The sound that followed Caelum's recognition was not thunder.
It was closer to a breath being taken.
The stone beneath their feet pulsed once—slow, deep, deliberate. Not a tremor. Not an earthquake. A signal.
People froze.
Some dropped to their knees instinctively. Others staggered backward, slipping in blood they no longer bothered to look down at. Every eye turned toward the place where Red Amendment still stood embedded in the stone, its dark blade humming faintly as if resonating with something far below.
The floor had noticed.
Caelum loosened his grip on the hilt but did not release it. His fingers felt different now—warmer, steadier. The burn beneath his skin faded into a low ache, like a brand cooling after being pressed too long.
Around him, fear recalibrated.
The people who had watched him kill did not see a savior. They saw confirmation. Proof that the rules were real, and worse—specific.
Some of them stared at him with calculation.
Others with hunger.
A few with something close to relief.
The stone pulsed again.
Cracks spidered outward from beneath Caelum's feet, thin at first, then widening as blackness seeped through them like ink spreading in water. The ground did not collapse all at once. It peeled back in sections, plates of obsidian folding inward as though the floor were opening its own throat.
A scream rose from the crowd as the first person lost their footing and fell.
There was no long drop. No endless plummet. The darkness swallowed them quickly, cutting the sound short, like a hand clapped over a mouth.
The floor was opening.
People surged backward, scrambling, shoving, trampling each other in blind panic. Alliances shattered instantly. Promises dissolved under the simple truth that survival was no longer shared.
Caelum stepped away from the widening裂 beneath him, Red Amendment sliding free from the stone with a wet, reluctant sound. The blade felt heavier now—not in weight, but in meaning. It tugged subtly, pulling his attention downward.
Toward what came next.
Someone collided with him hard enough to stagger him sideways. A man—blood-smeared, eyes wild—grabbed at Caelum's arm.
"Take me with you," he begged. "You've got a weapon. You can—"
Caelum wrenched free without looking at him.
The man fell backward into the widening gap, his scream stretching thin as he vanished.
Caelum did not watch him fall.
He watched the floor.
The opening widened into a massive circular descent, its edges jagged and uneven, stone plates folding inward like teeth. Below, faint light flickered—dim, red, unstable. Not firelight. Something worse.
The first floor had been a basin.
The second was a throat.
And it was hungry.
"Move," someone shouted behind him. "It's opening everywhere!"
They were right.
The floor did not open from a single point. It opened in waves. Sections collapsed, sealed, reopened elsewhere. People were forced to run—not toward safety, but toward decision.
There was no "correct" path.
Only the one you chose.
Caelum felt the pull again, stronger now. Red Amendment's blade angled subtly in his grip, its tip drifting toward a descending ramp that had formed at the edge of the opening. Unlike the rest of the collapse, this path was deliberate—stone folding smoothly, steps forming as though carved by an unseen hand.
An invitation.
He wasn't the only one who noticed.
A woman stepped onto the ramp ahead of him, clutching a bloodied knife she hadn't earned. It slipped from her grasp as the stone shifted beneath her feet. She screamed as she fell, arms flailing uselessly before the dark swallowed her whole.
The ramp remained.
Waiting.
Caelum stepped forward.
The air changed immediately. Thicker. Hotter. It smelled like iron and old smoke. The torchlight behind him flickered and died as he descended, replaced by a dull crimson glow emanating from below.
The sounds of Floor One faded as he moved deeper. Screams muffled. Footsteps vanished. Even the constant murmur of breathing seemed to fall away.
The ramp ended abruptly.
Beyond it stretched a vast chamber—larger than the first, but lower, more enclosed. The ceiling pressed down, layered with hanging stone formations that dripped slowly, rhythmically, like a clock counting down something no one could see.
This was not a waiting area.
This was a place designed to be used.
Caelum stepped onto Floor Two.
The stone sealed behind him with a final, heavy sound.
Others arrived in bursts—some tumbling down secondary ramps, some dropping through openings that sealed immediately after swallowing them. The survivors gathered instinctively, weapons clutched tight, eyes darting.
This time, no one spoke.
They didn't need to.
The floor spoke first.
A low vibration rolled through the chamber, settling into their bones. Symbols ignited along the walls—brands carved deep into the stone, glowing faintly as they pulsed.
Caelum felt Red Amendment react. The hidden daggers along its edges shifted slightly, seams flexing as if testing the air.
Something was coming.
Not immediately.
But soon.
The rules here were different. He could feel it—not as knowledge, but as pressure. Floor One had been about choice.
This place was about consequence.
A shape moved in the distance.
Then another.
Slow, deliberate movement—heavy enough to be heard, but not seen clearly yet. Shadows shifted. The crimson glow brightened, revealing outlines that did not belong to humans.
Someone whispered a prayer and immediately clamped their mouth shut.
Caelum exhaled slowly.
Behind him, a familiar presence settled into the space at his side.
Mireya.
She hadn't spoken when the floor opened. She hadn't begged. She hadn't run blindly. She had watched. Chosen. Descended.
Her eyes flicked once to Red Amendment, then away again.
"Floor One was mercy," she said quietly.
Caelum did not disagree.
The shadows moved closer.
Floor Two was awake.
And Hell had finally begun the trial.