The gate opened without a sound.
Lucifer stepped through and didn't stop.
Floor 11 looked like a forest. But not alive.
The trees were fossilized—grey, brittle, jagged like spears frozen mid-scream. The air was dry. No wind. Just silence and the crunch of bone-dust under his boots.
He walked twenty paces before something shifted behind a tree.
A whisper.
Then movement.
Not one.
Many.
Wraiths.
Each made of bloodless flesh, hollow-eyed, crawling with parasite chains.
They didn't charge.
They surrounded him slowly, like they remembered him.
One screeched.
The others followed.
Lucifer raised one hand.
His blood flared behind him and shaped into a dozen spears.
Crimson Array.
The air split as the spears fired—silent and fast. Pierced five heads clean.
Lucifer dashed forward.
A wraith tried to grab him—he spun, drew his scythe, and sliced its limbs off mid-motion.
Another one bit into his shoulder.
His blood armor reacted—igniting instantly.
