The massive double doors at the apex of the black basalt staircase burst inward, transformed into a screaming gale of iron splinters and superheated crimson vapor. The Void-Galleon groaned, its forward timbers grinding heavily against the upper threshold as it forced its way into the absolute heart of the constellation. Above them, the sky of solid brass had begun to curdle, ripening into a deep, bruised purple that bled lines of jagged, white-hot friction across the iron battlements. There were no paths left to map, no codes left to decipher. The air inside the Grand Throne room felt like a physical hammer, so dense with slaughter-mana that the loose rust on the deck plates began to liquefy, running through the scuppers like dark, hot grease.
Ren Hanshin stood at the absolute point of the prow, his leather boots melting slightly into the charred wood.
[Synchronization: 89.0%]
[Level: 140]
