The road stretched before the crowd like a pale gray ribbon, cutting through low hills covered in lifeless, colorless trees—as though nature itself had abandoned this land. Beneath the adventurers' feet, the ashen soil cracked under the weight of weary steps. Far ahead, faint peaks loomed on the horizon, concealing secrets no one dared to uncover. It felt as if the very earth held memories too dark to be unearthed.
The group moved forward in a tense, uneasy silence, led by six figures clad in faded, time-worn armor. Despite its wear, the metal still hinted at its sturdy craftsmanship — a mark of experience, and perhaps of battles they had barely survived. These were the adventurers at the front. Their features varied, but the same cautious look lingered in each of their eyes.
They walked at the front of the procession, as if they were the masters of this dark road, while a thick crowd of hired mercenaries trailed behind them. The men and women among them wore cheap armor and carried weapons that lacked any real craftsmanship.
Some clutched their blades with trembling hands — more from fear than from effort — as if the weight of the steel was heavier than their resolve. None of them had true experience in battle; they had come only for money, or for the faint hope of gaining something that might shift their own strength or fate.
The adventurers walked at the front with steady yet cautious steps. Some had their faces half-hidden behind simple helmets or worn masks—coverings that concealed their features, but couldn't hide the wariness rooted deep in their eyes. Their clothes bore traces of old wounds, and their armor carried marks that only those who had survived similar battles would recognize.
They spoke to one another in low voices, sometimes casting quick glances at the crowd behind them—glances that carried a quiet assurance, a silent reminder that they were the ones leading, and the others had no choice but to follow.
As for the mercenaries, they moved like a frightened herd of sheep. They clutched their weapons as if those were their last hope of survival—though some could barely hold them properly. Fear and uncertainty were etched across their faces, and with every step toward the unknown, their unease only grew. None among them possessed true skill; for most, this was their first time entering the Gray Strip.
The air was heavy—not just because of the gray clouds blanketing the sky, but because of a quiet weight that settled in every heart, as if the land itself held memories it could never speak of.
From time to time, a faint breeze drifted through, carrying a light metallic scent — like old blood mixed with dust. It felt as though the ground had seen countless battles and could now remember nothing but iron and blood.
Amid the crowd walked a young man named Sylvan.
He walked alone, trailing at the very end of the line, far from the chatter and noise. He couldn't have been more than eighteen or nineteen, yet the weariness etched into his pale features made him seem older. He was tall, but slender and frail — shaped more by hunger and exhaustion than by battle. His skin had a washed-out tone, as if the sun had forgotten him long ago.
The bones of his shoulders pressed faintly against his worn shirt, and his black hair hung in slight disarray. His gray eyes stayed lowered most of the time, as though he wished he could fade from sight altogether. A frayed gray scarf was wrapped around his neck, and though his clothes were clean, they carried the quiet, hopeless effort of someone trying to hold onto a sense of dignity in a merciless world.
A girl approached him from behind, her steps uncertain. She looked to be around his age—perhaps a little younger. Her brown hair was loosely tied, with a few stray strands framing her face.
Despite the fear written across her features, her green eyes held a faint, trembling light — the kind of courage that flickers more than it burns. She wore no armor, only simple traveling clothes, and a plain bow was slung across her back by a worn leather strap.
"You don't look like someone used to walking with adventurers," she said softly.
Sylvan didn't resemble the other adventurers — nor the mercenaries. He carried no weapon in sight, nor any armor to shield him. His calm face set him apart from the rest, yet his eyes told another story — the weary look of someone who had known too many defeats, as if failure itself had become his companion.
A voice broke through the stillness of his thoughts. The air around them was utterly quiet; few among the thirty or so adventurers ever spoke. Sylvan turned toward her, his expression unchanged. A brief silence hung between them before he replied in a quiet, steady tone:
"I don't know anyone here."
The girl smiled faintly, easing past the brief awkward silence. Her eyes drifted toward the group ahead as she said,
"We are all the same… none of us really knows why we're here. Maybe it's for the money, or maybe we are just hoping to find something — some kind of resource."
Her gaze lingered on the dim path ahead. "As for me," she added softly, "I came for the money… though I'm not sure it was the wisest choice. What about you?"
Sylvan paused for a moment before replying, his tone quiet and unreadable.
"Me? … I don't know."
*******
Earlier, in one of the ramshackle markets on the outskirts of the safe lands — right at the border of the Gray Strip — stood a broad-shouldered adventurer in gleaming armor dulled by dust. His face was traced with scars, a living map of battles survived against all odds. Despite the wear on his gear, his imposing stance and the air of command about him made it clear that he was the leader of a band of seasoned adventurers.
Stepped forward to the center of the crowd and called out in a booming voice that carried to every corner of the market:
"Are you after gold? Glory? Or maybe just some equipment and resources?"
"Our mission is simple," he continued. "We are heading toward an uncharted fortress near the edge of the Grey Strip. We'll encounter monsters—many of them—but nothing too formidable. They rarely attack. Still, we'll need a large enough group to finish the job quickly."
He paused, his sharp eyes sweeping over the crowd, faces marked with doubt, caution, and a faint spark of curiosity.
"Those who join us will receive ten gold coins. Five paid before we depart, and the rest once we're done clearing the fortress. And one more thing…"
He let the words hang for a moment, before finishing in a steady, commanding tone: "Any gear, resources, or treasures you find inside are yours to keep. No one will force you to hand them over."
Straightening his stance, adjusted his armor with a practiced motion, the metal plates settling into place with a muted clang. His voice carried a tone that blended pride with the composure of a seasoned professional:
"My name is Varik—rank: Raymos. Every member of my squad bears a high rank as well"
He motioned behind him, where five adventurers stood in disciplined formation, their presence lending weight to his words.
"And that's not all," he went on, his gaze sweeping across the gathering.
"We'll enter the fortress through a Gatewardens Guild portal—not on foot. This isn't some reckless venture. It's an opportunity… for those who recognize its value. The fortress is vast, far too large for us alone. If you have the skill—or even the need—join us. Who knows… you might find something within that changes the course of your path forever."
The crowd froze for a moment before hushed murmurs began to ripple through it.
"Ten gold coins?"
"That's no small sum."
"Two gold coins are enough to feed a person for an entire month—plain meals, but enough to keep one alive."
"But ten… that's a small fortune. Enough to change a poor man's life, even if only for a short while."
However, things were never that simple.
"Through the Gatewardens Guild's gate?" someone muttered, half in disbelief.
That was beyond reason. Securing a permit to pass through one of those gates—even just to reach the outer edge of the Grey Strip—cost at least three gold coins. And that was only for the gates nearest the boundary.
And that wasn't the only thing that raised suspicion.
Allowing them to keep everything they found inside the fortress—resources, items, even rare artifacts?
The offer was generous… far too generous. Enough to make anyone suspicious.
Uneasy glances darted through the crowd. Doubt flickered in their eyes, yet no one dared voice it aloud.
Varik noticed. He saw the unease spreading like ripples through water, heard the low murmurs weaving between the gathered adventurers. But he gave no explanation—no denial.
He simply lifted his voice again, steady and commanding:
"The fortress is vast, and we need numbers to clear it swiftly. We're not chasing glory, nor do we seek unnecessary fights. We go in, finish the job, and leave. The monsters inside aren't strong—but they are many, and persistent."
Then he motioned toward his squad once more.
"Anyone interested should gather at Nam's shop in two hours. From there, we'll head to the Gatewardens Guild—and pass through the gate directly."
With that, he turned and walked away without looking back, as if there was nothing more worth saying.
Silence lingered in his wake.
Then came the whispers.
Then the murmurs, rising like ripples through still water.
Some began to think seriously about the offer.
The pay was high.
The gate access—unheard of.
And yet… something about it felt wrong. There was a weight behind that generosity, a shadow in its promise.
Still, many brushed the doubt aside. His rank, his composure, his confidence—those were enough to convince them it was nothing more than an unusually good deal.
In a dim corner of the market, veiled beneath the collapsing silhouettes of old buildings, a lone boy sat on the ground—knees drawn to his chest, arms wrapped around himself in perfect stillness.
That boy was Sylvan.
He listened to the commotion from the nearby square but never joined the crowd.
He sat at the edge of it all, a quiet observer — as if he wanted no part in what was unfolding, yet couldn't quite tear himself away.
Varik's offer wasn't ordinary.
There was something unfamiliar about it.
It wasn't just a call to adventure...
It sounded more like a promise — faint, uncertain, and strangely alluring.
The words reached him like an echo carried by the wind:
"Ten gold coins... equipment from the fortress... passage through the Guild's gate..."
The sum was large.
Enormous, even.
But that wasn't what drew Sylvan's attention.
He had heard promises like that before —
Promises of glory.
Promises of wealth.
Promises of belonging.
However, each one had ended the same way—
in disappointment,
in betrayal,
in loss.
Not long ago, Sylvan had suffered yet another failure.
The last adventuring squad he joined had abandoned him mid-mission.
Before that, had been dismissed from several others—
sometimes for lacking strength,
other times because the groups themselves collapsed under the weight of greed and mistrust.
Most adventurers didn't march for honor.
They marched for coins.
And trusting people like that could get you killed.
He had been left behind once more.
Too slow.
Too weak.
And his sub-ability—the one tied to his personal path, or perhaps the fate forced upon him—wasn't meant for direct battle.
It was a supporting skill, one that demanded patience and precision—two things in short supply on a chaotic battlefield.
Even in simple, routine tasks, his movements were uncertain, hesitant.
He stumbled where others thrived.
Cast out from many squads.
It wasn't that he had done anything wrong— he simply hadn't been enough.
There was no place for him.
No one waiting.
No one even noticed he was there.
No friends.
No home.
Not even memories warm enough to ease the ache.
He rose slowly, like old wood creaking under its own weight, and lifted his pale eyes toward Nam's shop—the place Varik had named for the gathering.
Didn't think about the dangers.
Nor the fortress.
Nor the monsters.
Not even the gold.
All he wanted… was a result.
Any result.
Even if it meant his end.
Sylvan walked toward the shop.
Steps were neither steady nor unsure—just forward.
Wasn't seeking life.
Nor victory.
Sought something else.
Perhaps an answer.
Perhaps oblivion.
Perhaps death.
But still… walked.
*******
The girl approached Sylvan once more.
Her face still bore traces of fear, however, her eyes now shimmered with a cautious curiosity.
She hesitated for a breath before speaking, her voice soft—barely more than a whisper.
"My name is Elowen. I come from the continent of Valtaria. What about you?"
Sylvan looked at her without a smile.
It felt as though he were staring at a reflection of his distant self—back when his own eyes once carried that same light, that same naive desire to reach out, to belong… before he learned that the world takes everything back, one way or another.
His gaze remained dull, hollow, yet for the briefest moment, a faint spark flickered within.
A glimpse of the man he used to be.Then it faded—swallowed by the quiet darkness that had long since taken root behind his eyes.
When he finally spoke, his voice was calm, distant, and almost weightless.
"Sylvan."
Elowen smiled faintly. "Oh, you are from my continent too? Then we—"
Her words were cut short.
A trembling scream tore through the crowd.
"Ah… ah… Is this… is this the place?! Are we—are we at the edge?!"
One of the mercenaries stumbled back, his face ashen, eyes wide as if he had seen a ghost he was never meant to see.
At first, nothing seemed different.
No one sense it.
But those who had crossed these lands before—old adventurers, a few mercenaries who had heard whispers of the Forgotten Valleys—felt it.
Slowly.
Uneasily.
The air grew heavier.
Not merely colder… heavier.
It pressed against their skin, an unseen hand closing around their chests.
The fog thickened, turning from mist to shroud—gray and dense, swallowing the world behind them until the path itself was gone.
Then the land began to shift. Loose stones aligned unnaturally, as if drawn by some hidden design.The hills sank, yielding to a force that could not be named.
And the sky…
once pale, now darkened to a vast, oppressive black—not the black of night, but the black of something ancient, watching, awakening.
This wasn't mere change.
It was distortion.
A bending of essence itself.
Among them, a thin man in cheap armor clutched his spear like a frightened child clutching a toy.
"What is this place?! Are we… really at the edge?!"
His voice cracked.
The crowd stepped back as one, silent and trembling.
Uneasy glances, whispered prayers, and the slow bloom of fear—like smoke crawling through their lungs.
They had been walking for hours since stepping through the teleportation gate.
No monsters.
No poisonous plants.
No signs of border life.
Nothing.
It was as if the road had been severed from the world—adrift in isolation.
Then came silence. And in that silence… understanding.
They had arrived.
At the threshold between the Grey Strip and the Forgotten Valleys.
Not a border of land—a border of worlds.
The first still familiar, however cruel.
The second… the true unknown.
Then chaos erupted.
Screams.
Nervous laughter.
Voices cracking with terror.
"I'm not going in there!"
"This place is cursed!"
"We don't have to do this!"
Varik stepped forward.
His steps were deliberate, his smirk cold.
"Who wants to turn back?" His voice carried mockery—and warning.
"You?"
He pointed to a trembling man already backing away. The man turned to run—too slow.
A woman broke through the line.
Leather armor.
Steel plates.
Black hair bound tight.
A short sword gleaming faintly in her hand.
No one stopped her.
No one dared.
She reached the fleeing man and struck once. Clean. Silent. Final.
He collapsed, blood spilling into the dust.
For a heartbeat, silence.
Then Varik laughed—short and sharp.
"Well done. That's a language everyone understands."
He turned to the others, his voice low and cruel, "Who isn't with us—we won't chase.
But if you run… you die."
His gaze turned toward the fog. Beyond it, the fortress began to take shape— rising from the mist like a slumbering beast of stone.
Its black walls towered, defying the sky. Windows glimmered like eyes watching from the dark. The gate—massive, rusted—hadn't opened in centuries.
The air grew suffocating. Breath itself felt heavy, as though the world refused to let them inhale.
No one moved.
Some wept quietly.
Others whispered prayers to nameless gods.
And the rest stared—as if looking upon their own doom.
"Move!" Varik's voice broke the silence again.
"You have been paid, haven't you? A worker earns his coin—or dies trying!"
He smirked, cruel amusement glinting in his eyes.
"Through the Gatewardens' portal, no less! Delivered safely to the edge without a single scratch. A miracle, isn't it? Some would sell their souls to stand here!"
With a flick of his hand, Varik signaled his squad.
At once, they took formation, closing in around the mercenaries like a tightening noose.
One man, quick enough to sense what was coming, tried to slip away before the circle sealed shut. But one of Varik's adventurers stepped forward—calm, almost graceful and brought his palms together in a soft, deliberate clap.
CLANG.
The sound rang through the air like metal striking glass, a resonant pulse bursting outward from his hands. Invisible lines rippled through the air, vibrating, shimmering faintly… until they reached their target.
Zzzzzzz—
The man froze, blood pouring from his eyes and ears, body trembling before collapsing into stillness.
Silence again.
The echo lingered, trembling in the air like a ghost refusing to leave.
"A resonance strike… from the String Path…" someone whispered in horror.
Every thought of rebellion died at that moment.
Two bodies. One message.
Enough.
Varik sneered, "There is no clearer lesson than a head on the ground. Now… move."
He turned away, walking toward the fortress as if nothing had happened—calm, practiced, indifferent.
The others followed.
The fortress loomed larger with every step, the darkness thickening around them. Each breath grew heavier, the silence pressing tighter.
At that edge, fear became something else.
Not panic.
Not dread.
But a quiet certainty—
that once they crossed… they would never return.
Among them, Elowen trembled.
She turned to Sylvan, who stood still as stone, untouched by the storm of fear around him.
"Are you not afraid?" she whispered.
Sylvan glanced at her, eyes distant—hollow, ancient. A faint, weary smile brushed his lips.
"Why should I be?"
Then he turned, walking into the fog—
toward the darkness that waited.
Elowen watched him go, frozen, until something inside her shifted—a small, trembling spark of understanding.
This wasn't an adventure. It was a descent.
Into something far deeper. And far darker.