Finally, after checking on the rest of the dungeon and giving Nedrax a few more instructions—mostly about keeping the other summons from killing each other—Fenrir returned to the boss arena.
The system prompt was still waiting.
[Proceed to Floor 10?]
This time, he didn't hesitate.
"Let's see what kind of mess you've made, Zelphra."
He stepped forward.
The air shifted the moment his foot touched Floor 10.
A wave of energy rippled through him—dense, familiar, and impossibly potent. He stopped mid-step, eyes narrowing as he let the sensation wash over him.
It was his energy.
Mana signatures, deeply woven into the very floor itself. This wasn't some random battlefield. This was a place that had been touched—scarred—by his power once before.
"Nostalgic."
He muttered.
It wasn't just the mana. It was the silence. The stillness. Like the entire floor was holding its breath, aware that a ghost from the past had returned.
His ghost.
