The portal to Floor 11 dissolved into a fine red mist, depositing the primary assault group into the heart of a dead kingdom.
The city of Drak'thar sprawled before them in silent, gilded ruin. Collapsed obsidian architecture lined broad avenues buried under centuries of pale volcanic ash. Immense statues of ancient dragons stood vigil at shattered intersections—their carved eyes blind, their stone wings spread in eternal, frozen flight. Above them, the churning red sky felt suffocatingly close, acting as a lid on a pressure cooker. The Tower's heartbeat was no longer a distant thrum; it was a deafening, physical tremor that shook the ash from the rooftops and rattled the teeth in Nathan's skull.
