The moment Arlon stepped onto Floor 90, something felt off.
It wasn't danger. Not yet. It wasn't even the overwhelming sense of tension that had settled into his bones after years inside the Tower.
No, this was something different.
His boots pressed against smooth, polished stone.
That was the first sign.
Arlon's golden eyes narrowed as he scanned the chamber. Unlike the previous floors, which had been crumbling and fractured—some so broken that it felt like the Tower itself was falling apart—this floor was pristine.
The walls stood unblemished. The floor was smooth and undamaged. The blue flames flickering above burned at full intensity, without a single dim or extinguished light.
It was as if everything had reset.
As if the chaos of the previous floors had never happened.
Arlon exhaled slowly, his grip tightening around Aetherion's Edge.
The sword had been with him for decades now.
And it showed.
