Shura Arin was falling.
Not drifting. Not descending.
Falling.
The Eternal Depth screamed around him. Air that should have been empty clawed at his skin, tore at his ears, pressed against his chest like living iron. His body spun wildly, arms and legs useless as the world above dissolved into choking gray mist.
I'm going to die.
The thought cut sharp and simple.
He opened his mouth to scream.
Nothing came.
No sound. No breath.
Only a faint, echoing whisper—etched into his mind.
"Don't fight the air. Flow Viora from your heart."
The Holy Guard's words struck again, cruel, distant, guiding.
Panic surged. His heart thundered. Memories—faces, warmth, laughter—tried to surface but shattered before he could grasp them.
Then… something else.
A familiar warmth.
Always there. Always watching.
Shura clenched his teeth and shut his eyes. If he was going to die, he refused to die screaming.
He reached inward.
The moment he touched it, his chest ignited. Fire poured from his heart, flooding his veins like molten iron. Pain tore through him—yet it felt right, like something long denied had finally been released. The crushing pressure softened. The fall didn't stop—but it resisted, as though the world itself recoiled.
The Void rejected him.
And then, somewhere deep in the gray mist, Shura struck the ground.
Stone exploded beneath him. The impact ripped the breath from his lungs and shattered his thoughts into white-hot pain.
Then—nothing.
Silence.
Shura woke to a quiet so heavy it pressed against his bones.
This wasn't the gentle stillness of the Country of Light. This was suffocating, ancient, unmoving. His body lay sprawled across coarse, ashen moss that crumbled like dead skin beneath his fingers.
Everything hurt.
Breathing felt wrong.
A pale glow pulsed across the land—slow, rhythmic—like the heartbeat of something buried far below the surface.
Where am I…?
"He's awake."
The voice was soft. Careful.
Shura blinked. Four figures emerged from the fog, slowly sharpening into focus.
Warriors.
The first stepped forward—a tall woman. Zenkyou. Lean, coiled with quiet strength, bare hands scarred and steady. Hands that ended lives without hesitation.
"Well," she said, crouching beside him, "that's new. Found you face-first under the mist. Fall from the sky, did you?"
She laughed—loud, fearless.
She didn't know. She couldn't know. Shura hadn't come from anywhere she could imagine, and she certainly didn't know someone lived, hidden, at the Edge. She didn't know the area was restricted. Commoners never came this far. Beyond these rocks and fogs were secrets no one dared speak of.
Behind her, a young man scowled. A massive black sword strapped to his back. The weapon looked impossibly heavy, yet he carried it as if it were nothing.
"Or he's a mutant," he said flatly. "We should leave him."
A girl hovered nearby, faint light trembling around her fingers. Close to Zenkyou, eyes wide—afraid, but curious.
"He doesn't feel hostile," she said softly.
The fourth watched silently. Sharp eyes, calculating. A bow half-drawn, arrow resting on the string—ready to end him if he moved wrong.
Zenkyou studied Shura. "Who are you?" she asked. "And where did you come from?"
Shura tried to answer.
Nothing came.
Not because his throat failed—but because his mind did. The Edge offered no reference, no up, no down. Just fog, endless gray, and a void that swallowed names, faces, memories.
"I…" His voice cracked. "I don't know."
"I don't remember anything."
The swordsman snorted. "Perfect. A broken kid."
The archer's eyes narrowed. "His Viora is unstable. Raw. Like it was torn awake."
Zenkyou's gaze lingered. She had trained for years, faced monsters and disasters, yet something about this boy unsettled her. He was not just broken—he was dangerous in ways she couldn't define.
The Edge stretched forever, but still, Shura felt a presence nearby. Someone—someone living where no one was meant to be. He didn't know who, only that he had passed it in his fall.
Then Zenkyou made her choice.
"Alright, Sky-Boy," she said, gripping his arm. "You're coming with us. The Elders can decide what kind of problem you are."
Shura's legs shook as he stood. Every step felt heavier than the last, the air pressing down like invisible chains.
He looked up.
No sky.
Only a vast ceiling of gray mist.
And for the first time since waking, fear settled deep in his chest.
I fell from the world above… and whatever this place is… it doesn't want me.
The group began moving. Zenkyou led, sword ready, eyes scanning the fog. The archer kept his distance, bow taut, a silent warning to whatever else lingered in the mist. The girl followed closely, her light illuminating the pale glow of moss and stone.
Shura stumbled beside Zenkyou, unsure of how to walk in the alien terrain. The Edge offered no footholds, no clues—just fog and echoing emptiness.
At one point, a shadow flickered at the corner of his vision. Something moved, silently, just beyond reach. He wanted to call out—but fear froze his tongue. Zenkyou noticed nothing. This was not the first time something lived in the restricted Edge, and it would not be the last.
Hours—or perhaps minutes—they walked, though time felt meaningless. The fog thickened, swallowing the path behind them. Every step felt like an intrusion into a world that had survived untouched for centuries.
Shura tried to focus on his heartbeat, the fire of Viora still coursing through him. Each pulse reminded him he was alive, but alive in a place that would reject him if he misstepped.
And always, the Edge loomed—silent, hidden, dangerous.