The echo of their footsteps lingered long after they had stopped walking. The Hall of Records was unlike any other place within the Devil King's dominion—a realm within a realm, where light could still exist without being devoured by darkness. Its towering spires were made of obsidian streaked with silver veins, pulsing faintly with the residue of ancient mana. Each wall was etched with living memories: flickering visions of wars, betrayals, and the countless reigns that had shaped the devils' lineage.
Zero stood in the center of that vast hall, silent, his gaze fixed on the fading murals depicting the Devil King's rise. He had been quiet for a long time now. The air was thick, not with danger, but with meaning—and that was far heavier.
