There was still one more day's journey to reach the Tenth Floor City.
Yet the City of Black Tortoise was already stirring—its streets humming with voices, its air heavy with the scent of iron, smoke, and life. Everywhere Luciel went, he could feel the pulse of something new and alive. It was the heartbeat of a rising city.
Inside the City Lord's hall, a long table was covered in dark cloth. Upon it lay a single stretch of black fabric—smooth, solemn, and waiting to bear its first mark. Luciel stood before it, a brush in hand, his expression focused and steady.
"Are you… writing on it?" Mirean Moon's voice broke the silence. She tilted her head, brow furrowed, as she watched Luciel carefully paint two intricate white characters across the black surface. "I thought you'd draw a symbol or a pattern. Something recognizable."
Luciel didn't look up. "This is enough—for now." His brush moved with deliberate grace, each stroke filled with quiet determination.
