The road to Ashwick stretched ahead, dirt packed hard by years of wagon wheels and Climber boots. The afternoon sun was setting behind the distant hills, painting the sky gold and amber. It should have been a beautiful sight to behold but Nathan barely noticed it.
Behind them, the Tower of Ash loomed against the horizon, a black spire wreathed in perpetual smoke, its crimson mana veins pulsing with the same steady rhythm as when he'd first laid eyes on it. The Tower didn't care that they'd failed. It would still be there tomorrow, and the day after, waiting for another party strong enough to finish what they'd started.
Nathan walked at the front. His borrowed bow was stored, but he could still feel the ache in his arms, the phantom strain of that final [Focus Shot] on Floor 9. His summon mark throbbed, a dull, insistent pulse beneath his skin. Mirko's presence was faint and distant.
