The sky above Okutama had become a fractured mosaic of bruised violets and sickly ambers, a permanent scar left by the God of Light's distant, mocking gaze. But beneath the canopy of the ancient forest, in a hollowed-out canyon where the roots of the world seemed to bleed into the earth, the light of Solis could not reach. This was the second month of Ren's regression had transformed into something far more visceral.
Ren Hanshin stood in the center of a battered arena of jagged slate, his chest heaving. The obsidian-silk shroud the Weaver had draped over him was soaked in a mixture of rain, sweat, and the dark, viscous mana that now served as his blood.
[Synchronization: 25.0% (ABYSSAL MODE)]
[Level: 50]
[Condition: Abyssal Adaptation]
[Status: The Shriven Porter]
