Breaking the door by force would have been the fastest option.
It would also have been the worst.
If Thrax was truly in the middle of a critical breakthrough, any external disturbance—especially a violent one—could shatter his concentration and push him straight into deviation.
Emery exhaled slowly and chose the quieter path.
Space rippled faintly around him as he extended his will, and he folded space inward, stepped through without producing even the slightest sound.
The moment Emery entered the chamber, he froze.
A crimson aura flooded the room like a living thing.
It was so thick that it pressed against his skin, heavy and viscous, as though the air itself had turned into liquid blood.
Every breath carried the metallic stench of slaughter—raw and suffocating.
Blood covered the entire chamber.
And all of it came from one source.
Thrax.
