The air in the Fourth Layer tasted different.
Sharper.
Thinner.
As if every breath carried the metallic sting of time itself bending around them.
Atlas felt the shift the moment the Elders' arena vanished and the world trembled—
the moment a presence overshadowed all the others.
A presence older than blood.
Older than Hell.
Older than the Guide whispering inside his bones.
A presence that stepped forward now, parting the Elders like the tide.
Seraph.
But the moment Atlas saw him—
truly saw him—
a cold ripple shivered down his spine.
Because the aura hitting him was impossible to mistake.
Wild.
Ruthless.
Burning with the same violent frequency that once shook the Underworld during their fight.
The same frequency as—
Asmodeus.
Just more fractured.
More ancient.
Like a storm left raging long after the world that birthed it died.
The high elder's steps echoed across the living floor of the arena.
