The stair was no longer stone.
It pulsed. Every step, every fracture in the marrow, thrummed with the rhythm Leon drew from the chorus. The battlefield itself had become a great, resonant instrument, each clash of flame and decree striking chords that reverberated through the Tower's bones.
The erased did not simply rise now—they multiplied faster than the decrees could erase. For each Throne-Bearer destroyed, a dozen echoes kindled, their voices woven into Liliana's threads, their blades reforged in Roselia's emberlight, their wills roaring with Naval's dragons.
Roman's laughter split the chaos, his phantom duels swelling into a legion of his own—a thousand specters of himself through time, swinging in rhythm. "Aha! Even death remembers ME!"
Milim was pure ruin. Her violet fire no longer danced—it devoured decree at its root. Every law she consumed became wild fuel, and with it, her laughter grew almost feral, like the joy of a predator who found prey endless.
