The illusion rippled like water as Noel stepped through, Noir close behind. There were no alarms, no resistance—just a faint static tingle across his skin as he stepped through the barrier, followed by an unnatural silence that seemed to swallow even his thoughts.
The other side was... ancient.
Ruins stretched before him—stone corridors carved with symbols that time had nearly erased, archways half-collapsed, and staircases descending into darkness. The air was dry, untouched by wind, yet carried a weight that pressed against the skin. There was no rot, no foul odor... and yet every instinct in Noel's body screamed at him to turn back.
He didn't.
'These ruins… they're beneath the Holy Capital. But this place wasn't in the novel.'
He walked forward slowly, boots making almost no sound against the cracked floor. The mana in the air wasn't corrupted, but something about it felt hollow, as if it had been drained, used, then left behind like discarded breath.
