The path leading to Kemet Ra's entrance was uneven, dusty, and lined with the unmistakable signs of the slums—a place forgotten by wealth and untouched by luxury. Dilapidated structures, made from crumbling mud bricks and old wooden beams, stood on either side of the narrow streets, their surfaces worn down by time and hardship. The air carried a faint stench—sweat, filth, and the unmistakable scent of desperation, a mix of survival and neglect.
Nate walked beside Tiaa, his iron rod strapped across his back, his gaze flickering between the people they passed.