At the far edge of the Myriad Hollow's outer circle, an inn stood, a place where the bustling chaos of Myriad Hollow thinned just enough for breath to feel less heavy.
By the standards of any other city in the abyss, the structure was an ostentatious marvel. Its entrance was carved from black onyx stone, doors bound in runic metal, and windows lined with polished obsidian that refracted glimmers of abyssal light. The hallways gleamed with runic lanterns, and the scent of aged spirit wine lingered in the air—luxury by most measures.
Yet here, in Myriad Hollow, it was nothing more than a 'small' inn. Surrounded by towering fortresses, colossal compounds, and clan estates that rose like mountains, this place looked almost humble—an ant resting in the shadow of titans. Its 'smallness' was a cruel reflection of the scale of the capital itself.
