The door opened not into a battlefield.
Not into a city.
Not into ruins.
It opened into a valley—wide, green, peaceful. Wind drifted through tall grass, and a silver river cut through the center, winding past stone markers and quiet shrines. Birds sang. The air smelled like spring.
For the first time in hundreds of floors—
There was no threat.
Only quiet.
Too quiet.
Leon stepped through first, his hand ready near his blade—not drawn, but prepared. His team followed, forming a loose formation around him. They felt it too.
This was not real peace.
This was the calm held together by force of will.
They walked for several minutes in silence before they saw them.
Seven figures.
Seated in a semicircle atop a ridge above the valley.
Each one wore different garb. One cloaked in wind-silk robes. Another in battle-worn armor. One in a cloak of black ash. One wore a healer's coat. Another, a blindfold. All of them bore the mark of a former King—once Crowned, now unbound.
