The Red Valley lies just beyond the forsaken path of the Dark Bridge—a narrow, nearly crumbling span soaked in the dried, rust-colored stains of ancient bloodshed. This bridge, old as the legends that whisper of it, creaks beneath each footstep, suspended over an abyss that few have dared to cross. Beneath it churns the Black River, a slow-moving and endless body of dark water, veiled in secrets. It is said that monstrous, otherworldly creatures dwell within its depths—some slumbering, their massive forms hidden just beneath the surface, while others remain awake, unseen, silently watching, waiting for the right moment to strike with terrifying precision.
Beyond this ominous crossing lies the Red Valley, a place that defies natural order and bends the very atmosphere to its will. The valley begins with a hauntingly surreal terrain: deep, narrow canyons carved into the earth like ancient scars, their walls bathed in eerie, muted shades of blue, teal, and violet. Shadows dance along the rock faces, shifting in unnatural ways, as if alive. Narrow, precarious bridges and paths zigzag up the steep cliff sides, weaving an impossible trail toward a glowing summit. At the very top, a blinding mist hangs thick, glowing with cold, ghostly light.
The fog above conceals all truths—whether salvation lies at the summit or if it is merely the veil to death itself. Birds circle the upper reaches, their distant cries echoing with a sense of melancholy and warning. Travelers who enter the Red Valley often speak of a silence so heavy it presses on the soul, and of whispers riding the wind, echoing with lost voices. Here, fate is uncertain. The Red Valley offers two things: a path toward a destiny forged in suffering—or a final resting place carved in forgotten stone.
Dylan had changed.
Ever since the fateful encounter with Melissa and the consumption of her forbidden artifacts, something within him had shifted. He was stronger now, yes, but not just in power—his mind had grown sharper, more disciplined, more unforgiving. While the temptation to rely on the overwhelming power of the artifacts tugged at him like a siren's call, he resisted. He did not want to be a weapon crafted by someone else's magic. He wanted to be a blade honed by his own fire.
Instead of using the artifacts, he focused on the basics. The fundamentals. His own body was the ultimate tool, and the creatures of the Black Forest were his test subjects. Every encounter was a drill, every ambush a lesson, and every kill an opportunity to refine. Speed. Timing. Reflex. Balance. Every muscle in his body was being carved into a masterpiece of precision through sheer will and relentless trial.
Even as the sky remained eternally dark in this cursed land, Dylan moved with unstoppable purpose. For hours—no, perhaps days—he hadn't stopped. No rest. No food. No peace. Just motion.
The eternal lantern, a faint but steady flame in his hand, was the only light cutting through the void. It never flickered, never dimmed. It pulsed with each of his breaths as though syncing with his heartbeat, guiding him like a phantom warden through the labyrinth of twisted trees and carnivorous undergrowth.
The creatures here had become more aggressive. Faster. More cunning. But Dylan was faster still.
He didn't walk anymore—he sprinted. A phantom blur. Like a lightning bolt rebelling against the sky. With every movement, he became less like a man and more like a force of nature. Shadows barely registered his presence before they were ripped apart, their cries vanishing in the vacuum behind him. Black ichor sprayed like ink in the night, but Dylan didn't stop to look. He ducked low, slid through moss-covered roots, twisted his body mid-air to dodge thorned limbs, and leapt tree to tree with terrifying agility. Every fiber of his being was locked into a rhythm of ruthless efficiency.
Then—he saw it.
A flicker. Barely there. But enough to make him halt.
A tiny red glow shimmered faintly at the edge of the forest's death-thick veil.
His body slowed instinctively, his mind switching from predator to sentinel.
"Is that the bridge? The one that Melissa was talking about?" he murmured, narrowing his eyes. "Doesn't matter. I've come this far. The Red Valley lies ahead."
The red glow pulsed gently, like a heartbeat buried within the gloom. Dylan's instincts warned him—this wasn't just some passage or waypoint. It was something else. A gateway. A test.
He approached slowly, this time allowing his senses to stretch outward. Every leaf rustle, every subtle change in temperature, every shift in the air's weight was cataloged and assessed. His footsteps were silent. His breath shallow. His blade ready.
Then he saw it.
A vast, ominous chasm stretched before him like the earth had been cleaved open by some divine fury. And there, barely intact and dangling from worn ropes and jagged stone, was the bridge.
It was just as Melissa had described—ancient, narrow, fractured. It swayed gently even without wind, soaked in centuries of blood and sorrow. The bridge's wood was blackened, either by fire or decay, and long strands of dark moss and rope dangled beneath it, twitching like veins of a slumbering beast.
But above all of it, casting its baleful light across the chasm, was the Crimson Blood Moon.
Dylan's breath caught for a moment. Not from fear, but awe.
After so much endless darkness, to see the sky—even if blood-red and warped—was surreal. It bathed the entire landscape in a sinister glow, making the black river below shimmer like obsidian wine. The Red Valley was near. He could feel its call in his bones.
The bridge ahead, though, was a whisper from another world. A relic of nightmares.
He squinted, taking in every detail. Broken planks. Rope tendrils. Something had torn pieces of it deliberately, as if hoping it would still tempt the brave.
He didn't hesitate.
Dylan tightened his grip on the lantern, exhaled slowly, and in a sudden moment, he surged forward and leapt—his feet touching down on the unstable bridge.
A crack split through the silence like thunder.
The old wood groaned. Something snapped. Then another piece broke loose beneath him.
For a moment, he dangled in midair, legs off-balance, arms instinctively reaching.
Then the bridge gave way.
It was a trap.
The world flipped.
The black abyss swallowed him.
The eternal lantern spun from his grip, vanishing into the dark like a lost star. Wind rushed past him. Time slowed. The crimson moon above watched his descent like an uncaring god.
Then—impact.
The river wasn't water—it was liquid darkness. Cold beyond reason. It struck like obsidian spears, stabbing into every inch of his body, stealing breath, sound, and sight in an instant.
But Dylan was no longer just flesh and blood.
As he sank into the depths, his instincts screamed, but his soul stirred.
Within the crushing pressure of the Black River, the latent energy inside him reacted. A pulse of black and silver exploded from his chest like a shockwave. His eyes snapped open—now glowing with a cold, predatory light.
Suddenly, they came.
From the void of his soul, shadowy sentinels erupted—wraithlike beings of raw aura shaped by Dylan's will. Towering figures, clad in spectral armor, each one wielding ghostly blades humming with ancient wrath. They formed a protective ring around him as he descended further.
The creatures of the Black River surged forward—tentacled abominations, skeletal leviathans, eyeless serpents with twitching limbs and unnatural mouths. Drawn by the blood. Drawn by the human trespasser.
But they were met with death.
The first creature lunged—only to be cleaved in two by a sentinel's sweeping blade, its corpse dissipating into steam. Another dove from above, mouth open wide to devour Dylan whole, but was impaled by three piercing javelins hurled from the shadows. The river lit up with bursts of crimson and silver as the battle raged in utter silence.
Dylan floated in the center, arms out, as if in meditation, the auras dancing violently around him.
His aura twisted, hardened, took shape—not just as warriors, but as extensions of himself. His will was absolute. Each strike they delivered was guided by his instinct, his rage, his purpose. The sentinels moved as if they were Dylan—guardians of his soul, avatars of his fury.
He opened his eyes beneath the surface, gazing into the chaos. One of the larger creatures—a monstrosity of bone and writhing limbs—charged forward, letting out a psychic screech that fractured the water around it.
Dylan raised his hand slowly.
The sentinel closest to him obeyed immediately, stepping forward and plunging its massive blade straight through the beast's skull. A shockwave rippled through the black depths. Blood—thick, ancient, and foul—erupted like an ink cloud.
Silence returned.
The waters calmed.
The creatures receded, either dead or retreating into the void.
The sentinels lingered for a moment, then, one by one, dissipated into curling wisps of smoke, disappeared back into darkness like shadows returning to their source.
He kicked off the riverbed, forcing his weary limbs to move.
Breaking through the surface, Dylan gasped for air, his body bloodied and shivering, but his soul pulsing with renewed force. His feet found ground near the rocky shore, and he clawed his way to the river's edge.
He stood.
Soaked. Bruised. Wounded.
But not broken.
Behind him, the river shimmered with trails of red—his blood, and the blood of the monsters that dared to challenge him.
Above, the Crimson Moon still loomed, silent and massive.
Dylan exhaled and stared at the shattered remains of the bridge, then turned toward the jagged ascent into the Red Valley.
"So this is how you test me," he muttered, his voice hoarse but steady. "But I am not the one who breaks."
And with that, he began to walk forward—no longer just a man.
But a force reborn.