Soon, step by steady step, Max reached ten thousand three hundred miles.
The number appeared clearly upon the projection, glowing faintly amidst the sea of raging flames. Within the eleventh layer, the pressure had intensified to an almost unbearable degree. The fire there no longer behaved like mere energy. It pressed down with sovereign authority, as though the heavens themselves were weighing judgment upon him.
Yet Max did not stop.
His pace was slow, far slower than it had been in the ninth or tenth layers, but there was something unshakable about his advance. Since the moment he began walking within the eleventh layer, he had not paused once. He had not sat down to meditate. He had not retreated a single step.
He simply continued forward.
Outside the dome, the atmosphere had grown tense beyond measure.
"He has reached ten thousand three hundred miles," an elder whispered, his voice barely steady.
Victor Veron's expression had lost its earlier composure.
