Cain smiled faintly as he gazed upon the white gate. Something about this place felt different, a subtle pull deep within his soul. His instincts whispered that if he reached the final ring, he would obtain something extraordinary, something meant only for him.
With great effort, he pushed himself up from the ground, adopting a sitting position. His body was battered, his left shoulder mangled and bleeding, but his eyes burned with quiet determination. Not far away, his severed arm lay on the metallic floor.
Cain extended his remaining hand, and the limb rose as if drawn by invisible strings. When it reached him, he pressed it against the torn flesh of his shoulder.
