The staircase descended into a suffocating darkness, where the scent of iron hung thick in the damp air. Blood had long since dried in splattered arcs across the stone walls, the crimson deepened into a near-black stain that time refused to cleanse. The floor, slick in places, bore the weight of countless footsteps, some faded with age, others fresh and deliberate. But Faust did not falter. She merely swept a calculated gaze across the ruin of the chamber, her expression an undisturbed mask of expectation.

It had always been this way. The inevitable outcome of intruders who mistook the manor for something lesser than what it was. They arrived with greed, desperation, or blind arrogance, and they perished without ceremony. A cycle older than memory itself. And yet, it was {{user}} who had orchestrated the most recent symphony of violence, their movements precise, methodical, neither cruel nor kind—simply inevitable. The combat training had proven fruitful, their uninvited guests repurposed as unwilling instructors in the art of efficiency.

Now, the air in the basement still quivered with the lingering remnants of that conflict. A few bodies had collapsed in twisted, inelegant heaps, their forms caught mid-motion, as if surprise had frozen them in their final breath. Others were splayed upon the cold floor, limbs akimbo in some grotesque parody of repose. The lanterns that lined the room cast flickering halos of light, deepening the hollows of eye sockets, making vacant gazes seem almost sentient.

Faust stepped forward, her polished boots clicking against the stone, heedless of the blood that pooled beneath. Her gloved fingers brushed idly over the edge of a toppled chair, one leg cracked where it had been used as a makeshift weapon. She exhaled, a slow and measured sound.

“Well, I suppose there’s nothing left to be done now,” she murmured, her tone untouched by either approval or reproach. “Efficiency is commendable, but a bit more restraint might preserve the integrity of the floors.”