Outside, the morning sun poured over the ruins of an abandoned living room, casting long rays through the hollowed-out frame of what used to be a sliding glass door. Dust hung in the air, caught in the light like glitter in water. The space was broken—cracks crawling along the walls, shattered furniture overturned, and floor tiles split by time and conflict. But in the midst of the decay, one couch still stood—faded and torn, its springs exposed.
Ethan lay there motionless, looking almost peaceful if not for the faint scorch marks on his clothes. His body, already healed from the brutal encounter the night before, showed no signs of fresh wounds. His breathing was steady. Whatever damage had been done, his body had taken care of it. But he hadn't yet stirred.
Across the room, the man who had knocked him out stood by the window, leaning casually on the frame with a radio pressed to his lips. The purple currents that had danced around him in combat had long since faded, leaving only the scent of ozone and a faint crackle in the air.
"When do we move?" he asked, his voice low, almost bored.
A crackle of static answered, then a clipped, calm voice:"Tonight. After the teams return from their sweep. We exfil at 2300. Keep your head down until then. No attention. No mistakes."
The man gave a lazy nod, casting a glance at Ethan's unconscious form."Copy that. He's alive. Still out, though. Guess I hit him harder than planned."
"Good. That gives us a head start."
Leon Vaslav walked alone through the outskirts of the base, his tall leather boots pressing into dried grass and loose gravel. The wind whispered through the broken skeletons of buildings, carrying with it the stench of death. He came to a stop near the edge of a cracked street, where carcasses of wildlife lay strewn about like discarded meat in a butcher's nightmare. A dead dog, its ribs shattered and entrails spilled out like tangled yarn, rested beneath a collapsed fence.
Leon knelt, his leather gloves brushing the dried blood that stained the ground in deep rusted patches. He rose slowly, eyes scanning the black smears and splatter like a painter studying brushstrokes. Some of it had dried days ago. Some—hours. His boots carried the stain now.
Then, the sudden rustle.A shadow lunged.
A ghoul—ragged, blood-soaked, snarling. Its jaw unhinged in a grotesque scream as it flew at him from the rubble. But Leon did not flinch.
His body flowed like silk—spinning on the balls of his feet, his coat twirling with an elegant flick as he stepped aside like a dancer evading a mistimed partner. The ghoul missed, crashing behind him.
Leon landed atop a rusted vehicle, one foot delicately balanced on the hood, his form poised like he was on stage. The ghoul screeched, leaping again.
Leon backflipped mid-air, his heel whipping across the creature's jaw. Bone cracked. It staggered, roaring in frustration and rage.
Leon landed, one hand on the ground, coat sweeping dramatically around him. His eyes narrowed.
"How crude," he muttered, rising.
The beast lunged again—but this time, Leon's sheath shifted.
With a sharp flick, his sword shot from it like a bullet—piercing through the ghoul's descending arm before it could strike. The creature wailed. Blood poured, but almost instantly, its torn flesh began knitting together.Its regeneration was unnatural—like something from a high-budget nightmare.
Leon's eyes didn't widen. He simply tilted his head in observation, as though watching a lab specimen squirm under glass. The ghoul climbed, clawing up a nearby building like a mindless predator. Leon's sword returned to his side with a simple motion—silent and smooth, as though it had never moved.
Then, Leon leapt—upward, precise. He landed atop a streetlamp, coat billowing, before stepping fluidly onto the rooftop. The ghoul followed, tearing up the side of the building with unnatural speed.
But Leon didn't flinch.
"Let's see what makes you tick," he whispered.
Just as the creature lunged at him mid-air, something stopped it.
It froze—its limbs suspended. Blood dripping from its fangs, its entire body quivered as if against invisible chains. Leon's hand was raised, palm open. His eyes glowed faintly.
With an almost lazy motion of his fingers, the ghoul was slammed against the rooftop floor, its body crushed under unseen pressure.
Leon stepped closer, eyes still locked on it.
"You're not just some failed science project," he said softly. "No… you're an echo of something older."
[00:00:00 — Instant Dungeon Transfer Initiated]
A sharp ping echoed in his mind, followed by a flickering blue notification box that burned into his vision.
[System Notification][Instant Dungeon Transfer in Progress...][Transferring Host to Designated Combat Zone...][Loading Terrain: Shift Complete.][Commence Survival Protocol.]
Ethan's eyes shot open.
He gasped, sand in his mouth, his fingers curling into the grainy earth as he sat up sharply. The scent of saltwater hung in the air, and the wind dragged a trail of cold across his back. He was lying on a narrow beach that seemed to stretch endlessly in both directions, walled in by jagged cliffs.
Above him, the sky boiled with black clouds as if a storm were frozen in time.
"Where...?" he whispered, holding his head. Pain pulsed at his temple.
Then came the voice—calm, mechanical, and final.
[New Quest Received][Target: Defeat the Fallen Archblade — Valtherion Drexus][Difficulty: Catastrophic][Survival Rate: 7%][Optional Reward: ???][Failure Condition: Death.]
Ethan stood slowly, his eyes narrowing at the strange emptiness of the place. There were no signs of life—only the howling wind, shifting dunes, and the distant clang of metal echoing faintly from deeper inland.
"Valtherion... Drexus?" Ethan muttered.