The transition from the ruined, yet secure, perimeter of the Void Sanctum to the untamed wilderness of the Chaos Zone was not gradual. It was a violent severance of order. One moment, the air smelled of ozone and the lingering protective wards George had erected; the next, it tasted of sulfur, rot, and the metallic tang of dried blood.
Alvian stepped across the invisible boundary line, his boots crunching on soil that had been turned into a glass-like substance by errant mana storms. He paused, adjusting the collar of his [Vestments of the Void Monarch]. The legendary armor rippled like liquid smoke, eagerly drinking in the chaotic ambient mana of the zone.
