It was a darkness so intense that one could not even see their own hand.
The air was thick, saturated with anti-dust particles so dense they pressed against the skin like invisible stone. Even with their crystal cores active, the new transporter group felt the suffocating pressure for the first time.
This was the dimensional gate — the passage that tore their existence from Erigma and hurled them toward another world.
Drosan, a young transporter, tried to summon light, channeling energy through his crystal veins. Sparks flickered, then sputtered out, leaving only darkness.
He clenched his teeth.
"My crystal level reached 8.7 this year… and I can't even light a spark?"
From the shadows, a calm yet irritated voice echoed.
Moverik sighed
"Pathetic. You think your crystal levels matter here? If you can't endure the weight, you'll die before the gate even opens."
The group trudged forward through the endless corridor, unsure when it would end. The silence was broken only by the sound of boots scraping against stone.
"How does Sir Moverik even keep track of the path?" Drosan whispered to Veynar.
They had never been close during training. But here, swallowed by darkness, even strangers became anchors. One misstep—one moment of carelessness—and this place would become their grave.
Lost in his thoughts, Veynar searched desperately for any hint of light. A faint flicker along the walls caught his eye, dragging his mind back to lessons from runic class at the academy.
Then, far ahead, two faint points of light appeared — distant, trembling like stars in fog.
A ripple of relief spread through the group. After hours of blind wandering, frustration and despair gave way to fragile hope.
They followed Moverik's lead, relying on instinct and faint runic markings that glowed along the walls.
Veynar's steps slowed.
He didn't notice at first.
Then—
The sound of boots ahead faded.
Silence.
His heart slammed against his ribs.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
A cold shiver crawled down his spine.
If he lost them here… even his corpse would vanish into the dark.
"Damn it… where are they?"
His breath grew ragged, too loud in the suffocating corridor. The runes along the walls flickered—then dimmed, as if mocking him.
"Light… just a little…"
He forced energy through his crystal core.
Nothing.
The darkness swallowed everything.
Then—
A flicker.
Far ahead.
He ran.
The glow sharpened—silhouettes forming through the haze.
The squad.
Moverik's voice cut through the dark—
"Fall behind again… and you'll be left to rot."
Veynar stumbled back into line, sweat dripping, throat dry. No one looked at him—eyes fixed forward, fear carved deep into their faces.
But what struck him most…
was the faint glow surrounding Moverik.
Even here—
he could still wield power.
Veynar swallowed hard.
Just how far above them… was he?
____________________________________
The new transporters couldn't read the symbols.
Each dimensional gate carried its own language, and every shift in script meant a new path… or a wrong one. And wrong paths didn't forgive mistakes.
Faint runes pulsed along the walls—unfamiliar.
The formation of the Moverik's slowed.
No one spoke.
Then someone noticed it.
Deep gouges carved into the stone—long, uneven, as if something with massive claws had dragged itself along the corridor. The marks cut through the runes themselves, distorting their glow.
A few steps ahead—
A broken weapon lay half-buried in dust. Not rusted.
Shattered.
As if it had snapped mid-strike.
No body.
No blood.
Just absence.
"Another one taken," Moverik murmured. "Didn't even get the chance to bleed."
The silence grew heavier.
These weren't just stories.
Entire squads had vanished in places like this—where the runes changed, and the path led somewhere no one understood.
Beyond these markings lay regions never fully explored… places where something else hunted.
Something strong enough to erase transporters without leaving even a corpse behind.
It happens every year.
Two squads. Sometimes three.
Gone.
No survivors.
And the few who did return from similar paths didn't speak of what they saw—only brought back fragments of knowledge, pieces of language scratched into memory like scars.
That was how the runes were learned.
Not through study—
But through loss.
Only those who could read these shifting scripts stood a chance of crossing the gate.
The rest…
simply disappeared.
____________________________________
The twin lights ahead grew brighter —
The sign of the buffer gate.
Soon, they would see it clearly.
Soon, its form became clear: a vast structure of dark-blue, metallic stone, flawless even under the dim glow. The gate shimmered with ornate decorations, its gigantic frame marked by two runes — silent, inactive, waiting.
The transporter group halted before it, silence pressing down like the weight of the cavern itself. It was Moverik who finally broke the stillness.
"We don't have all day," he said coldly. "Drain yourselves."
A ripple of shock passed through the group. Their crystal energy was already strained—the anti-dust pressure had nearly bled them dry.
In this state… how are we supposed to contribute?
"Move," he snapped. "Or I start leaving bodies behind."
No one argued.
"Activate the runes. Now."
The new transporters lacked high crystal power, but they carried a heavy supply of green magic stones to sustain the flow and meet the requirements.
None had ever heard of a transporter squad returning empty-handed without opening the buffer zone gate.
Yet for the first time, Moverik felt the burden of working with weaklings —
Amateurs untested by the gate's cruelty.
Energy circulation was no simple task.
Using heart crystals as mediums for indirect energy transfer demanded immense focus and strong magic power to withstand the strain. But ignorance, fear of the darkness, and the crushing weight of anti-dust particles made every attempt agonizing.
In the enormous silence, no footsteps echoed anymore. Only the subtle stench of sweat and the grinding of teeth filled the air. Some transporters even felt blood dripping from their mouths as the strain tore at their bodies.
After thirty minutes of struggle, the runes began to glow faintly. The activation process had started.
Moverik's sharp eyes scanned the group — losing even one transporter here would make it harder to carry the next batch to Erigma.
Slowly, the squad caught their breath, refilling their crystal energy through the green stones.
"This will take time," Moverik said. "Rest—but don't get comfortable."
A young transporter, voice trembling, spoke—
"Why couldn't we light even a spark before… but now we can channel energy into the runes?"
The crack of a punch cut him off mid-breath.
He hit the ground hard.
Moverik didn't raise his voice.
"The farther we move, the weaker its pressure becomes."
A pause.
Then—
"Out here, even insects like you can pretend to wield power."
The transporter tried to push himself up.
Moverik's boot drove him back into the dirt.
"Stay down," he said quietly. "You haven't earned the right to stand yet."
"So listen carefully," he murmured, voice dropping to something far more dangerous than a shout.
"Ask another worthless question… and I'll make sure you're buried before you understand the answer."
At that moment, a hiss echoed. Green smoke seeped from the cracks of the buffer zone gate, swirling with a sharp swish. The runes blazed at their maximum brightness, and with a grinding roar, the colossal door began to open.
The transporters stood in awe, their bodies trembling from exhaustion and strain. In that moment, they felt the truth: only a gate of such gigantic scale could match the enormity of this endless darkness.
____________________________________
The buffer zone stretched before them—a vast emptiness cast in dark-blue metallic hues. Nothing stirred. Nothing lived.
A hollow chamber.
Yet the gate behind them pulsed, dragging in beings from distant worlds… binding them to Erigma's fate.
"What are those red streaks along the wall?" Veynar asked, stepping closer, curiosity overcoming caution. "Is it some kind of rune?"
He froze.
"…Wait."
"That's blood."
Moverik didn't even turn.
"Keep moving," he said coldly. "Or keep staring… and become part of it."
Veynar stepped back immediately.
Chains rattled.
The new batch had already begun to arrive—dragged in by unseen forces, bodies collapsing onto the metallic floor. Humans. Demi-humans. Elves.
And sometimes—
Larger things.
Massive, hulking creatures that barely resembled anything human.
Minethosaurs, if luck—or misfortune—allowed.
Moverik had seen it countless times.
And yet…
It never stopped being fascinating.
He had forged his own philosophy: the gate chose anyone with even the faintest spark of magic energy from other worlds. Those unstable in body or spirit perished here — their corpses piled in corners, leaving crimson stains that reeked of decay.
Others endured transformation: heart muscle torn apart, magicules bleeding into the natural laws, slowly crystallizing into hardened heart-crystals.
The transporters bound the newcomers with glowing chains, waiting for the transformation to finish.
The air hung heavy with sweat and blood. Dead bodies lay in heaps, grim reminders of the gate's cruelty.
To keep their focus sharp, the veterans sparred lightly, the hollow clang of mock fights echoing through the metallic void. It was a ritual — a way to stabilize tone and suppress fluctuation.
Moverik, ever calculating, considered joining them, not for practice but to measure which of these greenhorns might survive the next trial.
Then… the silence shifted.
From the far edge of the buffer zone, a sound rose — not the clash of sparring, nor the groan of transformation. A low, resonant hum, alien and unearthly, vibrated through the emptiness.
The metallic walls trembled, crystal hearts quivered, and every breath froze in their throats.
The transporters froze.
The gate had never sounded like this before.
____________________________________