Silence greeted her.

  It was not merely the absence of sound, but a suffocating stillness that pressed against the senses. The air within the corridor was dry and unmoving, heavy enough that even breathing felt deliberate. Dim flames burned along the glasslike walls, their reflections stretching endlessly into the darkness, giving the illusion of depth where none could be confirmed.

  Afi Novona lay still.

  For a long while, she did not move.

  She inhaled slowly, then exhaled, anchoring herself in the rhythm of breath. Her body responded, but the response felt distant, as if filtered through something thick and unseen. There was no sharp pain. No tearing wounds. No sensation of broken bone.

  That absence unsettled her more than injury would have.

  She pushed herself upright cautiously. Her limbs obeyed, though not quite as she expected. Each movement carried a strange density, as if her body possessed more weight than it should. Balance came a breath later than thought.

  She stood.

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  The ground beneath her feet felt solid, yet muted. Strength was present, unmistakable, but unfamiliar in its distribution. It did not surge or flare.

  It simply existed.

  Settled and quiet.

  Her memories returned in fragments. The cliff. The pull. The whirlpool devouring water and light. The moment her grip failed and the world collapsed inward.

  This was no fortunate coincidence.

  This was one of the encounters spoken of in hushed tones, the kind that altered destinies and erased names.

  Ninety percent.

  That was the survival rate.

  Her jaw tightened.

  “I will surpass them,” she murmured. “I cannot die here.”

  She surveyed her surroundings.

  The corridor extended in both directions, its walls smooth and reflective like darkened glass. Torches lined the passage at even intervals, their flames steady and eternal, giving off no heat and producing no smoke.

  There were no doors.

  No markings.

  No sound.

  No sense of direction.

  No one knew where she was.

  Even she did not know where she was.

  Staying was death.

  She placed a hand against the wall and began to walk.

  At first, she counted her steps.

  One hundred.

  One thousand.

  Ten thousand.

  Time stretched.

  Hunger never came.

  Thirst did not follow.

  She walked.

  Panic.

  Despair.

  Confusion.

  Calm.

  The cycle repeated until time itself lost meaning.

  Years passed.

  Memory thinned.

  Identity eroded.

  Only will remained.

  Forward.

  Light appeared.

  She crossed through it.

  Warmth returned.

  Pressure descended.

  Her body endured.

  Memory surged.

  Understanding followed.

  “This is the Viscera stage,” she whispered.

  The corridor had not tested her strength.

  It had tempered her survival.

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