The ascent to the final floor was unlike any before.
Each step George took dripped blood, yet no wound marked him. The air grew thick with a weight that transcended mortality. It wasn't simply magic—it was existence itself pressing down on him. The marrow beneath his feet glowed like molten bone, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat.
When he emerged from the staircase, the light dimmed.
The Seventh Floor stretched before him: a colossal throne room made entirely from living bone. The ceiling pulsed as though it had veins. Crimson rivers of blood flowed down the walls, merging into a vast circular basin at the room's center. Floating above it was a crimson heart of bone—beating slowly, unnaturally, with each pulse shaking the entire cathedral.
Then the voice came—deep, ancient, unearthly.
> "You have walked the marrow of the dead. You have stolen vitality from gods and demons alike. Now tell me, mortal—what gives you the right to command blood and bone?"
