Dawn bled cold and thin across the outer fields. Mist clung low to the ground, moving in slow, reluctant coils as though the earth itself resisted releasing it. Five hundred newly awakened youths stood in rigid formation before the Rift Gate — an unnatural tear suspended above the grass, its edges pulsing with violet light that made the surrounding air feel denser, heavier, as if the world were recalling older, more final ways of ending.
The Abyss.
On paper it carried an F-rank designation. Inside, ranks dissolved quickly.
Instructors in silver-plated armor moved among the assembled, distributing Return Stones — small crystals that glowed with faint, captured starlight. One instructor placed a stone in Yang's palm without meeting his eyes.
"Crush it if death becomes certain," the man said, voice flat. "It will attempt to pull you back. Provided enough of your body remains intact."
The warning settled without softening. Some students gripped their stones tightly. Others turned them over in their fingers like prayer beads worn smooth by repetition. Yang kept his attention on the Rift. Within its pulsing violet depths, something seemed to look back — not with hostility, but with the slow, evaluating weight of an old predator noticing new movement at the edge of its territory.
Yuan's laugh cut across the formation, bright and unreserved. Flames curled lazily around her fingertips, rising and falling in obedient rhythm, as though the fire recognized her claim and answered without question. Beside her, Cheng spun his lightning-etched spear in a slow, controlled arc. Each rotation cracked the air with a sharp, electric report.
Their entourages formed a tight cluster behind them — elite knights in polished armor, expensive weapons held with practiced ease, loyalty calculated and reinforced by years of hierarchy. The space around the siblings remained clear, as if even the mist knew better than to intrude.
Yang stood apart, near the outer edge of the formation. The rusted E-rank sword at his side felt heavier than its size suggested, its edge pitted and dull from years of neglect. No one had offered him better. No one had offered him anything.
Yuan tilted her head, flames rising a fraction higher along one finger. "Still breathing, then?"
A few nearby students allowed themselves quiet laughter, the sound pitched carefully to stay within acceptable bounds.
Cheng did not turn fully toward him. "You might want to keep more distance. Trash has a way of drawing misfortune."
More laughter followed, softer this time. Even some commoner youths glanced away, not with cruelty but with the quiet relief of those who had found someone positioned clearly beneath them.
Yang took several measured steps forward, stopping at a distance that kept him visible yet separate. The Shadow Mark beneath his ribs shifted once — cool, deliberate, like something stirring in slow recognition of its surroundings. He offered no reply. The moment did not require one.
An instructor raised his hand. "The Rift opens in sixty seconds. Difficulty selection locks once you cross the threshold. Normal. Hard. Hellish."
A ripple moved through the ranks.
"Hellish difficulty multiplies every threat fivefold. Environmental suppression applies. Death is not a theoretical possibility."
Silence followed, thick and expectant.
Groups began to move. Some chose Normal, others Hard, their postures attempting confidence that their grips on Return Stones betrayed. Yuan stepped forward without hesitation.
"Hellish," she announced.
Cheng followed at once. "Hellish."
Their escorts remained impassive. The Abyss would reward power, not effort. Their role was to ensure the siblings harvested that reward cleanly.
Only Yang remained.
The instructor regarded him longer than the others. "Young master Yang… you understand there will be no support inside Hellish difficulty?"
"Yes."
"No escort units."
"Yes."
"No margin for misjudgment."
Yang met the man's gaze. "I will not misjudge."
Something in the quiet delivery ended further questions.
Behind him, Yuan's chuckle drifted forward, soft and edged. "Suicide by slime. Almost poetic."
The Rift answered before anyone else could speak — a deep, resonant pulse that traveled through the ground and into bone, like laughter rising from beneath layers of stone and time.
One by one the groups stepped through.
The world fractured.
Color inverted. Sound became pressure against the ears. Gravity released its claim for several heartbeats.
Then silence.
Yang landed on damp stone. The corridor stretched ahead like a throat lined with faint green bioluminescent moss that pulsed in slow, irregular rhythm. The air hung thick, wet with metallic undertones that coated the tongue. This was no simple dungeon. The Abyss felt like an organism wearing the shape of one, breathing, observing, deciding.
A single Level 5 Corrosion Slime quivered into view. Its translucent body shifted like unstable glass filled with acid, core pulsing faster than any standard encounter would suggest. On Hellish difficulty the creature moved with unnatural speed.
Yang exhaled once, rusted sword steady in his grip. The slime lunged.
Acid hissed where it struck stone, sending up thin curls of vapor. His skin registered the heat at the edge of the splash radius. He shifted his weight, barely avoiding the main mass. The creature struck again. He dodged a second time, then a third. Fifteen exchanges passed in careful, economical movement. His breathing grew sharper. His sword arm began to register fatigue.
The blade finally found the core.
The slime froze, then dissolved into drifting green mist.
A sensation echoed through his bones rather than appearing on any visible panel.
Level 2.
Strength +1.
Agility +1.
Mana capacity increased.
Deeper still, something unlisted responded. A quiet warmth moved through the Shadow Mark, not flooding but settling, testing new boundaries.
Three more slimes emerged, coordinating their approach. Yang tightened his grip on the rusted sword. His body protested the continued strain, yet he noted the incremental sharpening at the edges of his perception.
His free palm darkened.
Mist spilled outward like ink dispersing through still water.
"Shadow Blade."
The shadow coalesced with visible reluctance, forming a sleek edge that extended from his grip. No hilt. Only absence given shape, its surface flickering as though reality remained undecided about its permanence. He regarded the rusted sword in his other hand for a moment, then pressed the two together.
The shadow did not resist. It merged.
Rust flaked away in dry curls. The blade darkened completely, edges flickering with unstable definition. A new awareness registered inside him.
Shadow-Infused Strike (Temporary Form).
Mana consumption reduced.
Duration: 120 seconds.
He tested the fused weapon with a single controlled motion. The first slash did not merely cut — it erased. Two slimes collapsed before their cores fully registered the strike. The third attempted to engulf him. Yang twisted, shadow trailing behind like a living afterimage, and drove the blade downward. The core shattered with a wet, final sound.
Silence returned.
+120 EXP.
Level 3 reached.
Strength → 3
Agility → 3
Intelligence → 4
Passive unlocked: Shadow Affinity (Lv.1) — Low-light environments reduce Shadow skill cost by a measured margin.
The persistent ache behind his eyes eased. His limbs felt lighter, though still far from strong. Less impossible, at least.
Deeper in the corridor, faint laughter echoed — Yuan's bright tone, Cheng's lower counterpart. They moved ahead with careless confidence, their escorts carving safe paths through weaker threats. Power fed power. The Abyss rewarded those already favored.
Yang turned toward the sound. He did not rush. He walked, footsteps measured against damp stone, the fused blade resting lightly in his grip.
The corridor widened. A heavier shadow fell across the passage. The air grew thicker, reality itself seeming to resist the approach of whatever occupied the space ahead.
A Level 8 Corrosive Behemoth emerged.
Its mass pressed against the walls, pseudopods cracking stone with casual force. The air around it hissed continuously, acid vapor rising in slow plumes. This was no longer a simple slime. It was a problem given form, testing the boundaries of the corridor.
Yang adjusted his stance, noting the way his shadow stretched longer than the faint moss-light should allow, edges hesitating before lengthening fully. The Shadow Mark pulsed once inside his chest — slow, deliberate, like a heartbeat remembering an older rhythm.
He lowered the blade slightly.
The Behemoth surged forward, pseudopods whipping through the air with wet, cracking sounds.
Yang stepped inside the first strike, fused blade rising in a clean arc. Shadow trailed the motion, reluctant to fully detach. The edge met pseudopod and severed it with a hiss of dissolving matter. Acid sprayed, but the shadow coating on the blade turned most of it aside, leaving only faint tingling across his forearm.
The creature recoiled, then pressed again, heavier this time. Yang circled, observing the pattern of its attacks — the slight delay before each pseudopod fully extended, the way its core pulsed brighter when it committed to a lunge. He dodged left, then right, conserving movement. On the third exchange he drove the blade upward into the base of a pseudopod, twisting as he withdrew. The Behemoth shuddered, acid leaking from the wound in thicker streams.
His breathing remained controlled. Mana ticked downward steadily, but the Shadow Affinity passive kept the drain manageable in the dim environment. The fused blade felt more responsive now, as though the shadow within it had begun to recognize his intent rather than merely obey.
Another pseudopod whipped toward his legs. Yang leaped, planting one foot against the wall for leverage, and brought the blade down in a vertical strike. The edge sank deep into the Behemoth's upper mass. The creature convulsed, core flaring bright green before fracturing.
It collapsed inward, dissolving into acrid mist that stung the eyes and throat.
No level notification came this time. Only a quiet accumulation of experience that settled deeper into bone and shadow alike.
Yang stood motionless for several heartbeats, allowing his breathing to steady. The corridor ahead stretched further, its green luminescence flickering as though the Abyss itself were adjusting to his continued presence.
He wiped a trace of acid from the blade's edge. The shadow coating remained intact, flickering once as if acknowledging the small victory before settling.
Farther on, the distant sounds of combat continued — Yuan's flames roaring, Cheng's lightning cracking. Their progress sounded effortless. Expected.
Yang resumed walking. His steps carried the same measured pace. The fused blade rested in his grip, its weight now familiar rather than foreign. His shadow stretched ahead of him along the stone, longer than it should have been, pausing at irregular intervals as though listening or deciding.
The Abyss watched.
Not yet with fear.
But with the first slow stirrings of recognition.