A procession could be seen making its way across the forest floor. Had any uninformed individual found themselves nearby, they would have assumed they had stumbled upon some manner of cult.
Each member of the procession wore a grey cloak, black edging visible along the hem and hood. The hoods were drawn low, shielding their faces from the sunlight, and even if someone were foolish enough to forcefully remove one of the cloaks, they would find nothing beneath but a dark, featureless mask. No eyes. No mouth. Nothing human.
The group eventually reached their destination. Three figures broke away from the main body and advanced toward another group already present in the area. From the measured cadence of their steps alone, one could sense arrogance—veiled superiority seeping through every movement—further amplifying the unsettling atmosphere created by their attire.
"Good afternoon. It is a pleasure to meet you."
The individual standing at the centre spoke, his voice carrying a peculiar quality—precise, controlled, almost mechanical.
He was clearly the leader. His stature suggested a middle-aged individual, likely male, though the mask made certainty impossible.
The girl inclined her head slightly, her expression composed yet alert."The pleasure is ours," she replied smoothly, her tone formal, bordering on ceremonious. "The Scriptorium, after all, honours our request."
A brief pause followed—heavy, deliberate, as though the air itself was holding its breath. Then, with a faint lift of her chin, she continued, impatience threading through her otherwise calm voice.
"We are short on time. Please begin the necessary procedures to seal the corrupted zone."
The man nodded once, sharply, and motioned to the figures flanking him. They moved immediately, each step deliberate and efficient, like components of a well-oiled machine.
As the procedures commenced, the group retrieved a variety of instruments and devices, each more intricate than the last. One object in particular drew the officials' attention—a bronze globe mounted on a circular stand, its surface engraved with countless fine markings. It radiated an almost oppressive sense of antiquity, yet beneath that weight of age, a subtle thrum of latent energy could be felt.
The leader noticed their curiosity and smiled faintly.
"It appears you are unfamiliar with the procedures being conducted," he said mildly. "New recruits?"
"No," she responded without hesitation. "I've worked with your people before. This is simply my first time encountering this apparatus."
"I see." He nodded. "This device is called the Etheon. Its function is to measure the concentration of ether in the air, determine the percentage that has been darkened or corrupted, and assess the degree of degradation. From this, it calculates the grade and magnitude of the anomaly."
"A fascinating contraption," she murmured, nodding appreciatively at the complexity hidden beneath its surface. Internally, however, she suspected the device was far more advanced than what the general corps had been informed of. That realization only deepened her admiration for its creators.
As they spoke, the operators positioned the Etheon at the centre of the chamber. With practiced precision, they activated it.
The globe split apart smoothly, its surface unfolding like metallic petals. From its core rose a delicate, clock-like mechanism. The face was marked with levels ranging from 1 to 5, further subdivided into increments—1.0, 1.1, 1.2, and so on. Beyond that lay a crimson section, marked simply with numbers 6 and above, devoid of finer gradation.
"Beginning readings," one of the technicians announced.
The needle began its slow ascent, stabilizing between 2.8 and 2.9—well within the acceptable range for a standard sealing operation.
Then, without warning, it surged.
The apparatus groaned. The metallic petals trembled violently, as though resisting an unseen pressure. Sharp clicks and strained whirs echoed through the chamber as the needle leapt past the upper threshold, slamming to a halt between 6.0 and 7.0.
A collective breath was drawn.
Hands froze. Eyes widened.
For the briefest instant, the leader's composure cracked. His voice, usually immaculate in its precision, wavered.
"A malfunction?" he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
He glanced at the girl, then ordered a repeat of the readings, all while subtly stepping back. Hidden within his pocket, his fingers tightened around a talisman.
They repeated the procedure.
The result was the same.
The needle oscillated violently between 5.0 and 7.0.
The leader's expression soured. He turned toward the officials, intent on speaking—but the woman cut in first.
"Is there a problem?"
A problem?
A problem!?
Your mother.
You sent a Tier 2 Formation disciple to handle a Tier 5 Formation Grandmaster-level anomaly. What was this—assisted suicide?
The man's face flushed red with barely contained rage. He had gone to extraordinary lengths to acquire the Observer Globe—also known as the Echeon. Pulled connections. Owed favors. And in the end, all he had managed to obtain was a replica.
A replica.
All for what he thought would be a mildly challenging job.
Who could have known that the so-called "hard assignment" wouldn't even come close to this monstrosity—something that might as well have had his name engraved on a ready-made gravestone?
Seal it?
No.
This was more like being invited to a final supper.
He sneered at the two Night Wyng officials."You want me to seal this with an active formation?"
"Is that not possible?" the man asked, confusion written plainly on his face. The woman, already grasping the implications, remained silent. At this point, sealing the zone felt like wishful thinking.
"Actually," the leader said slowly, "it is. Very easy, in fact."
That only deepened their confusion.
"In fact," he continued, ignoring their baffled expressions, "just summon the leader of the Scriptorium. He could purge it outright rather than seal it."
Ridicule flashed through his eyes.
The two officials shuddered.
The leader of the Scriptorium?
That was courting death.
That deranged monster would probably use them as test subjects before resolving the situation—and if questioned, who would even dare complain? The man was a walking calamity.
"So now what?" the woman asked, unease creeping into her voice. If she had known her "field experience" would escalate to this level, she would have happily stayed wherever her father had stationed her.
"Good question. Wait here."
The leader hurried back to his team, issuing rapid orders. Equipment was hastily packed away, causing the officials to briefly suspect abandonment—nearly prompting curses directed at the old geezer.
Fortunately, new instruments were deployed, and further tests were conducted. Hours passed.
Eventually, the leader returned, his expression grim.
"The source of the corruption," he said at last, "does not appear to possess life."
The two officials had slumped against one another, exhaustion overwhelming them. His words jolted them awake.
"I repeat," he said dryly, eyeing them. "The entity causing the corruption does not have life."
Couldn't they stand for a few hours? he wondered. The more he observed them, the more they gave off the unmistakable aura of rookies.
"I recommend we await higher-level personnel," he continued. "I'll notify the appropriate authorities. The emitter must be addressed. While it lacks life, it may awaken something else—or attract it. We will establish a passive barricade to isolate the entrance without alerting anything within."
"I thought you said you couldn't seal it," Mila said suspiciously.
"I am not sealing it," he snapped.
He exhaled sharply. "Newbies."
Now he was certain—especially about the man. Absolute country bumpkins. Didn't even know basic seal classifications.
"Seals fall into several categories," he explained begrudgingly. "Those that prevent exit, and those that bar entry—locks and wards. Each can further be classified as active or passive."
He paused, gauging their understanding. The suited man looked lost. The girl, at least, seemed to follow.
"Active seals carry the highest risk," he continued. "An active lock is the most dangerous. A passive ward is the safest. There are intermediary forms, but we don't have time."
"So… a passive ward?" Mila asked.
He nodded. "It will function as an alarm and restrict entry from low-tier entities—3.0 and below. I'll provide the necessary equipment. However," he added flatly, "I'll require additional payment. I came prepared for a 2.9 anomaly, not this. A 3.0 setup consumes far more resources."
"That's only a 0.1 difference," she protested. "How can it be that expensive?"
The man stared at them, then spat on the ground.
"Go back to school."