"It's already Day Three. You want to stay here and build a vacation house? Maybe invite the next Rank two beast for tea?"
No one spoke after that.
The air grew busy—feet shuffling, tents collapsing, bags being packed with trembling fingers. Injured or not, exhausted or not, they were leaving. The camp had become a graveyard of memories and ash.
***
The jungle stretched before them—dark, humid, suffocating. A living thing of its own. Twisted roots coiled like sleeping serpents, vines drooped like executioner's nooses, and even the light filtering through the canopy had a murky, greenish tint.
As if the sun itself had second thoughts about watching what would happen here.
Aurion walked at the front, calm and graceful, his silver-threaded artifact billowing slightly behind him with each careful step.
Two white robes followed, speaking in hushed tones, their vigilance sharp. Behind them trailed the black robes—eight in total now. Haggard, wounded, but still walking. Still breathing.
Samuel walked near the rear with Lyra, both silent until now, the only sounds being the crunch of leaves underfoot and the distant cries of unseen creatures.
They had collected every reusable item from the ruined camp—even the torn cloths soaked in dried blood. Nothing could be wasted. Not out here.
Aurion's voice broke the silence ahead: "We'll reach there before nightfall. Be alert. Even silence can be a trap."
The others nodded grimly. So far, they'd only encountered Rank 0 beasts—feral, thoughtless things easily dispatched. But that was what made it strange. A place this deep in the jungle, so close to a cathedral… should have been crawling with abyss-touched monsters.
Something had scared them off.
That thought sat poorly with everyone.
Finally, Samuel broke the silence.
"What does the Temple even want from us?"
Lyra glanced at him.
His voice remained low, thoughtful.
"I mean… why are we really here? Why throw us into this place, into these death trials? What's the point of the True Rune? And—where even are we?"
It wasn't just curiosity anymore.
It was disillusionment. A slow, creeping sense of rot spreading through the roots of whatever trust he'd placed in the world around him.
Because now he knew.
Aurion lured the thunderbird—the Rank 2 beast—toward the camp.
Samule could be treacherous. Yes. He knew that. He'd made peace with it long ago. A slow-burning cunning that flickered beneath his skin, born of necessity. But he wasn't this.
He wasn't someone who'd sacrifice innocents without a flicker of guilt. He wasn't the kind of monster who could look at a dozen corpses and still smile.
Aurion could. Did.
And that, more than anything, unsettled him.
Lyra's voice was calm at first—but there was something trembling beneath the surface, like a truth too heavy for the tongue.
"We're in Abyssal Realm," she said, her eyes scanning the jungle ahead.
"Actually… there are nine of them."
Samuel tilted his head slightly. "And this one?"
"The first," she replied. "The Umbral Threshold. A Rank 1 Abyssal Realm."
She pushed aside a thick vine as they walked. Her tone sharpened, more focused now.
"Only Rank 0, 1, and occasionally 2 beasts live here. It's not a place meant for survival—it's meant for awakening."
"To awaken the True Rune?" Samuel asked.
Lyra nodded.
Lyra's voice dropped lower, almost a whisper swallowed by the jungle's hush.
"Most Cathedrals are hidden. Some beneath the earth, others behind illusions or ancient locks. Each has a condition to open it—something that tests you. Breaks you."
Samuel's brow furrowed.
"And we… just got unlucky."
She gave a slow nod. "All disciples are scattered randomly at the start. Some spawn near peaceful groves, or ruins guarded by nothing worse than a Rank 1 beast. But us?"
Her voice tightened.
"We landed near the Cathedral whose condition is the hardest."
The group walked in silence for a moment.
Then, as if moved by the same thought, every head slowly turned toward the figure at the front.
Aurion.
That bastard.
The one who lured the Rank 2 beasts into their camp.
Somewhere behind him, whispered words rose among the black robes.
"…we could've found a less dangerous Cathedral…"
"…does he think he's the only one who matters?"
"…so many died because of him…"
Samuel watched Aurion's back, his thoughts sharp as broken glass.
A flicker of doubt twisted in Samuel's gut.
No… not just doubt. Suspicion.
This wasn't just arrogance.
Aurion's too calculated for that.
No, this Cathedral was different.
Samuel's mind spun with possibilities. A hidden legacy? A god's will sealed within? Maybe a shattered relic of a greater truth?
Whatever it was—it wasn't normal. It wasn't supposed to be here, at the edge of a Rank 1 abyssal realm.
"That True Rune," Lyra continued, her golden eyes sharp beneath the jungle canopy,
"It's like our true nature... or maybe what lies buried beneath it. It defines the path we're meant to walk, or the one forced onto us."
Samuel's gaze darkened.
"Some get Runes aligned with elements," Lyra went on. "Water, fire, lightning. If theirs is a Water Rune, they can manipulate it, shape it, speak to it through abyssal energy. With enough cultivation, they can draw oceans from droplets."
She paused. Her voice dipped lower.
"But the Rune doesn't just sit there waiting. It evolves. Every time your rank rises, the Rune unfolds a little more. It grants you one new ability with each awakening."
She paused again. Her lips were dry. A single drop of sweat slid down her temple.
"I read once—in a forbidden book, in abyssal archive—that there are nine abyssal realms."
Samuel's breath caught.
"Nine?"
Lyra nodded. Her voice dropped lower still, barely a breath now.
"In the ninth… they say the gods walk."
A shiver slid down Samuel's spine.
"The gods the Temple worships… don't dwell in the skies," Lyra said, her eyes distant. "They slumber in the deepest abyss. Beneath the ninth realm. Where light forgets to reach."
The group continued marching. Trees creaked. The wind held its tongue.
The group finally stumbled upon a calm body of water—still, reflective, cradled by the twisted roots of abyss-tainted trees. The sun, if it could be called that, filtered down through the canopy in wan, gray rays.
Aurion halted at the edge, lifting a hand. "We'll rest here."
Without waiting, he drifted to the shade of a nearby tree, his strange artifact resting beside him like a loyal hound. He closed his eyes as if he hadn't just dragged them all through madness.
The tension broke like a dam. Some disciples laughed, relief trembling in their voices. Others groaned and ran toward the water, shedding the weight of battle and fear. Even Lyra moved toward the edge, her boots already soaked.
Samuel stood still.
That feeling again.
A coil tightening in his chest. A whisper in the back of his mind—You're not ready. Not for what's inside the Cathedral. Not for whatever secret Aurion had dragged through fire and blood.
He stepped forward and caught Lyra gently by the wrist.
"Wait," he said, voice low. "Teach me how to cast a spell."
She blinked, surprised. Her gaze searched his—then shifted toward the others already splashing and laughing in the shallows. Slowly, she nodded.
"You don't want to rest?"
Samuel shook his head. "Something's coming. I can feel it. I want to be ready."
Lyra exhaled softly. No protest. No lecture. Just a slow nod of understanding.
"Alright," she said. "Let's start from the basics."
They moved away from the laughter and splashing, stepping into a quiet, overgrown alcove where the trees grew thick and the water's reflection turned dark. The air here was cooler, heavier—still.
Samuel exhaled and closed his fist.
'I can do this' he thought.
'This body… it's done this before. It has to remember.'
Somewhere beneath the confusion, beneath the unfamiliarity of transmigration, there had to be a trace of instinct—muscle memory buried deep in the flesh he now wore.
Lyra sat cross-legged on a mossy root, gesturing for him to do the same.
"It's not difficult," she began, her tone calm and sure, like someone explaining how to breathe.
"Abyssal energy flows through your aperture like a hidden river. You just have to feel it… then slowly bring it out."
Samuel nodded, lowering himself.
"Then what?"
"Then, you shape it. Manipulate it. Focus on a spell or an intent—your mind becomes the mold. Without that… it's just raw power."
He closed his eyes.
Darkness.
Then breath.
Then silence.
He turned his focus inward—toward the aperture in his lower abdomen, where the abyssal energy pulsed faintly like a second heartbeat.
Sluggish. Cold. But undeniably alive.
He reached.
At first, nothing.
Then… something shifted.
A tingle. A slow warmth rising along his spine. A thread of pressure building in his core.
That's it.
He didn't hear Lyra's voice anymore, but he felt her gaze watching him.
The energy stirred—like a shadow stretching beneath water. Samuel pulled, gently, and it obeyed. A thin wisp of black-purple mist coiled up his arm, flickering at his palm like the breath of a dying candle.
His brow furrowed. He focused.
The energy twitched, then sparked—briefly forming the shape of a crescent.
Then—
Snap.
It scattered, vanishing into the air like smoke.
Samuel's eyes flew open, chest heaving.
Lyra's lips twitched. Not quite a smile, but something close.
"You're not completely hopeless," she said.
"Now, grab your sword."
Samuel's fingers closed around the familiar cold hilt of his Moon Blade. The metal felt real, grounding—a tether between this world and the power he was reaching for.
"Do the same," Lyra instructed, "but this time, at the end, chant the spell you want to cast. Words give shape to your will. They focus the abyssal energy into a tangible form."
Samuel inhaled deeply, feeling the pulse of abyssal energy within his aperture stir again.
He wove the energy slowly through his arm, guiding the dark mist to coil around his blade.
With every heartbeat, the mist thickened, twisting like smoke curling from a flame.
His throat tightened, voice low and steady.
"Moon Slash."
The blade answered.
A faint crescent of abyssal energy flickered into existence… soared about five feet… and then pathetically fizzled out mid-air like a drunk moth flying into a lantern.
Silence.
He blinked. "…Huh."
Lyra raised an eyebrow, deadpan.
"Was that an attack or a cry for help?"