The sigils cracked.
Not like glass—but like bone. A thousand years of sacred law, groaning under pressure it was never meant to bear. The symbols glowed red, then black, then red again, bleeding light into the stone beneath them as the air thickened.
The scent hit first. Sulphur. Burnt copper. The breath of something ancient and angry. It did not simply arrive—it coiled. As if the world was holding its breath… waiting for permission to break.
Above the altar, the Book of the Damned floated open, each page a scream. Each letter etched in a language that predated gods. Language that tasted like sin.
"…I'm not breaking any heresy… am I?" Aurora's voice was quiet. Not weak. Hopeful.
But even as she said it, a rift formed in the sky. Not torn like cloth—but like skin, peeled slowly. Reverently.
And from it—it came.
The portal to the Syndicalism World of Hell opened like an eye. Blinking. Watching. Giving permission. And once given—they accepted.
