Byung's consciousness hung in a fragile limbo, trapped within the labyrinth of his own mind. The cavernous hall, once a bastion of ancient grandeur with its obsidian walls and pulsating runes, began to warp and twist like flesh under a butcher's knife. The glittering ore veins that had pulsed with ethereal light now bulged grotesquely, resembling throbbing arteries ready to burst. Shadows elongated into clawing tendrils, scraping against the stone floor with a sound like nails on bone. The air, once thick with metallic power, grew suffocating—dense, acrid, laced with the metallic tang of blood and decay. It cloyed in his throat, each breath a labored rasp that burned his lungs, as if the atmosphere itself had turned toxic, conspiring to drown him from within.
He was labeled a destroyer, the Goblin King's words echoing like a death knell through the distorted space.
