Arlon stepped onto the 84th floor of the Tower, his boots pressing into the cold stone.
Immediately, he noticed something different.
The walls—normally rough but structured, like an intentionally worn battleground—were ruined. Not just aged. Not just weathered.
Broken.
Large cracks ran along the stone, jagged and deep.
Chunks of the walls had crumbled away entirely, leaving gaping holes where the Tower's eerie blue flames should have flickered.
Some of the flames were still burning, but others had long since died out, their absence leaving unnatural patches of darkness overhead.
Arlon narrowed his eyes.
The previous floors had shown signs of use, but they were always controlled, as if the Tower itself designed them to look like a battlefield rather than actually being one.
This was different.
This was real destruction.
Something—or someone—had done this before he arrived.
And the most disturbing part?
It wasn't recent.
