On one of the highest points of the First Layer of Hell, where air thinned into silence and clouds broke against jagged stone, a mountain range tore through the sky like the spine of a dead god.
Peaks rose and fell in violent angles, shattered by ancient forces, their cliffs split by abysses so deep that light itself seemed reluctant to descend.
The pocket of gas that flooded the sky was constantly detonating, making the area a death zone for anyone beneath the Lord Rank.
At the very crown of this range, beneath the unyielding God Prison, space behaved… incorrectly.
Distances felt uncertain. A step forward might stretch into a kilometer—or collapse into nothing at all. The wind howled, then vanished, then screamed again from a different direction, as if unsure where it existed.
Floating above a fractured summit was a winged figure.
