To end it.
Red Amendment slid through flesh and shadow alike, clean and final. Each strike was measured. Each kill swift enough to keep the echo brief, survivable.
Around him, bodies piled.
Some died screaming.
Some died silently.
One man fell, skull split open—and still took two staggering steps before collapsing, blood pouring down his face as if his body hadn't yet realized it was finished.
Finally, there was nothing left to fight.
Only breathing.
Only blood.
Only the low, patient pulse of the floor beneath their feet.
The Vestige Mimic was gone.
No corpse.
No trace.
Just absence.
The survivors gathered in the aftermath, drenched, shaking, hollow-eyed. Aurelian lay slumped against the wall, barely conscious. Mireya pressed a trembling hand to her neck, breathing shallowly. Seraphine stood rigid, swallowing blood with each breath.
Caelum looked around at them.
At what remained.
Floor Two pulsed once.
Satisfied.
Hell had learned something.
And it would not forget.