The gate to the seventh ring didn't break with a roar. It fell with a whimper.
Stone cracked. Metal twisted. And the great iron doors that once protected Astrea's nobles splintered like rotten teeth beneath the swing of Leonhardt's greatsword. Not magic. Not siege engines. Just him—and the weight of momentum.
Smoke bled through the breach, swallowing the clean marble roads in shadow. Behind him, goblins surged in waves. Armour mismatched. Eyes wild. Blades raised.
They didn't need orders anymore. They only needed his back to follow.
Leonhardt stepped through the ruined gate, boots crunching embers beneath his heels. A breeze blew down the boulevard ahead, carrying the scent of old coin, perfume, and blood.
The Seventh Ring.
Where the wealth fled when the city burned. Where the final roaches scurried into marble halls, clutching titles and names they thought still meant something.
His cloak dragged through the soot. He adjusted his grip on the sword.
