The wasteland beneath the dimensional fracture was dead.
Not ruined.
Not destroyed.
Dead.
The cracked earth stretched endlessly beneath a burning white sky while violent winds dragged dust across the barren plains like the ashes of forgotten civilizations. No trees. No rivers. No sound beyond the scraping howl of sand against stone.
Satre walked carefully beside Gramia through the endless heat.
Neither woman spoke for a long while.
Because exhaustion had already begun settling deep into their bones.
The Tower of Myths had separated them violently during the dimensional shift. One moment they had been ascending together through fractured realities.
The next—
they had been thrown here.
Powerless.
Or at least—
mostly powerless.
Satre could still feel fragments of her divine magic circulating weakly beneath her skin. Tiny sparks. Barely enough to sustain barriers for more than a few seconds.
Gramia's condition wasn't much better.
Her spatial abilities flickered inconsistently now, unstable and fractured by whatever laws governed this realm.
Babylis had planned this carefully.
"This place suppresses higher dimensional energy," Gramia said quietly after several minutes. "Not completely… but enough to weaken us."
Satre nodded silently.
Her eyes remained fixed forward.
Searching.
Always searching.
For Shiro.
Every few moments her future sight activated instinctively, flickering across branching possibilities.
Ten timelines.
Ten minutes.
That was currently her limit.
Short glimpses.
Broken futures.
Blood.
Chains.
Darkness.
Pain.
Every vision ended the same way.
Shiro suffering.
Again.
Her chest tightened painfully.
Gramia noticed immediately.
"You saw him again."
Not a question.
Satre answered softly.
"…Yes."
The wind howled harder around them.
"He's alive," Satre continued quietly. "But something's wrong. Every timeline feels… distorted around him."
Gramia's expression darkened.
"Raiku."
The name alone made the air feel colder somehow.
Satre closed her eyes briefly.
In one vision—
she saw Shiro kneeling in darkness while black chains wrapped around his arms.
Another showed him fighting monsters endlessly inside a crimson arena.
Another—
Shiro screaming while destructive energy tore his own body apart from the inside.
Every future hurt to witness.
But the worst part—
was his eyes.
He still looked conscious during all of it.
Still aware.
Still enduring.
Satre's hand slowly tightened around Gurtër strapped across her back.
The divine blade hummed softly in response to her emotions.
Gramia glanced toward the weapon briefly.
Even she could feel how terrifying that sword truly was.
Not because it radiated overwhelming force.
Because reality itself seemed to avoid touching its edge.
The sword capable of cutting anything.
Even concepts.
Even dimensions.
Even certain forms of destiny if enough magic fueled the strike.
And Satre possessed enough magic to terrify entire worlds.
Yet despite all that power—
she still couldn't reach him.
Not yet.
"We'll get stronger," Gramia said quietly.
Satre looked toward her.
Gramia's silver eyes reflected exhaustion beneath their calm surface now.
The scholar facade remained composed.
But grief lingered underneath it constantly.
The loneliness of surviving when everyone else didn't.
Satre recognized that feeling instantly.
Because she carried the same wound.
"We have to," Satre whispered.
The heat worsened as they continued descending through the rocky wasteland.
Hours passed.
Their breathing grew heavier.
The realm itself seemed designed to grind people down slowly.
Then—
Satre stopped suddenly.
Her future sight activated violently.
Ten futures split apart before her eyes simultaneously.
In eight of them—
they died.
In one—
Gramia lost an arm.
In the final future—
they survived.
Barely.
"Move."
Satre grabbed Gramia instantly.
The ground exploded behind them.
Massive black tendrils erupted upward from beneath the earth like living spears, shredding the stone where they had stood moments earlier.
Gramia reacted immediately despite her weakened state.
Spatial distortion twisted around her fist as she punched forward.
Space folded.
One of the tendrils imploded inward violently before collapsing into itself.
More emerged.
Dozens.
The creatures resembled massive worm-like horrors composed of stone and black flesh, eyeless mouths opening vertically down their bodies.
Ancient.
Hungry.
Satre drew Gurtër instantly.
Golden magic exploded outward around her body.
For a brief moment—
the wasteland itself brightened.
One of the creatures lunged toward her.
Satre stepped once.
Elegant.
Precise.
Like a dance.
Gurtër moved.
The creature split apart silently.
Not cut.
Separated.
As though reality itself had accepted the concept of division without resistance.
Even the air behind the slash fragmented briefly.
Gramia stared despite herself.
"…That sword is absurd."
Another creature burst upward beside them.
This time Gramia moved first.
Space distorted around her palm before collapsing inward violently around the monster's skull.
The creature folded into itself like crushed paper.
But more kept coming.
Too many.
"They're attracted to higher dimensional energy," Gramia warned.
Satre's eyes narrowed.
"Then we end this quickly."
Golden magic circles erupted around her instantly.
Not one.
Hundreds.
The wasteland illuminated beneath divine radiance.
Then Satre moved.
And the battlefield transformed into art.
Gurtër danced through the storm elegantly while impossible amounts of magic flowed through her body like sunlight through shattered glass. Every slash severed another creature completely regardless of durability or size.
Limbs.
Space.
Magic.
Matter.
Everything cut cleanly apart.
Beside her, Gramia warped the battlefield itself with precise spatial distortions, redirecting attacks into dimensional fractures while collapsing enemies inward through layered compression fields.
The battle ended quickly.
But not cleanly.
Both women stood breathing heavily afterward.
Sweat mixed with blood and dust across their skin.
Satre's future sight flickered again suddenly.
This time—
she froze.
Gramia noticed immediately.
"What did you see?"
Satre's expression slowly darkened.
"…A cave."
The wind around them shifted violently.
Far ahead—
hidden between massive cliffs—
a faint glow pulsed beneath the earth itself.
Ancient.
Waiting.
Gramia followed her gaze carefully.
"That's where we're supposed to go."
Not certainty.
Instinct.
But instincts like theirs rarely lied.
As night slowly swallowed the dead world around them—
the two women continued forward side by side.
Toward the glowing cavern hidden beneath the mountains.
Far away across fractured dimensions—
Shiro continued suffering beneath Raiku's hands.