The descent through the spiritual threshold felt less like falling and more like being hurled through the cracked hull of a burning ship.
Jack hit the ground at terminal velocity.
The impact was concussive. A deafening, metallic crack tore through the quiet expanse as his boots slammed into a jagged shelf of deep crimson obsidian.
Spiderweb fractures spread fifty paces in every direction, dislodging ancient slabs of scorched stone that tumbled into lightless fissures below.
Jack didn't stumble. He didn't drop to a knee.
He stood completely upright, his dark spiritual coat snapping in a dry, howling gale that carried the stench of sulfur, pulverized iron, and centuries of cremation ash.
Above him, the sky was not the cold, reflective glass of the Dark Sector. It was a churning, suffocating vortex of bleeding crimson, revolving slowly around a bloated, motionless blood-moon that cast long, razor-sharp shadows across the cracked caldera.
