The heavy steel door swung shut. The deafening roar of the Faction instantly vanished. Ten thousand desperate survivors were screaming, organizing, and starving in the main cavern. They fought over scraps of dried kelp and broken tools. That noise dropped to a muffled, rhythmic thud against the thick concrete walls.
Will stepped into the ruined cafeteria kitchen to escape the sheer gravity of the crowd. Raw adrenaline still pumped through his veins from the riot upstairs. His hands shook slightly. The Sovereign tax was an absolute, parasitic drain. The localized gravity of the bunker actively siphoned raw mana straight from his organs to keep the lower bulkheads sealed. The crushing weight ground his cartilage to dust. His kneecaps felt packed with crushed glass. Every breath required deliberate, agonizing effort. He refused to slow his pace.
A rusted industrial prep cart blocked his path. Will kicked the heavy metal aside on pure muscle memory.
