Fenrir climbed the long, spiraling staircase from the fifth floor, the residual winds of the Vortex of Wind swirling gently at his back like a whispering guardian.
Each step was silent but heavy, his mind focused on what might await him on the sixth floor.
When he finally emerged, he blinked at the sudden brightness—only to find himself standing in the middle of a crowded market street.
Dozens of people, dressed in various colorful outfits, halted mid-step to stare at him.
Stalls lined both sides of the wide path, merchants shouting over each other to sell enchanted trinkets, beast pelts, and freshly cooked meals.
But the moment Fenrir appeared, everything stopped.
"Who is that?"
"Did he just… appear in the middle of the plaza?"
"Wait—isn't that... is he using magic inside the city!?"
People pointed and gasped, backing away from him like he was diseased. Some ran. Others shouted.
Fenrir glanced around, confused by the reaction.
"What the hell?"
