The jungle grew darker the deeper Laine walked. Even though it was only late evening, the trees bent so close together that almost no moonlight touched the ground. The air was thick, heavy, carrying with it the faint cries of beasts and the whispers of restless spirits. Each step felt like it was sinking deeper into another world—a world cut off from the living.
Behind the mask, Laine's breath was steady, but his eyes glowed faintly red, alert to every movement. He knew what this place was. The mask had whispered it to him, guiding him forward.
A graveyard.
Hidden deep inside the forest, surrounded by twisted trees and layers of mist, lay an ancient burial ground. Dozens of crooked gravestones jutted from the soil like broken teeth, their surfaces cracked and half-buried in moss. The air here wasn't just heavy—it was suffocating, filled with the stale pressure of countless unfulfilled souls.
The mask pulsed suddenly, its voice low, echoing inside Laine's skull.
"It is time… you've taken much, but only from the weak. Here, in this place, the energy is rich. Take it. Break the chains of weakness. Rise."
Laine stopped in front of the first row of graves. His hand tightened on the Berserker Sword's hilt. "So this is it, huh? Spirit Tier…"
"Yes," the mask hissed. "But it comes with pain. To walk forward, you must endure what others cannot. You must drink poison and make it wine."
Laine smirked faintly beneath the mask. "Pain's nothing new to me."
The ground trembled. A red glow spread across the cracks of the graves, and a chilling wind whipped through the jungle. One by one, the gravestones began to hum, a hollow, ghostly sound.
And then—it began.
From the earth itself, black streams of energy rose like smoke. Souls. Negative energy, hatred, grief, all twisted together. They shot straight toward Laine, pulled by the mask's hunger. His body jerked as the first wave hit him, the force of it slamming into his chest like burning ice.
"Gh—!" His teeth clenched, but he didn't fall. His veins lit up black, glowing faintly beneath his skin as the foreign energy fought to invade his body.
The mask urged him on.
"Don't resist. Let it burn through you. Suffer, but do not fall. This is your trial."
Laine dropped to one knee, the soil beneath him cracking as his aura flared wildly. The graveyard itself groaned, as if resenting his presence. Shadows of figures—spirits long dead—flickered in the mist, their hollow eyes fixed on him.
Every second was agony. His bones felt like they were splitting, his heart thundered as though it would burst, and his very soul screamed.
Still, he endured.
"More… give me more!" Laine growled, dragging the Berserker Sword into the ground to steady himself. His body shook violently, yet his will refused to break.
The energy surged, filling every corner of his being. Then—suddenly—it snapped.
Like chains breaking, something inside him shattered, and then rebuilt stronger. His aura surged outward in a shockwave, pushing back the mist, bending the trees. The graves fell silent, their light fading.
Laine rose slowly to his feet, his breath harsh, his entire body trembling. His shadow stretched unnaturally long across the graves, and his eyes glowed like coals.
"…Spirit Tier."
He could feel it. Power. Not just raw savagery like before, but refined. His body felt lighter, his aura sharper, as though every sense had been sharpened to the edge of a blade.
But it wasn't over.
The mask pulsed again, stronger than ever. "Good… you've climbed. But look—there. One grave calls to you still."
Laine followed the pull, stepping deeper into the burial ground until he reached a large cracked gravestone, half-buried in vines. It was different from the others—darker, older, and humming faintly as if it contained something alive.
Laine pressed his hand against the stone. It cracked, splintering apart until the ground split open. Slowly, from within the grave, an object rose, covered in dust and faintly glowing.
A bell.
Small, black, and ancient, etched with symbols that hurt to look at.
Laine picked it up, his fingers tingling as if the metal itself rejected the touch.
The mask whispered with unusual caution this time.
"This… is no simple relic. This is the Soul-Bell. If you ring it, a spirit bound to its call will answer. A high-ranked spirit—powerful beyond your current reach. It will fight beside you, but only if your soul is strong enough to command it."
"And if it's not?" Laine asked, staring at the eerie object.
"…Then the spirit will devour you instead. Your soul will break. You'll cease to exist."
Laine chuckled faintly. "So either I gain a weapon… or I die. Sounds fair enough."
The mask hissed. "Foolish. Do not underestimate it."
But Laine only slipped the bell into his robe, his voice calm. "Relax. I don't plan on dying so easily. If fate wants to break me, it better try harder."
The graveyard went silent again, the glow fading until only the sound of Laine's boots crunching against dead leaves remained. With the bell hidden, and his aura calmer, he turned and left the cursed place.
The jungle seemed quieter now. The beasts and spirits that had once howled kept their distance, cowed by his newly strengthened aura. Laine walked steadily through the mist, his steps lighter, his heart burning with the fresh rush of strength.
But when he finally emerged from the jungle and returned to the city, the faint relief died instantly.
The inn was dark when he pushed the door open. The familiar creak of the wooden floor greeted him. He climbed the stairs, his boots echoing softly, and reached the room he had paid for.
The door was shut, as he had left it.
Laine pushed it open.
Empty.
The bed was neat, untouched. The clothes he had bought for Airi were folded on the chair. But Airi herself was nowhere to be seen.
Laine froze. His breath caught. Slowly, his hand tightened around the hilt of his sword.
The mask whispered, almost amused.
"…Seems your little light has wandered off. Or been taken."
Laine's jaw clenched, his aura rippling out with a dangerous edge.
"…Airi."
And for the first time since the jungle, Laine felt a chill crawl down his spine—not from the spirits, not from the beasts, but from the silence of an empty room.
The night outside carried faint sounds of footsteps and distant voices. Somewhere in the darkness, someone had moved against him.
And he knew—this was only the beginning.