God Ash: Remnants of the fallen.

The stairwell reeked of rust and stale air, each step creaking as though the building itself wanted to protest their climb. Cain kept his blade low, the metal reflecting slivers of light that bled through the cracks in the walls. The city groaned around them—an old beast refusing to die quietly.

Roselle moved just ahead, her pistol angled toward the shadows. Every turn, every broken pipe, every smear of soot on the wall could conceal something waiting to cut them down. She didn't flinch. "This spire wasn't built for men," she whispered. "It was built for ghosts."

Susan gave a low laugh behind them, more cough than humor. "Then we'll be ghosts with teeth."

Hunter lingered at the back, his face unreadable. Cain could feel the weight of his silence pressing into the group, heavier than the air. Every step they took seemed to stretch the tension thinner, and still Hunter said nothing.

At the next landing, Steve crouched by a dead console, hands flickering across the scorched circuits. "Grid trace runs through here," he muttered. "Give me a minute." Sparks leapt from his tools, briefly illuminating the hollow of his face.

Cain scanned the stairwell's length, listening to the hiss of leaking pipes and the faint hum of machines buried deeper in the structure. "A minute is longer than we have."

Steve didn't look up. "Then make me the minute."

Roselle tilted her head toward the stairwell below. Faint vibrations rattled the railings, a tremor like footsteps too many to count. "They've already found the trail."

Susan drew in a sharp breath. "How close?"

Roselle's eyes narrowed, the rhythm steady in her ears. "Close enough that you'll taste their breath if we don't move."

Cain turned to Steve. "Cut fast."

The words lit a fire in him. Steve's hands blurred, wires clamped, power rerouted. The console spat a last shower of sparks before the screen flickered dimly to life. A fragment of the city's schematic bled across it, red veins pulsing where the Grid's control nested above them.

"There," Steve said, stabbing the map with his finger. "Floor 82. They're running a split hub. If we tear that, everything higher collapses in on itself. The Daelmonts lose more than a fleet. They lose vision."

Roselle's lips curved—not a smile, but something sharper. "Then we climb."

The vibrations below grew louder. The stairwell echoed with metal striking metal, the sound of soldiers in formation. Susan raised her rifle, eyes hard. "We won't make it eighty floors before they catch us."

Cain pressed a hand to the wall, feeling the faint tremor run through the steel. His jaw tightened. "Then we don't climb stairs."

Steve blinked at him. "What do you—"

Cain slashed his blade into the wall, the steel shrieking as concrete split. Dust rained down, choking the stairwell. The blade bit again, deeper, until the wall cracked open to reveal a maintenance shaft running vertical through the spire's bones.

Roselle looked at him with a mixture of admiration and fury. "That's not climbing. That's suicide."

Cain sheathed the blade, grabbed the exposed steel ladder, and swung himself inside the shaft. "Only if we stop moving."

Susan swore under her breath but followed, her body moving on instinct despite the strain of her injuries. Roselle covered their retreat until Hunter finally stepped into the shaft as well, his eyes darting as if measuring the price of every rung. Steve scrambled in last, sealing the cut with a burst of sparks to slow pursuit.

The shaft was narrow, the air heavy with grease and dust. Cain climbed first, every movement a promise that speed meant survival. Below, the stairwell roared as the first of their hunters spilled in. Shouts, boots, the metallic shriek of weapons.

Roselle's voice rose up the shaft, sharp with urgency. "Cain, they're cutting through already!"

Cain didn't answer. He pulled higher, forcing his body to move faster, his blade hanging against his back like a burden of memory. Every floor they passed felt like a heartbeat stolen from their pursuers.

Susan's breathing grew ragged, but she didn't slow. Her voice carried up, raw with effort. "If we fall here, I swear I'll kill you in hell."

Cain allowed himself the smallest flicker of a grin. "Then climb harder."

The shaft groaned around them, bolts straining, dust sifting down like gray snow. Somewhere above, machinery hummed with a steady pulse—the Grid's core, beating like a second heart inside the city.

Hunter's voice finally cut the silence, rough and low. "If we tear this hub, the council will turn on itself. Daelmont won't be the only enemy we make."

Roselle spat downward, her laugh cruel. "Better an honest war than a slow death in someone's pocket."

The climb stretched on, each rung slick beneath their hands, each breath burning their lungs. Cain's mind kept circling the words he hadn't spoken aloud: they weren't just tearing at the Grid, they were tearing at the city's spine. What they toppled wouldn't rise again the same.

At last, faint light bled into the shaft from a broken vent above. Cain reached it, ripped the grate aside, and pulled himself through into a corridor humming with power. Banks of servers lined the walls, lights blinking in eerie rhythm, like a thousand eyes staring back at him.

Susan hauled herself up beside him, collapsing against the wall, sweat streaking her face. Roselle climbed out next, her pistol ready. Steve emerged last, clutching his pack like scripture.

The corridor stretched into shadow, every surface alive with the hum of the Grid. Cain tightened his grip on his blade.

"This is where the city keeps its soul," Steve said quietly.

Cain's eyes hardened. "Then it's time we cut it."

The air in the spire's upper chamber was thin, almost brittle, as though it resented being breathed. Cain stood at the threshold, blade lowered but mind sharpened. Every corridor ahead carried the weight of decisions waiting to ambush them. Forward was peril. But backward was ruin, and ruin was worse.