On the wasteland, the sandstorm raged on. Gale-fed grit howled like rabid beasts, careening across the open emptiness. The roar sounded ancient, a primeval monster that commanded awe even before it was seen.
Jared forged the lead, Flaxseed a step behind. Every stride buried their boots, and each new lift felt heavier than the last. Needles of sand peppered their skin, drawing pinpricks of pain, yet they never slowed.
Days bled together, and still not a whisper of the Sixth Hall surfaced. Out here they were no bigger than twin grains of sand, tossed whichever way fate fancied.
This wasteland on level seven felt forsaken, the very air starved of celestial energy, the ground a testament to cruelty.
Little wonder rival factions had nearly killed each other for a single trickle of a celestial spring.
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