The dawn came cold and weak.
Golden light strained to pierce the haze that hung over Caelburn, but the air itself seemed to reject the morning. Dust floated like ash from a dying fire, glinting faintly before vanishing into the dull gray sky. What had once been the city's proudest sight—the Millennia Tree—now lay broken, its vast trunk sprawled across the crater like the corpse of a god. Roots the size of towers curled upward, their pale bark hardened into stone, frozen mid-twist as if in agony.
The faint scent of mana lingered in the air—sweet, metallic, and wrong. The world had not yet decided whether it was mourning or decaying.
Altheron stood near the edge of the pit, cloak fluttering in the faint morning wind. His face was pale under the soft light, eyes shadowed with sleeplessness. He hadn't slept. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw it again—the Tree splitting open, the earth screaming, the pulse beneath his feet calling his name in a voice that wasn't quite sound.
Behind him, Emi adjusted her quiver, the soft creak of leather breaking the heavy silence. Her fingers trembled once, before she steadied them. The faint tremor didn't escape Altheron's notice, though he said nothing. She'd fought beside him through worse—yet even she could feel it. The air here wasn't just heavy; it was alive.
Around them, the camp moved with grim precision. Soldiers tightened armor straps until metal groaned. Adventurers checked ropes, blades, and lightstones that burned with weak, flickering light. Smiths shouted orders over the clang of hammer on steel, handing out oil flasks and rations that no one would taste. No laughter, no boasting—only the quiet murmur of fear hidden behind discipline.
And among them, standing like a statue forged from iron and memory, was Kaelmourn—the stoic commander of the Sentinels. His armor caught what little sunlight there was, reflecting it in dull flashes across the crater. He did not speak often, but his mere presence steadied hearts. Every man and woman who had marched beneath his banner had lived to tell the tale—or died knowing he stood beside them.
For Altheron, that presence meant something else. A weight. A history he could never quite escape.
The Guildmaster's voice finally cut through the tension.
"Remember—mark your path, keep your bearings. The air down there twists sound and space. No one goes alone. Once we enter, we move as one."
Dozens of torches flared to life, their flames pale and thin against the oppressive gloom. The light didn't reach the bottom of the pit. The dungeon waited below—silent, breathing, patient.
Altheron's gaze drifted downward. He felt it again—that faint rhythm beneath his boots. Not a vibration, not a tremor. A pulse. Slow. Deep. Calling.
It echoed through his chest like a second heartbeat.
A hand landed on his shoulder—firm, steady, familiar.
Kaelmourn stood beside him, helm tucked under one arm, gray hair glinting faintly in the light.
"Stay sharp, lad," he said quietly, voice low and rough from years of shouting over battlefields. "If the Tree truly fell because of what's beneath, we're not walking into ruins. We're walking into its heart."
Altheron swallowed, nodding once. "Understood, sir."
Kaelmourn gave the faintest ghost of a smile. "Don't call me sir. Not down there. Down there, we're all just trying to survive."
Then he turned away, giving the order. "Sentinels—ready descent."
The descent began.
Ropes creaked as men and women lowered themselves into the wound that split Caelburn open. The fissure was vast, its sides carved by roots thick as walls, each glimmering faintly with dying mana. The air grew colder with every step downward—not the sharp chill of ice, but a heavy cold that settled in the lungs, as if the dungeon itself was testing their breath.
The torches painted the cavern walls in trembling amber light. What they revealed was… unsettling. The walls weren't stone. They moved, just slightly—rising and falling in a rhythm too slow for comfort. The surface was slick with moisture, smooth in some places, ridged in others like veins under skin. When touched by flame, it shimmered faintly with faint blue lines that pulsed and faded, like something sleeping.
Emi broke the silence, her voice small but clear. "These walls… they look carved."
Altheron studied the patterns, brow furrowed. "No," he murmured. "They look grown."
Kaelmourn's gaze shifted toward the glowing veins. His hand rested on his sword hilt. "Keep your distance. This place isn't dead—it's changing."
Their path wound down into a vast chamber where twisted roots fused with jagged rock, forming archways and bridges that shouldn't exist. The air here shimmered faintly, thick with residue from ancient mana. Bones littered the floor—some human, some not. Helmets lay crushed, swords broken, bodies half-swallowed by the roots as though the ground itself had claimed them.
The Guildmaster knelt beside one of the corpses, brushing dust from its rusted armor. "These aren't from our time," he muttered. "The metalwork's old. Centuries, maybe longer."
Emi crouched near another, tracing a finger along the tarnished insignia on a pauldron. "They weren't killed in battle," she said softly. "They were… absorbed."
The word echoed faintly in the hollow chamber.
Altheron felt something stir deep inside. The air around him seemed to hum, faint but insistent, like a whisper he couldn't quite catch. His fingers moved almost without thought, reaching for the cracked breastplate of one fallen knight.
The moment his skin touched the cold metal—
—the world shifted.
He stood in another age.
The air was blinding, shimmering with raw mana. The cavern's walls pulsed with light, veins of gold and white coursing through living stone. Armored warriors filled the room, shouting orders, blades drawn. They fought against something unseen—something massive, its presence warping the air.
Sparks of magic exploded across the battlefield. A spear of light shattered against a shadow that had no form, no body—only endless darkness. The soldiers screamed, their voices lost to the roar of the earth as roots burst upward, wrapping around them like serpents, dragging them down.
And then came the black miasma.
It poured from a wound in the world—slow, silent, devouring everything it touched. Light dimmed, flesh decayed, armor melted. The brightness of the chamber flickered, and one by one, the warriors vanished into the dark.
The last thing Altheron saw was a single hand reaching toward him—a dying knight's hand—before the shadow surged forward.
A whisper followed. Soft. Familiar.
"Altheron…"
"Althy! Althy!"
He gasped, stumbling back as the vision shattered. The cavern reformed around him—dim, suffocating, alive. Emi knelt beside him, her voice sharp with panic. "Hey! Look at me—what happened?"
He blinked rapidly, disoriented. Sweat clung to his brow. "I… saw something," he managed. "People. Fighting. Then… the darkness."
"Don't say it now," Emi said quickly, though her eyes betrayed fear. "We keep moving."
Her tone was steady, but her knuckles were white where she gripped her bow.
Kaelmourn's gaze flicked to his son. His expression didn't change, but his voice carried quiet tension. "If that vision was real, then this ground remembers more than it should. Keep your guard up."
Altheron nodded, forcing his breathing steady, but his thoughts spiraled. Those soldiers… who were they? And why did that voice know my name?
The group pressed onward, their path sloping deeper into the earth. The torches burned low now, light struggling against a growing darkness that felt almost aware.
Every breath was heavier than the last. Even footsteps sounded wrong—muffled, distant, as if swallowed by the stone.
A rumble vibrated through the walls. Dust fell in lazy spirals from above.
Then came the sound—like grinding stone mixed with a low growl.
From the shadows ahead, countless red glints flared to life. Eyes. Dozens of them. Then hundreds.
Shapes emerged—crawling, skittering, dragging themselves from cracks and holes. Bodies twisted by corruption, limbs bent at wrong angles, jaws split open too wide. Their skin glistened with black ichor, pulsing with veins of faint red light.
Emi drew an arrow, steady despite her shaking hands. "Monsters," she hissed.
The Guildmaster raised his staff. "Formation!"
But before his voice faded, Kaelmourn's command followed—clear, sharp, and unyielding.
"Sentinels! Frontline with me! Support the adventurers—hold the line!"
Steel rang out. Shields locked. Torches flared brighter as lightstones were tossed into the air, scattering pale light across the chamber.
The first wave hit like a flood.
Kaelmourn's blade flashed, cutting through the front line. His movements were practiced, economical—each strike killing cleanly, no wasted motion. Beside him, the Sentinels fought like a wall of iron, their discipline holding even as monsters crashed against their shields.
Altheron moved to the flank, sword singing through the dark. Every swing met flesh, every parry sparked against claw and bone. Yet the creatures kept coming.
Emi's arrows whistled beside him—sharp, precise, unending. Each time a monster lunged for Altheron, another fell with a shaft buried in its eye.
Still, it wasn't enough. For every beast that died, two more crawled from the shadows, shrieking with mindless fury.
The air thickened with the stench of burning ichor and sweat. The ground was slick, trembling with each impact.
Through it all, Altheron felt the pulse again—deeper now, louder, matching the beat of his heart. It throbbed through the floor, through his hands, through the sword itself.
He staggered for half a heartbeat, eyes wide.
It's alive.
Then—amidst the chaos—the voice returned. Soft, ancient, echoing inside his skull rather than his ears:
"The first seal has broken…
The hollow awakens…
Now, let the test begin."
The words bled into his thoughts, heavy as fate.
Then the roar of monsters drowned everything.
Kaelmourn's voice rose again through the chaos, commanding, defiant:
"Hold fast! Don't let them breach the line!"
The Sentinels pressed forward, shields gleaming in the dim light. Altheron felt the heat of the battle, the vibration of steel clashing, the raw weight of survival burning through every nerve.
He raised his sword. The edge caught the flicker of torchlight—like a promise.
And then he moved.
The descent had begun.