Five years had passed since Simon purchased the child.
One could not grasp, with any precision, the true shape of the Cursed Continent — it stretched endlessly beneath a sky where no day ever rose.
The land itself breathed in hidden sighs, as if bleeding from wounds too ancient to remember.
What appeared to be terrain — rocks and highlands — turned out to be petrified bodies, titanic beings humbled by time, wrapped in shrouds of forgetting woven by the ages.
Shapes roamed this place, not unexplainable due to their strangeness, but because they defied the very idea of "shape."
Creatures with asymmetries obeying no law, eyes scattered across limbs, their skin flowing like spilled ink in the wind.
Some crawled through the air, emitting a shrill like stone gnawed from within, while others walked on ground that was not ground — fossilized memory.
At the heart of the continent stood a different kind of nightmare...
A metallic one.
There was a black tower — massive, overwhelming — clearly not born of this magical world.
It did not resemble a tower so much as a furious scar stabbing upward, splitting the sky like a mad chisel.
Its height could not be measured; it didn't stop at the horizon — it swallowed it, continuing beyond, into the realm of non-beyond.
Its surface twisted, melted, was reborn — every stone cursed, murmuring lost invocations from peoples not yet created.
Then came a sound — unexpected, from somewhere not far.
Not a scream, nor the echo of battle — but the chime of a massacre, where the moan of metal wove with whispers of old spells erased from the tomes of even the Holy Magicians.
Beneath the tower stood seven shadows.
They were human.
One wore remnants of time, writing spells into the air, making existence itself wretch.
Another wore a living cloak, pulsing and weeping, warning the dreamers of its true name.
A third spoke in silence — and each word split the mental crust of any who listened.
Before them...
The machine emerged.
An unborn entity — un-dead, illogical. Or perhaps governed by logic too advanced to comprehend.
It walked on multiple limbs, ending in implements once seen in ancient eras as symbols of torment, yet here they moved alone, held by no hand.
Its face was a rotating disc, its features shifting too fast to follow — gods extinct, heroes fallen, victims of wars yet to happen.
And when it spoke, the ground trembled — not from thunder, but from memory.
The battle began.
Magic burst like flashes of recollection, striking a body immune to law.
One of the magicians soared into the sky, raised her arms — gravity reversed: "Gravity now pulls upward."
The machine lost balance, shot into the heavens, crashing into the planet's watery dome.
Another magician struck swiftly, launching columns of light in overwhelming numbers.
The machine fell like a comet, shaking the earth as if it coughed from its depths.
One shadow did not wait — he leapt, cloak opening into a maw of eyes.
At his gesture, the cloak released a wave of temporary nightmares — blasts of energy forcing the foe to endure ten seconds of their worst scenario: falling, burning, total system failure.
The machine froze — its systems reeling to regain equilibrium.
In that moment, the one who wrote in air carved circular glyphs, tore them into a spiral in his palm, and hurled them.
They struck like vanishing bombs, each erasing part of the metal structure on impact.
The machine retaliated.
Limbs stretched out, transforming into magical interference devices.
As soon as they activated, nearby spells crumbled — as if they had never been cast.
The shadows were forced to retreat.
Suddenly, one of them sprinted forward and struck the ground with his palm, forming a zone around the machine — a "null field" where no power could function.
The machine halted, its limbs momentarily disabled.
But it turned its head into a holographic cannon and fired a beam that reverted matter to its primal state — stone to sand, metal to vapor, even air to raw elements.
The blast swept an entire perimeter, disintegrating one shadow to the bone before another pulled him out.
The magician who had inverted gravity regained control over the laws of physics — she warped time around the machine into localized slowness.
Its every move now dragged like walking through the mud of time.
Taking this rare window, the final magician forged a spear of compressed light — not just energy, but broken light: waves trapped within a self-gravitational field.
He hurled the spear into the machine's chest. It pierced — and ignited an internal explosion.
The machine screamed — a reverberation that shattered stone and hurled the shadows back.
But it was slower now... limbs unraveling, its body collapsing.
The first magician raised his hand and said:
"The next blow... will go beyond any known magic."
He drew a real sword — solid, metallic — and leapt toward the dying machine.
With a single strike, he pierced its heart — a core of unbearably compressed energy — and the place erupted in a flash of searing blue.
The seven gathered around the blast site.
The magician hit by the cannon was still struggling to awaken.
One spoke:
"What was that thing? I've never seen a magical golem like it before."
The sorceress stepped forward, revealing her face in the sudden silence.
A dim light revealed features sculpted with precision: skin like polished ivory, eyes like liquid emerald, gaze mesmerizing.
Long lashes added depth, a fine nose, and lips the color of ripe berries hinted at veiled sorcery.
Prominent cheekbones and gleaming dark hair completed the vision.
She looked no older than her twenties.
She replied:
"Polydeux is right... That thing was powerful — but more than that, it entered the planet without detection, without even triggering the Holy Magicians' first alarm."
The other magicians followed, revealing themselves.
Castor
Castor's face bore the marks of time clearly—deep wrinkles around the eyes and forehead told of long years of concentration and tireless labor.
His sunken eyes were sharp, focused, intelligent, framed by thick white eyebrows that intensified his piercing gaze.
A hooked nose gave him a stern appearance, and his straight lips rarely smiled or relaxed.
His sparse white hair scattered over a broad forehead, and though his body showed signs of age, it still held a firm posture and a commanding presence.
Polydeuces
Polydeuces had a young, vibrant face—round, with flawless, soft skin.
His bright yellow hair fluttered wildly over his bare forehead, giving him a rebellious look.
His wide eyes shimmered with curiosity and constant motion, rarely resting on anything for long.
He often smiled, and his wide grin added a touch of mischief and cheer to his appearance.
His clothes reflected his personality: either vivid and flashy or neatly unkempt, as if appearance were an afterthought.
Lynceus
Lynceus had refined, symmetrical features that rarely betrayed emotion, yet suggested a calm intellect and quiet confidence.
His brown eyes focused intently, weighing everything they saw.
His lips were straight, barely shifting even in conversation.
His dark hair was short and always neatly kept, maintaining a clean, orderly appearance.
His overall look was simple and practical, like someone who avoided noise and preferred to focus on what truly mattered.
Zetes
Zetes had an ordinary, familiar face—but one that was pleasant to look at.
His medium-sized brown eyes gazed calmly and confidently, devoid of tension or challenge.
His nose and mouth were in harmony, and his expression often bore a gentle smile.
His brown hair was of moderate length, styled practically, reflecting little concern for vanity.
Everything about him conveyed a balanced personality, easy to approach and quickly trusted.
Calais
Calais had a commanding presence that couldn't be ignored.
His features were sharp and angular, and his pale blue eyes carried a haughty stare.
His nose was straight, and his mouth, usually sealed by tight lips, seemed unfamiliar with smiling.
His white hair was meticulously styled, reflecting a fastidious attention to detail and appearance.
His lavish garments were always clean and finely tailored, as if everything about him insisted on distinction.
Ancaeus
Ancaeus was a man of few words, and his face reflected that near-total absence of expression.
His skin was pale, and his gray eyes stared blankly, revealing little.
His lips were thin and seldom moved, and his dark hair was slicked back in an orderly fashion.
His dark clothes were devoid of ornament, echoing a withdrawn nature and a desire to avoid attention.
His presence was quiet and observant, preferring the shadows.
Zetes spoke with hesitant uncertainty:
"Uh… I think it might be… some advanced alien technology? Maybe… robotic beings… targeting Earth?"
Castor scoffed with sarcastic disdain:
"Alien robots, you fool? You really think that magicians whose very names shake mountains would concern themselves with metal scraps pretending to mimic life?"
Then, with chilling finality:
"I struggle to imagine the depth of ignorance needed to believe minds like ours could be distracted by tin toys that lost their way."
Polydeuces, brimming with provocation:
"So, you rigid old man—what do you suggest instead?"
"I'm not entirely certain," he admitted, "but these things… they may be tied to something greater. Something complex enough to unsettle even those Holy Magicians."
Calais sneered:
"Something… that worries the Holy Magicians? Utter nonsense. I never thought I'd hear such idiocy. The Holy Magicians are the pinnacle of existence in this cosmos. Nothing could possibly frighten them. That's naive fantasy."
Quietly, contemplatively, Lynceus gazed at the tower:
"There's no doubt strange things are happening here. That machine… it was guarding this tower. And the tower itself… seems to be losing power. Maybe the machine's weakening is linked to the tower's decay. Stranger still..."
He paused.
"…The tower distorts the fabric of reality itself, in ways I can't even begin to understand. And the effect isn't limited to Earth… it stretches beyond, into every facet of reality."
Ancaeus concluded:
"We'll discuss this later. We need to return to the continent for the meeting."
A searing flash struck the earth—like a second sun exploding in the heart of night.
In an instant, the magicians vanished from their positions, and the world recoiled around them.
They found themselves in a vast hall, shrouded in darkness.
Only a narrow spot of light beneath their feet remained, as if darkness itself had allowed them a sliver of existence.
Then, from the walls of the void, emerged seven colossal shadows.
Majestic. Dormant. Their outlines danced at the edge of perception, as if they were concepts rather than beings.
Above each one, a blazing sigil burned—glowing like the heart of a living ember.
Yet behind them all, something stirred.
A towering shadow, breaking the scale of the room, looming over all. Even space itself bowed to its presence.
It had no clear form—only a mass of dread that breathed.
Its voice roared like a subterranean beast:
"Have you completed the task…?"
The magicians fell to their knees in unison, their bodies bending toward the ground as if gravity had multiplied.
Ancaeus, their leader, spoke in a steady voice tinged with tremor:
"Yes, my great lord. The task is done, as you commanded."
The supreme shadow paused, freezing time in its presence, then spoke again—slower, deeper, with crushing weight:
"The group calling itself Saharim… has woven threads into the western continent. What unfolds there is no accident. Something is forming in the dark."
Ancaeus raised his head slightly, cautiously:
"We are still piercing the layers of truth, my lord. The evidence is scarce, but we have detected unusual movements within the inner atlas.
There seems to be a force attempting to reshape the ancient magical structures.
The Saharim may merely be its surface."
Silence.
The shadows remained still, but the air grew heavier—breaths began to clot in it.
Then came a whisper from one of the flaming sigils:
"If your judgment is wrong, the consequences will not be limited to this world alone."
Ancaeus replied without lifting his gaze:
"We understand, my lord. And we will find the truth… or die seeking it."
Another shadow spoke:
"There is another tower in the continent of the Alomaryanians… It is causing weakness."
Lynceus stepped forward.
"The towers, my lord… are not what they seem. They're exposure.
Data distorts around them.
Physics repeats incorrectly.
Time stutters.
Chronozones collapse as if they were never born.
Stories ignite from within and rot into meaningless signs.
Creatures from distant continents appear and vanish in the same instant.
Places redefine themselves every second.
No logic. No anchor.
The structure slides.
Event sequences writhe like dead insects.
Every attempt at understanding… repeats the mistake.
Interpretation only deepens the confusion.
Everything seems to remember something else.
And we are trapped inside it.
An untracked error.
Unisolatable.
Irreparable.
We are the broken part now."
A shadow snapped back:
"So, you're saying we should do nothing?
The wrath of the Holy Magicians is not something you can manage.
Your task is to obey."
The great shadow pronounced:
"Like the tower from the Wasted Continent… you will destroy the tower in the land of the Alomaryanians."
With those final words—and in a terrifying blink—the veil of reality tore like a rotting shroud.
A presence entered, unseen.
No whisper, no warning—just a creeping, eternal weight that slithered into the chamber.
In the next instant, all things froze in dreadful stillness.
Time coagulated mid-beat.
Eyes locked in fractured space.
Even memory ceased to recall the past.
Then, everything began to melt—not in fire or flood, but in a strange, unholy dissolution of matter and story.
As if core concepts themselves were spilling into a void.
A silent noise stormed the place—not heard by mortal ears, but known deep in the soul, as death is understood without explanation.
The hall ceased to be a place.
It became an abstract sensation.
From solid geometry to cosmic entropy.
Only the entity remained—defined by no earthly boundary.
It didn't speak, yet all knew what it desired:
"Do nothing to the tower in the floating continent."
Then everything returned to what it was.
As the strange presence faded, one of the shadows spoke:
"You may leave now, shadows."
The magicians stepped back and vanished into the dark—uncertain of what they were meant to do next.