The year began.
Eight hours of walking every day.
Nothing more, nothing less.
When Arlon moved, the creature followed. When Arlon stopped, so did it. At first, the pattern felt coincidental.
Then deliberate. After a month, it became routine. A strange rhythm born not of choice but of law.
The creature, despite its power, seemed bound just as he was.
It never tried to leap at him.
Never roared or charged.
Just walked.
Every day, the same relentless steps.
It was also a sentient existence, so it probably had already learned the law, at least some part of it.
Arlon never let himself get comfortable.
He still couldn't forget how it had looked back on Floor 100—calm, cold, and completely unbothered by him.
Even now, it walked with the same disinterest, as if it was simply fulfilling some unknown function.
But when he looked into its eyes—when their gazes happened to meet—it didn't feel mechanical.
It felt aware.
