The air grew hotter with every step they took.
Beyond the corpse of the armored demon, the corridor twisted into a descending spiral. The walls here bled. Not metaphorically—rivulets of thick, steaming ichor oozed from the living stone, dripping into shallow channels along the floor. The light dimmed to a bloody hue, pulsing in time with the unnatural heartbeat of the tower itself.
"I don't like this," Lyra muttered. "It's like we're walking into a throat."
"Then let's hope it doesn't close on us," Korrik grunted, gripping his greatsword tighter.
Inigo moved point, rifle raised, eyes locked through the scope. His pulse hadn't settled since the last fight. The Vulcan had done its job—but the fact that something so powerful was just the gatekeeper?
This place was more than a stronghold. It was a factory. A forge of nightmares.
