Meanwhile, back on the Fifteenth Floor.
The ruined battlefield had not yet settled.
Ash still drifted through the air. The stench of blood, corrosion, and burnt authority lingered like a curse that refused to fade.
The other races remained where they were, their attention still fixed on the unconscious youth and the towering undead guarding him.
Then space trembled.
A thin tear split the air as an older man emerged from the rift.
The moment he did, a powerful aura rolled outward, heavy and commanding.
The reaction was immediate as several Rank Three elites stiffened.
Another Rank Four?
What was happening in Hell? A New Year celebration?
But that tension lasted only a heartbeat because the aura was familiar.
This was a Rank Four from Michael's realm.
An old man many of them had seen before.
Now they remembered why he left.
He had gone to subjugate the Demon Lord. Seeing him looking all tattered here could only mean one thing.
Either he succeeded or he did not.
