They descended into the seventh floor. It was like stepping into the belly of a dead god.
A vast woodland stretched in every direction, its trees frozen mid-scream, as though caught in agony at the moment of death. Their bark was grey stone, their branches twisted into clawed fingers reaching toward a sky of eternal dusk. There was no sun here—only the faint, eerie glow of bioluminescent moss clinging to trunks and rocks, painting everything in ghostly green hues. The air was thick with stillness. No wind. No birds. Just the crunchless silence of ash beneath their boots.
The ash layer was shallow but shifty, like walking on powdered glass. Every step displaced it with a soft whisper, immediately lost in the oppressive quiet.
Raihan raised a fist, halting his paladins. His blue eyes, sharp as a blade's edge, scanned the gloom.
"This place is cursed," he murmured. "Stay sharp."
