The vertical world stripped away all complex thought, leaving only the agonising simplicity of gravity and rust.
Zane hauled himself up the exterior scaffolding of the Root-Line, his leather-clad fingers gripping iron rungs that flaked brittle orange scales into his eyes.
Below him, the chasm dropped away into a bottomless, swirling yellow fog. Above, the mechanical artery of the Spire stretched upward into an artificial twilight, a colossal pipe sweating toxic condensation.
Every muscle in his back and shoulders screamed in protest.
Without the comforting hum of excess Soul Essence to reinforce his biology, he felt the true, punishing weight of his mutated bones.
His Dead Weight trait granted him incredible density, making him immune to most kinetic impacts, but that same density
