The air hung heavy with tension as the portal's last remnants flickered out of existence. Silence swept through the crowd. From the heart of the collapsing vortex, a lone figure staggered forward. Gasps of disbelief rippled through the camps as the assembled factions realized who stood before them.
Levi.
His government-issued uniform, once sturdy, now barely clung to his battered and bloodied body. Torn at the seams, it hung loosely on his thin frame, threatening to fall apart with every step.
His face was smeared with dirt and dried blood, his jaw shadowed by uneven stubble, which was proof of the time he had spent inside the Sanctum. Though malnourished and skeletal, the way he moved—steady and unyielding—told a different story.
