A ripple of silver light announced Lilith's arrival on the seventh floor. The air, still thick with the coppery scent of blood and the ozone-tang of spent mana, told her everything she needed to know. The carnage was fresh. Craters pockmarked the earth, trees were splintered into kindling, and the bodies of high orcs and other monstrous beasts lay scattered like broken toys.
In the center of it all, lingering in the very fabric of the space, was the distinct, sharp signature of Noah's mana. It was like a ghostly echo of a storm that had just passed.
Lilith's crimson eyes scanned the silent battlefield, her expression unreadable. He was already gone. The faint, silver connection she felt through the pendant at her neck pulsed, pointing unequivocally toward the portal gate leading to the eighth floor.
