The cast iron plate emitted a mournful metallic screech as it slowly slid to the side, releasing an icy breath laden with putrid humidity that escaped from the dark bowels of the tunnel. The stale air, saturated with mold and decay, rushed into their lungs like a morbid caress. Mordred, his face sculpted into a mask of impassivity but his eyes blazing with a determination that bordered on obsession, exchanged a look heavy with implications with Ygdrasyle before crouching at the edge of the gaping abyss.
His feet found the first rungs of a metal ladder eaten away by rust, whose slippery surface was coated with a film of viscous moss that stuck under his fingers. He began his descent with calculated slowness, each movement precise despite the tension that contracted the muscles of his shoulders.
