Northern propelled himself forward, short limbs and serpentine body coiling through the land, plunging deeper into the terrain. After destroying the Crimson Bulwark, the breathing walls of the cliff had ceased, and now everything lay still.
But also eerily silent. The rhythmic pulse in the walls—Northern had grown so accustomed to it in such a short time that he actually missed it now that everything sat perfectly still.
Soon, the obsidian terrain shifted. Northern entered what looked like catacombs. The air here hung heavier, slightly distorted—not enough to bother him, of course, but Northern had to acknowledge that any other Paragon would buckle under it.
Trees wrapped in glowing red webbing lined the passage. Or at least they resembled trees, though with a more grotesque and unsettling structure. But it made no sense—why would so many trees exist in catacombs, situated in the depths of a canyon? There was no sunlight to nurture any form of nature in this corrupted land.
