Floor One was not alive.
It didn't breathe. It didn't move. It didn't chase.
That was what made it worse.
The stone basin stretched endlessly in all directions, its surface dark and slick where blood had already been spilled. Torches burned at irregular intervals, their flames weak and flickering, casting long shadows that warped faces into something unrecognizable.
No monsters prowled the floor.
No demons emerged from the dark.
There were only people.
And that, Caelum realized, was the cruelty.
Groups had formed, but none of them were real alliances. They were clusters of fear masquerading as cooperation. Everyone watched everyone else too closely. Hands twitched. Voices dropped to whispers. Weakness was measured in posture and breath.
Near one of the torches, a man had been dragged to the ground.
He screamed as they held him there.
Six of them. Maybe seven. Not coordinated, not unified — just desperate enough to act together. Their victim thrashed beneath them, heels scraping uselessly against stone already slick with old blood.
One of them — a broad-shouldered man with cracked lips and wild eyes — knelt on the victim's chest, fingers digging into his throat.
"Do it," someone whispered.
"Kill him," another urged. "That's how it works."
The man hesitated.
That hesitation cost him everything.
He squeezed harder, jaw clenched, eyes shut tight as if refusing to witness what his hands were doing. The victim's nails tore into his forearms, drawing blood. Someone kicked the victim's legs to keep him from writhing free.
It was clumsy. Loud. Wrong.
The man sobbed as he strangled him.
When the victim finally went still, the killer staggered backward, gasping, hands shaking violently as he stared at the corpse like it might accuse him.
Everyone froze.
Waiting.
Waiting for the silence to snap.Waiting for the sky to tear open.Waiting for steel to fall.
Nothing happened.
The body stayed.
Blood pooled beneath it, spreading slowly, staining the stone.
"No," the killer whispered. "No, no—"
He looked upward, eyes frantic. "I did it. I killed him."
The torches crackled softly.
The sky remained mute.
The realization spread through the group like rot.
The kill hadn't counted.
Not because the man wasn't dead.
But because the killer hadn't meant it.
He had acted out of fear, not ownership. Out of pressure, not choice.
Hell had seen that.
The killer backed away from the corpse, horror twisting his features. Someone began to scream. Another laughed — sharp, hysterical, breaking apart at the edges.
Caelum watched from the shadows.
He didn't feel shock.
He felt clarity.
This floor wasn't testing strength.
It was testing truth.
And truth could not be shared. It could not be diluted by committee or panic.
It had to be taken alone.
Caelum turned away from the chaos and moved toward the darker edge of the basin, where torchlight thinned and eyes stopped watching so closely.
He found a man there.
Alone. Mid-thirties. Clean hands. Nervous posture. The kind of person who had survived so far by avoiding notice.
The man stiffened when Caelum approached.
"Hey," he said quickly, forcing a smile. "We don't have to—"
Caelum didn't answer.
He closed the distance in one step.
His hands wrapped around the man's throat with precise, measured pressure. Not crushing. Not frantic.
Intentional.
The man gasped, eyes widening as his hands flew up to claw at Caelum's wrists. His fingernails scraped skin, drawing shallow lines of blood. Caelum adjusted his grip slightly, thumbs pressing inward, cutting off air cleanly.
The man tried to scream.
No sound came.
Caelum leaned closer, watching his face change. Red to purple. Veins standing out. Eyes bulging, blood vessels bursting one by one.
He did not look away.
This wasn't anger.
This wasn't fear.
This was acceptance.
The man's body shuddered violently, legs kicking weakly before slowing. His hands slackened. Warmth spread beneath them, soaking into the stone.
When the last breath failed, Caelum held on for three more seconds.
Then he released.
The body vanished.
The world snapped silent.
A sound like iron ripping through the sky split the chamber.
Red Amendment fell.
The katana struck the stone point-first with a violent crack, embedding itself deep as blood sprayed outward. Dark steel drank the torchlight, seams along the blade shifting subtly. Along both edges, thin lines hinted at hidden mechanisms — small daggers folded inward, waiting.
Caelum wrapped his fingers around the hilt.
Warm.
Recognition burned beneath his skin as his tattoo flared, and the chamber seemed to lean toward him, watching.
Approving.
People backed away instinctively.
Not in awe.
In understanding.
Caelum Vire had not killed because he had to.
He had killed because he chose to.
And Hell had answered.