A searing white light carved a wound through the sky, visible even to those who did not believe in gods. It rose like a lance from the cracked scar of Gehenna's southern frontier—where the Abyss once pulsed like an exposed nerve of the world.
For the first time in decades, it was silent.
Then came the reports.
From soldiers manning the old watchposts: "The Abyss is gone."
From mages stationed at the perimeter: "The mana storm collapsed inward. Something changed."
And from spies hidden within Gehenna's capital:
"A man walked out. Alone."
But none of those were the first messages to reach the world. The first came in a single phrase, sent by every agent stationed near the crater's edge:
"The Abyss is stirring."
That phrase, despite its simplicity, threw the known world into motion.
Across the globe, reaction was swift.
In the gilded war rooms of empire-states and fractured thrones, spymasters and archivists parsed and revised contingency plans in real time. Orders were dispatched to their operatives across the continent:
"Deploy more agents to Gehenna."
"Send peace offerings—gold, knowledge, heirs."
"Find out what caused the change. And who."
Every nation knew the Abyss was never something to be solved. It was to be contained.
But now—something had solved it.
Far to the north, in the crystal-laden deathfields of Arath Kael, where the blood of barbarian legions froze before it touched the snow, the echoes of battle had only just faded.
Isolde stood amidst a massacre. Her breath came slow, misting in the glacial air, but there wasn't a single blemish on her white armor. The legendary longsword Frostmourn hummed in her hand like a living creature, newly awakened. Fragments of corrupted frost giants littered the field.
A few dozen paces behind her, the towering figure of her father—Daemos, the former Lord of Frost—watched her with something nearing reverence.
"You've fully attuned to Frostmourn now," he said, voice low and even, though pride laced every word. "Your control over the Glacial Blade… what I wielded in my prime feels like a child's toy in comparison."
Isolde turned slightly, eyes pale blue and glowing faintly. "As your heir apparent, it's only natural."
Daemos raised a brow. "There are only two of us. It's not a dynasty."
"I'm the current Lord of Frost. It would be unbecoming not to speak properly."
He huffed. "You really are better suited for this than me."
He reached into his coat and handed her a sealed letter—stamped with the sigil of the Frost Archives, opened in haste. As she read, her gaze sharpened, lips tightening into a smirk.
"It's him, isn't it?" Daemos asked, already knowing the answer.
"If it is…" She slid Frostmourn back into its sheath, the snow recoiling from its edge. "I want a rematch."
Far to the west, across the scorched expanses of the Ash Desert, a dark obsidian citadel jutted from the earth like the molar of some dead god. Inside, the throne room echoed with booming, belly-deep laughter.
On a throne carved from blackstone and volcanic glass, sat a woman built like a war titan. Broad-shouldered, tusked, with emerald-green skin that shimmered with battle tattoos, Nara of the Ashfang Clan roared with uncontained glee.
"Do you think it truly is him?" asked an old orc elder nearby. His back was bent with age, and his ceremonial robes were singed from a recent trial fire.
Nara leaned forward, her teeth flashing. "Of course it's him. Who else builds a god-killing forge, survives death traps with sarcasm, and falls into the Abyss by accident?"
Her eyes sparkled with feral delight. "He's probably forged something ridiculous again. Something the factions can't buy. That's what I'm looking forward to—watching them writhe when they realize he's priceless."
The old orc shook his head, muttering, "Spirits help me. What have I made of my granddaughter?"
"Perfection," she replied, still grinning.
In the southern wilds, the air thick with wet mist and the call of duskbirds, a circle of Ilvaar warriors sat in solemn silence. They were deep in the Jhal'Rath glades, surrounded by whispering trees.
At the circle's edge, seated between a resting dire wolf, a panther, and a horned Rheno, was a man whose feline tail flicked lazily through the grass. Jhaeros of the Silent Hunt, hunter-turned-guide, didn't speak until spoken to.
One of his tribesmen, bones and feathers adorning their robes, finally asked what all had wondered:
"Jhaeros... do you not fear for him? The path ahead is shadowed by death."
Jhaeros stared into the trees. "I do not fear for him," he said, tail twitching once. "I fear for what dares to stand in his way."
The animals beside him rumbled low with shared sentiment.
And in the stone-and-steam city of Meser, amidst its copper-slicked rooftops and waterwheels turning lazily through canals, Garrick Ironvein stared at the distant light across the sky.
He stood on his balcony, cleaning out his old adventuring satchel.
"I hope he's not doing anything weird," he muttered to himself.
Then he sighed, realizing who he was talking about.
"...Right. Of course he is."
He slung the satchel over his shoulder and called down to his assistant. "Send word to the Guild. I'll be gone for a few weeks. Tell them if they touch my forge, I'll burn their eyebrows off."
The world had changed the moment the Abyss had opened.
Now, it changed again—because something had closed it.
And those who knew Kalem… weren't surprised in the slightest.