Samuel felt his jaw tighten.
Captured. Like him.
Taken because they were different.
Used because they were useful.
He swallowed the bitterness and, after a moment, asked quietly,
"Can you tell me more about Pendora? The continents… the gods?"
Lyra's eyes flickered with something unreadable. She nodded slowly, folding her hands around her knees.
"There are seven continents," she began, voice low, almost reverent. "Actually… eight. But the eighth is forbidden."
At the mention of the eighth, her body tensed just slightly — a subtle shift Samuel noticed immediately.
Something flickered in her gaze, sharp and guarded.
He found it… interesting.
"The known continents are the North, East, West, South, Central, one that hovers in the air, and another beneath the seas," she said, her words painting images both strange and wondrous.
"All ruled by humans — though not always peacefully. Each continent worships a god, or goddess. "
She glanced at Samuel, her golden eyes reflecting the firelight.
"For example, here in the Central Continent, most revere the Night Goddess — a dark deity of mystery, shadows and darkness. "
The fire crackled between them as the storm outside softened to distant rumbles.
Samuel broke the silence, voice low and curious.
"So… each continent has its own traditions and churches?"
Lyra nodded, eyes reflecting the flickering flames.
"Yes. Like the Eastern Continent — it's conservative, deeply rooted in cultivation and ancient rites. They cling tightly to their old ways."
She shifted slightly, voice taking on a sharper edge.
"The Northern Continent worships twin gods. Their followers have discovered shortcuts to ascension by potions — rare elixirs that speed up spiritual progress."
Samuel's brow furrowed.
"But the most unusual," Lyra added with a half-smile,
"Is the Western Continent. They're leading this new age with industrialization. They've even created an artificial god—and yes, they're actually worshipping him."
Samuel stood up so fast he nearly slipped.
His expression wasn't confused.
It was disturbed.
"What… what did you just say?" he asked slowly, each word sharp, like he was cutting through glass.
She raised a brow.
"The Age of Industrialisation?"
Samule voice dropped to a whisper, filled with quiet dread.
"There are… trains?"
That made her pause.
A flicker of surprise passed through her eyes—one she didn't bother hiding.
"How do you…?" she began, but stopped herself.
Then shrugged with a crooked smile.
"Well, yes. Of course there are trains. Steam-powered railways. One runs straight through the Iron Meridian. Mobiles too. They use them for long-distance voice transmission—just a bit clunky. All made by that genius lunatic, Emperor Ethan."
Samuel froze.
A cold thought sliced through his mind.
He hadn't noticed it before — not truly. He had dismissed it as a strange familiarity, the kind that creeps into dreams and makes lies feel like home. But now…
The names of the days.
The twelve months.
The twenty-four-hour format.
Even the seven-day week.
Too Earth-like. Too exact.
His eyes narrowed. "Did… Ethan name the days and months too?"
Lyra blinked, surprised at the sudden sharpness in his tone.
"Yes. He did. Before that, the calendar was a mess — based on celestial patterns, religious cycles, seasonal feasts. It was different for every continent. But Ethan's system was simple, easy to adopt. Most of the world accepted it without a fight."
She tilted her head, golden eyes narrowing slightly.
"Well… except for the Eastern Continent. They refused. Said it was heretical. Still use their old cultivator calendar with sect years and lunar phases. But the rest of Pendora? We call our days Monday to Sunday, just like he named them."
Samuel leaned back slowly, letting the firelight dance across his expression.
His lips parted in a breath that could've been a laugh… or a curse.
So that was it.
Emperor Ethan wasn't just an inventor.
He was a shadow from Earth.
A man like him.
A transmigrator.
And unlike Samuel, Ethan hadn't just survived.
He had flourished. Conquered. Shaped Pendora like a sculptor carving flesh from marble.
But none of that mattered now.
Samule voice came out low, controlled, but brittle at the edges.
"So… where is he now?"
Lyra's eyes drifted to the fire.
"He went missing sixty years ago," she said quietly. "Some say he died. Others claim he vanished into the Deep Paths. No one's sure."
Samuel didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
Because in the quiet hush that followed, he felt it—that cold, gnawing certainty twisting like a blade just beneath his ribs.
That bastard wasn't dead.
He'd gone back. Returned to Earth.
And if he could do it…
Then why not Samuel?
The idea gripped him like a vice. Not hope—no, hope was too soft a word. This was something else. A sharp hunger, the kind that didn't beg or dream.
It demanded.
But then…
A question rose like smoke in the back of his mind. Bitter. Unwanted.
Why?
Why return?
What waited for him there?
No family. No friends. No one to even remember his name.
And here in Pendora? Nothing was different. He was still a ghost. A man drifting between shadows. A survivor, yes… but never a part of anything. Not truly.
He had walked alone on Earth.
He walked alone here.
That was the truth.
He exhaled, long and quiet. Then looked up at Lyra.
The firelight flickered in his eyes, but they were steady now.
Focused.
Like a man shoving something into a box and locking it shut.
"Can you teach me abyssal energy control?" he asked, voice rough, hesitant—awkward even.
"I… I know it won't make us stronger overnight. But it'll increase our chances. Our survival."
She was silent for a moment, her expression unreadable in the firelight. Then, slowly, she nodded.
"I can teach you," she said softly.
She moved closer to the fire, the flames reflecting in her eyes like molten gold. Her voice was calm, but laced with something older, deeper—like someone reciting truths carved in stone long ago.
"Abyssal energy isn't like ordinary spiritual force," she began.
"It comes from within. From your aperture. You draw it out—thread by thread—like pulling dark silk from a well. It strengthens your body. Empowers artifacts. Fuels spells, like chants… but it's dangerous if left unrestrained. It eats at the soul."
Samuel nodded slowly, absorbing each word. His brow furrowed.
He let out a breath and closed his eyes. The world dulled around him.
And then, in the silence of his thoughts, he spoke a phrase Elias had taught him—a whisper
'Vha'rith, Khor'zar!....'
A tremor rippled through his consciousness. Like someone knocking softly on the inside of his skull.
And then, the whispering began.
[VOICE OF VOID]
Name: Samuel Zevrin Morvain
True Rune:
True Rune Abilities:
Bloodline: Human
Physique: None
Abyssal Rank: 1-Abyss-Touched
Abyssal Aperture Capacity: 52%
Abyssal Fragments: 107/1000
Abyssal Spells: Moonslash (Rank 1)
He focused on the Moon Slash.
[Moon Slash: A blade swing imbued with concentrated abyssal energy, releasing a sharp crescent of force toward enemies.]
Neat. Predictable. A beginner's spell through and through.
He sighed, rubbing his eyes.
'Of course, What was I expecting? A divine technique gifted by the heavens? I'm wearing black robe and running on borrowed breath.'
But then his gaze shifted downward—to the blade across his lap.
The Moon Blade.
It matched.
Not in strength. Not in grandeur. But in essence. In origin. In the eerie echo of something deeper.
His fingers curled around the hilt.
He frowned. "This… how do these spells even appear?"
Lyra glanced at him.
"Sometimes they come from the beasts you kill. If it's strong enough—an abyss-touched creature—it leaves behind a mark, a spell with its core. Other times, the Temple holds contests. The winners are gifted abyssal spells or even full cores."
Samuel tilted his head. "Abyssal cores?"
She nodded. "Condensed essence of abyssal beasts. If you absorb them, you gain abyssal fragments. Collect enough, and you can ascend. Advance to the next rank."
A long silence followed. The fire crackled softly.
Then, slowly, Samuel's eyes narrowed. A thought rose in his mind—unbidden and ugly.
He looked up at her.
"Then… why didn't you tell me any of this after I killed that bull?"
Lyra didn't answer. She looked away instead.
His voice sharpened. "You stole it."
Her shoulders tensed. For a breath, she didn't move. Then, she spoke, quiet but defensive.
"It's not stealing. You just walked away. Left the body there like it meant nothing. I thought you didn't want it, so I absorbed the core on the spot."
Samuel stared at her.
Her lips curled into a half-smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"Don't be mad. Think of it as… payment. For teaching you."
Samuel sighed. Loudly. Dramatically.
Like a man who had just discovered his training partner was also a loot thief.
Lyra stood, brushing off her robe with practiced grace, then drew her sword with a casual flick. The steel caught the firelight and gleamed like a smug smile.
"Let's train," she said, as if she hadn't just confessed to spiritual robbery five minutes ago.
Samuel nodded slowly. "Sure," he muttered, drawing the Moonblade—the sword he had stolen—ahem, strategically liberated from a corpse.
Details.
Lyra didn't comment on the weapon.
Probably because she'd done worse.
She moved to face the tree, one hand on the hilt of her blade. "Watch closely," she said, her tone all business now.
"This is a Rank 1 spell. Simple chant, basic energy draw."
She focused. The air shifted.
A faint green light shimmered along her sword's edge—eerie, like moonlight through swamp fog. Then she slashed, clean and quick.
A crescent-shaped arc of green energy burst from her sword with a hiss, slicing through the air and slamming into the tree trunk.
Crack.
The bark split with a violent snap, a deep gash carved into its flesh.
Samuel blinked.
"If I'd poured a bit more abyssal energy into it," Lyra said, sheathing her blade like it was no big deal, " this tree would've been kindling."
Samuel stared at the smoking mark.
"That was Rank 1?" he asked, incredulous.
She nodded.
His eyes lingered on the ruined tree.
If that was Rank 1...
He imagined what a Rank 9 spell would look like.
Probably involved a crater. Or a small extinction event.
Possibly both.
But then, a more pressing concern clawed its way into his mind.
He tilted his head, squinted at the gash in the tree—and slowly turned toward Lyra.
"…Wait," he said, voice tightening. "Uhm. Lyra."
She raised an eyebrow, still basking in her demonstration.
Samuel pointed at the bark.
"Why the hell did you just chant a destructive spell… inside the tree we're living in?!"
There was a beat of silence.
Then a faint, dripping sound.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Both of them looked up.
A fresh hole had been carved clean through the upper part of the trunk. Rainwater was now trickling through it, creating a sad little stream right next to their makeshift bedrolls.
Lyra's expression froze.
Her confident smirk cracked like thin ice.
Her cheeks flushed red—not with rage or pride, but pure, unfiltered embarrassment.
"I…" she started, eyes darting between the sword and the ceiling.
"I was… demonstrating."
"Oh, you demonstrated alright," Samuel deadpanned.
"Demonstrated how to summon a flood. In our living space."
"It was a controlled attack—"
"It was a tree murder attempt, Lyra. And now we have an indoor waterfall."
Lyra opened her mouth, then closed it. Her ears were red now.
"…Think of it as nature's air conditioning," she muttered.
Samuel crossed his arms. "You owe me dry socks."