Eduardo
Hillmont hotel
Reno city, Nexia Region
Kingdom of Ashtarium
North America Continent
November 15th 6414
I was left to rest in the chamber, the quiet humming of machinery barely masking the dull ache throbbing through my body. Greta had departed after instructing me to conserve my strength. Plates of food were brought in alongside a flask of synthblood—thick, dark, and metallic. My appetite, however, remained elusive. I forced down the synthblood to dull the gnawing hunger, and nibbled at a few bites of the food, though the flavors felt distant, as if my senses were draped in fog.
It wasn't long before Greta returned, her footsteps crisp against the floor, echoing like steady drumbeats. In her hand, cradled with careful intent, was a glowing orb—greenish-blue, pulsing with a quiet, almost aquatic luminance. She raised it slightly, and the air shifted around her, charged with cultivation energy.
"If you're going to where the Princess is," Greta said, her voice low and firm, "you'll need to be at full strength. Use this to cultivate. Let it elevate your Realm tier."
I was in the Master Realm as a body cultivator, but only barely—my tier rested within the lower stratum, far from the peak resonance a true Master should embody. My mana core, though stable, had yet to crystallize into its full potential. It pulsed with untapped promise, but lacked the density and refinement that marked ascendant strength.
When Greta extended the orb to me, I took it with both hands, studying it in silence. The mana stone shimmered faintly—a cultivated jewel of concentrated spirit energy. I could sense its quality immediately: the energy within was refined, potent, and rich enough to push me beyond my current limits. A rare catalyst, no doubt secured with great effort.
Even as fatigue clung to my bones and grief lingered like a shadow—Carmen and Jose's faces refusing to leave my mind—I knew the path ahead demanded more from me. There was no room to stall. No space for mourning. My mission hadn't ended with their deaths. If anything, it had only grown heavier.
I had left the Southern Continent for a reason. Crossed treacherous borders, endured losses I hadn't imagined, and arrived in this damned nation chasing a thread of fate I no longer understood—but still couldn't abandon.
"Thank you," I said softly.
Greta offered a single nod in return, then slipped from the room without another word.
I rose from the bed with slow purpose and moved to the corner of the chamber designed for cultivation. A small alcove, quiet and shielded, with a sun-carved pad at its center. I sat in the lotus stance, spine straight, breathing deep and steadying the chaos within me. The mana stone rested in my palm, warm and vibrating with potential. Closing my eyes, I let my soul core stretch outward, its tendrils brushing against the outer shell of the stone. The connection clicked. Like a key in a lock.
Then it began—my soul core began siphoning the spirit energy, pulling it inward with methodical hunger. The energy flowed like liquid fire through my meridians, saturating my core, feeding the inner furnace of my cultivation. And though my body remained still, unmoving, within me a storm was rising.
It didn't take long for me to siphon the energy from the orb, drawing every last strand of cultivated spirit essence into my soul core and mana core. My soul core, already brimming from past breakthroughs, accepted the energy passively—its capacity long since matured as a Master. But it was my mana core that drank most eagerly, swelling with the influx, refining itself toward the next tier. I could feel it condensing, hardening, approaching the crystallized state of a true Master—one step closer to bridging the divide between mastery and true ascendancy.
When the last trace of energy had faded, I allowed myself a moment to breathe, the exhaustion giving way to a quiet calm. I stepped into the shower, letting hot water wash over me, cleansing not just the grime, but the weight of my recent trials. By the time I emerged, steam trailing from my skin, a set of clothes awaited me.
It was a formal black suit—sharp, elegant, tailored from mana-reactive fabric that shimmered subtly under the light. Expensive. Refined. A symbol of status. It hugged the form with gentle precision, enchanted stitching reinforcing it with defensive enchantments and mana conductivity.
After dressing and grooming, I stood before the mirror. My silver hair was smooth again, neatly combed. The rough, weathered look from wandering the Saltlands had vanished, leaving behind something closer to who I once was. I looked... whole. Or at least, like I could pretend to be. For the first time in weeks, I didn't feel like a walking ruin.
Greta appeared just as I adjusted the collar. She studied me, sharp eyes flicking over my appearance. I stood straighter under her gaze—not in defiance, but instinctively. Her presence demanded it.
My usual arrogance, the quiet edge I carried as armor, flickered into place—but dulled. We were not equals. Greta was a true Ascendant, and the gap between us was still a chasm.
Without a word, she raised a hand and channeled her mana through a single fingertip. A soft hum filled the room as a swirling vortex of energy coalesced in midair, a perfect spiral of spatial magic. Then, it opened—a gateway. Beyond the vortex, space bent and unfolded, revealing a corridor to another location entirely—clear, steady, stable. The kind of spell only a master of dimensional magic could perform with such ease. My eyes widened at the casual display. To her, folding space was as simple as breathing.
"This way," she said.
I nodded, stepping in behind her. The portal shimmered as we crossed the threshold, and the world shifted. In a blink, the room we had been in vanished behind us. A new place greeted me—one entirely different, unfamiliar, and filled with purpose.
We emerged into a forest of towering pines and frost-kissed evergreens, their silhouettes jagged against a silver-gray sky. The air shifted immediately—crisp, biting, and saturated with the scent of damp earth and snow-laced wind. A stark contrast to the mana-soaked warmth of the chamber we had just left. Here, the world felt older, quieter, as if the land itself had secrets it refused to share.
I turned slowly, taking in our surroundings. The trees stretched far in all directions, their trunks thick with age, bark wrapped in patches of moss and ice. Even the light was different—muted, almost filtered—as if the sun struggled to pierce the dense canopy overhead. The wind carried a chill that bit through my mana-lined suit.
"It's colder here…" I murmured, narrowing my eyes against the breeze. "Much colder than Nexia."
"Where are we?" I asked, glancing toward Greta.
"The Northern Isle Region," she replied, her tone calm but alert. "Vankar Island, specifically. There's a town nearby. Known for—"
"Dungeon raiding," I cut in, realization striking like a spark. "This is where she is."
Greta inclined her head. "Yes. She's here."
She didn't need to say who—we both knew. The weight in her voice confirmed it.
Her gaze drifted outward, scanning the trees with practiced awareness. I followed her eyes, but it took me a few seconds longer to register the shift in the air—the subtle pressure that announced the arrival of others.
They appeared in a blur, stepping out from between the trees with the grace of phantoms. At least half a dozen figures, their movements precise, calculated. They wore long black coats, each embroidered with faint sigils that pulsed with mana, the kind that marked affiliation and authority. Their presence radiated quiet dominance.
Elite operatives.
I recognized them immediately—members of the Dungeon Association. Their reputation preceded them: hunters, raiders, specialists in the unpredictable chaos of Dungeons. Every one of them was a seasoned cultivator, trained to survive and adapt within ever-changing domains.
They didn't speak at first. They simply stood, forming a loose semi-circle around us, not threatening, but not exactly welcoming either.
One stepped forward, the silver clasp on their collar marking them as a Commander-class operative.
"Thornhill is restricted for now," the Commander said, his voice firm but measured. "Outsiders aren't permitted within ten miles of the town's perimeter. Dungeon activity has spiked—we're under full lockdown."
Before I could respond, Greta reached into the folds of her coat and retrieved a small badge. She held it up, letting the light strike its surface. The metallic sigil shimmered under the pale sunlight, revealing intricate etchings that pulsed faintly with mana. The moment the symbol became visible, the change in the air was immediate. The operatives stiffened. A gasp rippled through their ranks.
"Ta'valur," the Commander breathed, taking a half-step back in reverent shock.
My eyes widened.
Ta'valur.
Even spoken softly, the word carried weight. It was Fey-tongue—ancient, precise. It meant Disciple. Not a student, not a subordinate—but a chosen second. One who stood just beneath a Paragon.
The implications struck hard.
The title of Ta'valur wasn't given lightly. It was reserved for those who had proven themselves as irreplaceable to a Paragon, not only in strength, but in wisdom, will, and unwavering loyalty. Ta'valur stood among the upper echelons of the Ranger Association—the shadow network of elite operatives formed by the Paragons themselves. They were enforcers of balance, guardians of peace across borders, and the first to respond to world-level threats.
And Greta was one of them.
The revelation settled heavily in my chest. No wonder her presence always felt composed, untouchable. She wasn't just an Ascendant—she was the right hand of a Paragon.
The Commander quickly adjusted his stance, bowing slightly. "Forgive my ignorance. You and your companion are free to proceed. We'll notify the town ahead."
Greta gave a curt nod, sliding the badge back into her coat. "We won't be long."
I glanced at her, the question burning behind my lips—but I said nothing. Not yet. For now, I followed. There was more to Greta than I had ever imagined—and wherever we were heading, the stakes had just risen.
We moved past the operatives in silence, the forest swallowing their presence as quickly as it had revealed them. Greta led the way, her steps sure, mine measured—each footfall stirring brittle leaves and frost-bitten grass. The closer we drew to Thornhill, the heavier the air seemed to grow, as if the land itself bore the weight of recent horrors.
The town emerged at the edge of the woods, its outer wall of stone and mana-reinforced timber marred with deep gouges, charred scars, and patches hastily repaired by magic or crude workmanship. Thornhill had once been a beacon for Dungeon raiders—a thriving settlement of adventurers, merchants, and craftsmen. Now, it felt like a husk struggling to remember its former vitality.
The streets were quiet. Too quiet.
Days had passed since the massacre, yet the air still carried the stench of burnt wood and blood, mingling with the ever-present chill. Smoke stains blackened rooftops; entire sections of buildings lay in ruin—collapsed under the weight of destruction or hastily dismantled in search of survivors. Craters pocked the cobbled lanes, the remnants of spells cast in desperation.
I could see the townsfolk, scattered like ghosts among the debris. Men and women worked with hollow eyes, clearing rubble, repairing what they could. Their movements were mechanical, driven less by hope and more by necessity. Children clung to the skirts of their mothers, wide-eyed and silent, their innocence stolen by the nightmare that had unfolded here.
We passed a shrine at a crossroads—once vibrant with offerings to the local guardian spirit, now darkened, its effigies shattered. The remnants of blood rites lingered at its base, attempts at protection that had come too late.
"This wasn't just a Dungeon outbreak," I muttered, my voice low. "Something else hit this place."
Greta said nothing, but the tightness in her expression spoke volumes.
As we moved deeper into Thornhill, the true scope of the massacre revealed itself—rows of charred pyres at the edge of the square, where the bodies of the fallen had been burned to stave off rot and worse. Ashes swirled in the breeze, mingling with the frost. Symbols of warding and purification had been carved into walls and thresholds, some still glowing faintly, as if barely holding back the residue of whatever had torn through this town.
And yet, despite the devastation, Thornhill endured. There was no surrender here, only grim resolve—a town standing on fractured legs, daring the world to try again. I turned to face Greta, unable to hold back the question that had been burning inside me since we entered the shattered town.
"Tell me—what really happened here?" I asked, my voice low, edged with unease. Before she could answer, another voice cut through the stillness, smooth but laced with irritation.
"There was a Beast Horde."
I spun, instinct tightening my posture, as a vampire strode toward us, flanked by a retinue of silent figures clad in dark cloaks. His presence carried the weight of authority, but his gaze—cold and sharp as a blade—spoke of annoyance rather than welcome. His crimson eyes glimmered with suspicion, the kind reserved for interlopers.
"Why did the Association allow you passage?" he demanded, stopping a few paces away. His tone made no attempt to conceal his displeasure. "Thornhill is off-limits, by decree. No outsiders are permitted at this time."
Greta didn't flinch. Her expression remained calm—aloof, even. "I don't care for repeating myself," she said flatly, her voice carrying the subtle weight of command. "If you take issue with our presence, speak to the Association yourself, Mayor Vikram."
Before he could respond, she reached out, resting a firm hand on my shoulder. There was no warning, no incantation that I could hear—just the sudden shift of space.
In an instant, the world blurred, and we vanished from that square of ash and ruin.
When reality settled again, we stood before a gated estate at the town's edge. The iron gates, rusted and battered by age, framed a path leading up to a sprawling mansion that might once have been grand. Now, it stood like a forgotten relic—its walls weathered, shutters crooked, and rooflines sagging under decades of neglect. The forest pressed close behind it, dark and encroaching, as if waiting for the estate to surrender and be claimed.
"This is the place," Greta said quietly, as the chill wind whispered through the trees. I stared at the mansion, unease coiling in my gut. Whatever lay beyond those gates, I could feel its weight already.