The silence hit first.
Not the meditative hush of ink or the whispering winds of calligraphy. This was the thick, aching silence of a room that had seen too much and could no longer speak.
And darkness fell like velvet.
When He opened his eyes again, he expected another storm of imagery. But this time, he was greeted by stillness, and he was surrounded by it. A quiet, velvety gloom punctuated only by flickering candles. He stood in what looked like an ancient atelier, but impossibly vast. Its ceilings lost in shadow, its floor stained with paint, varnish, and memory.
The smell was thick: turpentine, dust, and a kind of timeworn grief.
Canvases loomed in every direction, unfinished portraits that stared back with hollow eyes, ghosts of figures hidden in half-tones and murky outlines. Some wore expressions of agony. Others, serenity. But all shared one trait: honesty so raw it bordered on violence.
[SYSTEM PROMPT: TWELFTH DESCENT INITIATED]
