A dimensional rift — a rare occurrence even for veterans like Moverik.
His calm expression was not easily broken; not by the venomous dragons of the Dark Forest, nor by the violet crystal fog that melted flesh in seconds. He had faced death before, inhaled poison, and survived.
Most explorers, warriors, and transporters never understood: the violet gas did not simply choke — it dissolved body parts instantly. Without careful circulation of energy through the heart crystal, death was inevitable.
But this was different. Even Moverik felt his composure falter. For a moment, he was lost in thought, then raised his voice sharply:
"Move! Drag every last one of the new batch—now!" His gaze burned with rare intensity. "If we fail, this year's harvest won't just be lost… it'll be erased."
A ripple of unease spread through the transporters.
Dimensional rifts.
It occurs when one gate loses power and collides with another. The unstable energy births new creatures, or worse — pulls in high-level beings capable of devouring everyone inside.
The gate trembled. A massive claw, jagged and alien, forced its way through, thrashing wildly in every direction without awareness.
The claw lashed out blindly, tearing through the void. One clumsy transporter stumbled, struck hard near his mana stone. His body slammed against the buffer zone wall with a sickening crack.
When he slid down, something remained behind — not just a bruise or a dent.
A blood mark, circular and vivid, clung to the metallic blue surface. Red liquid dripped slowly, each drop echoing against the silence.
The transporter's senses collapsed. His breath faltered, his vision dimmed. Only a faint glow flickered near his heart crystal, fragile and uncertain.
The heart crystal struggled, flickering weakly—each pulse dimmer than the last, as if fighting to blink one final time before fading into nothingness.
Unaware of the true gravity of the situation, the group stood frozen in shock. The loss of their comrade weighed heavily, numbing their senses. For a brief moment, grief eclipsed everything else.
They forgot about the transforming bodies
And then, the claw scraped again, louder, hungrier.
____________________________________
Energy from the dimensional drift scattered wildly, thickest near the gate's opening.
A sudden burst lashed outward.
It struck the unconscious bodies lying closest to the rift.
In an instant, an elf—and a hulking, unclassified beast—were vaporized. No scream. No remains. Just… gone.
Panic rippled through the transporters.
Then—something unexpected.
Among the fallen lay a smaller figure. An Earthling.
The small fragment of the burst had struck him right in the newly formed crystal heart. His clothes were charred, his skin seared black in places… yet his body remained intact.
Veynar's thoughts darkened.
Will he even survive?
Is he worth the effort… or just dead weight?
Moverik's voice cut through the chaos—cold, razor-sharp:
"Why are you standing still?" His gaze swept over them like a blade. "If you wish to be vaporized, Then stand still — I'll gladly grant your wish"
That was enough.
Veynar, Drosan, and the others surged into motion, chains clattering as they dragged the half-conscious bodies toward safety.
But as Veynar reached for the Earthling, something caught his eye.
For the briefest moment, faint red, vein-like patterns flickered beneath the boy's skin—pulsing…
Then they vanished.
Veynar froze.
"What…?"
Veynar's breath caught, his hand hovering above the boy.
The veins had vanished as if they were never there, leaving only scorched flesh and silence.
But the air around him felt heavier.
Before Veynar could speak, the chamber screamed.
____________________________________
The space around them warped again.
Another distortion.
The air screamed.
"Move!" someone shouted.
The transporters quickened their pace, abandoning hesitation as the instability worsened.
Behind them, the buffer zone gate began to collapse. The vast, gaping rift shrank in on itself, its edges folding, sealing—returning to its dormant form.
The runic marks on the gate shifted, rearranging into a universal pattern — the sign that the dimensional gate was nearing collapse.
Veynar's voice wavered. "How could this get worse…" His eyes darted, searching desperately for Moverik.
Dark-red light flared across the chamber. A groan echoed from the depths, heavy and unmistakable.
Moverik channeled his crystal energy into the metallic lines, forcing the gate to stabilize — at least for the moment. He hadn't yet noticed the runes changing.
"Sir! The gate is collapsing!" Veynar shouted, his voice breaking with desperation. He knew returning without Moverik was impossible. Even if they did, the Obsidian Order would slit their throats and hang them from the mine gates.
Then, for the first time, Veynar saw it — lightning step.
Moverik's crystal veins flared crimson. In a single instant, his body blurred, covering the distance in less than a heartbeat.
The claw faltered, losing momentum for a moment… then surged back, gathering energy with terrifying force. Its head began to emerge from the void, jagged and monstrous.
Moverik's crystal heart glowed blood-red. His voice cut through the chaos, sharp and merciless:
"Good. At least you've realized your inferiority."
___________________________________
The chained otherworld slaves stood rigid, their bodies forced upright by the binding system. It moved through them like a narcotic curse—numbing thought, hollowing will, leaving only flesh that obeyed.
A relic of a pinnacle mage, forged for convenience. Perfect for transport. Perfect for control.
"Look at these puppets," Drosan sneered, a crooked grin tugging at his lips even now.
Moverik didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
His gaze alone—cold, heavy—crushed the laughter out of Drosan's throat. The grin faltered, then died entirely, replaced by a stiff, downward curl.
Silence returned.
For the last time, the gate shimmered—a faint, trembling glow—before snapping shut.
The metallic chamber vanished with it.
—
On their return, something went wrong.
A slave stumbled.
Just a slight misstep—but enough.
Its chained body lurched sideways and struck a blade half-buried in the corridor floor.
The sword was broken. Dull. Lifeless.
And yet—
It sliced through the body as though it were mist.
Thup!!!
The sound was soft. Final.
The torso slid apart. Then the rest followed—cleanly severed into two pieces.
Chains rattled.
The binding system did not release.
The remains—legless, twitching—were dragged forward, scraping against the floor as if nothing had happened.
"Get that cursed weapon out!" Moverik's voice cracked through the corridor, sharp enough to cut.
His restraint was gone.
"I've lost too many already…"
Two slaves had collapsed during the transit.
And now this.
His eyes burned faintly red at the edges.
No one spoke.
No one moved.
The transporters formed a hesitant circle around the embedded blade.
At a simple glance, it looked worse—fractured steel, chipped edge, lifeless.
But up close…
Runes were carved.
Sealed.
Ancient.
Each transporter, one after another, tried to pull it free.
It did not move.
Not even a tremor.
"Move aside," Drosan said, forcing confidence into his voice. "I'll show you how it's done."
A few stepped back instinctively.
Others didn't move at all.
Drosan drew in power, crystal energy surging through his veins, lighting them in a faint, pulsing glow.
No one used crystal energy here.
As anti-dust fields diminish magic crystal output.
But Drosan's crystal power is superior to his peers.
The corridor screamed.
Blast!!!
The detonation tore through the air without warning.
A sudden light swallowed everything.
Then—
Silence.
For a heartbeat, no one understood what they were seeing.
Drosan was still standing.
Then he looked down.
"My… hand…?"
His voice broke.
His right arm was gone.
Shredded into pieces.
Torn from the shoulder in a violent, unnatural severance. Blood burst outward in thick streams, splattering across armor and floor alike. The exposed muscle twitched, blackened at the edges, veins shredded into pulp.
The smell followed.
Burnt flesh.
Drosan screamed.
The sound echoed too long.
Moverik stepped forward slowly, his gaze no longer on Drosan—but on the blade.
"Locked runic inscription…" he murmured.
His voice dropped lower.
___________________________________
Although faint, Moverik brushed the dust from the weapon's handle.
A circular crest surfaced beneath the grime, its sigil carved deep—too deep. It's a mark of authority.
His gaze hardened.
"So… a numbered weapon."
The words came low, almost thoughtful.
"How did it fall this far?"
He had heard of such blades before. Most were low-level relics hoarded by nobles. But this pattern… it was different. Higher.
The lines were too precise. The symmetry is too perfect.
This wasn't low-tier.
This was something meant for crystal-heart ascendants.
For a moment, his mind dragged him backward—
—to the No Crystal Zone.
To the place where magic meant nothing.
Only raw strength matters there. During an expedition, Moverik also learned 1-2 tricks.
"Drosan."
The name alone was enough.
"Come here."
The boy staggered forward, barely conscious.
Moverik didn't wait.
He extended his hand toward Drosan, drawing fresh blood from the mangled vein.
Drosan sagged completely, his body yielding, consciousness slipping.
Silence spread through the transporters.
Moverik lifted his hand.
The blood didn't fall.
It clung.
Then his fingers moved.
Not quickly. Not hesitantly.
With precision.
Each stroke carved into his own flesh, leaving behind lines that refused to fade—thin at first, then thickening, darkening, twisting into a sigil.
His body started to transform.
Moverik's veins surged through both arms.
They rose beneath his skin like coiling wires, thickening, darkening, as if something inside him was being forced outward. Muscle followed, tightening, swelling, straining against the limits of his frame.
The air changed.
Heavy.
Dense.
Even breathing became an effort for the transporters.
Someone stepped back.
Then another.
Boots scraped against stone as formation broke without command. Eyes locked onto the sigil—then away again, too late to unsee it.
Instinct screamed.
Danger.
Not from the weapon.
From him.
Moverik stepped forward.
He exhaled once.
Steady.
Controlled.
Then he reached out—
and closed his hand around the weapon.
A small pull to the blade.
The stone floor began to crack, thin lines spreading like veins. Vibrations climbed up through the soldiers' feet.
But this time, the runic inscription of the blade did not activate.
Moverik's lips curled in a sly laugh.
"Even numbered weapons yield to brute force."
Silence.
Then the runes on walls flickered — every mark feels alive, the ground shifting beneath them. The transporters staggered, their footholds trembling.
"There is no time to waste…" Moverik's voice cut the air as he glanced back. Chains rattled. Slaves lurched forward. The gate to Erigma loomed close.
The squad surged ahead, but Drosan faltered. Moverik didn't even turn — his goal was already within reach. The numbered sword positioned itself at his back.
He advanced.
A lifeless hand rose once, then fell into darkness.
"Veyne…" Drosan's final word was severed, swallowed by silence.
The gate consumed him, leaving only the echo of chains.
For a moment, the chamber was still — grief heavy, air thick.
Then Moverik stepped through the gate.
And beyond it, the silence broke in a different way.
Every guard, miner, and soldier dropped to their knees.
Moverik's eyes narrowed.
"Who… are they?"