It was true that Varik's squad led the march, but they weren't far ahead, not truly. They moved almost in parallel with the rest, close enough to be seen, distant enough to remain apart. Perhaps they knew the way. Perhaps they held some hidden map. But that hardly made them safer.
If it were that simple, they wouldn't have brought this many blades.
In places like this, danger didn't always come from the front.
It could seep from the walls.
Whisper from the air.
Lurk within the silence itself.
The passage was dim, but not drowned in darkness. A faint, colorless glow emanated from within the stone, its source uncertain. Maybe it rose from the ground beneath their boots, or from some unseen, arcane pulse in the fortress's veins. Whatever it was, it lent the path a muted, uneasy clarity, just enough to see, never enough to feel safe.
Sylvan walked somewhere near the center of the line, neither at the front nor the rear. Close enough to watch Varik's team, but not close enough to share their light.
The corridor stretched wide enough to hold them all. It sloped gently downward, drawing them deeper, step by step. Their pace was careful, deliberate, not quick, not slow, each footfall unconsciously matching the rhythm of Varik's squad.
Minutes passed in silence. No movement, no sound but their own. The tension eased by a fraction, just enough to make them realize it existed.
No one truly believed they'd pass unchallenged. Yet even this fragile calm felt wrong, a lull too quiet, too long.
And then, without warning, Varik's squad stopped.
No shout. No signal. But something had stilled them. Something unseen. A ripple passed through the air, not a strike, not a sound, just a shift, subtle but undeniable.
A breath.
A faint breeze stirred against their faces, so light it could've been imagined. Yet it was there. The air, still as stone since they'd entered, now moved. Sometimes from the front. Sometimes from the sides.
As if the corridor itself had begun to breathe.
It wasn't just a feeling. Varik's entire squad sensed it.
They weren't some ordinary band of adventurers wandering the Grey Strip. Their strength alone spoke otherwise—if not for that, they would never have made it this deep, let alone found a fortress steeped in mystic energy like this one.
And from Varik's earlier mention of his title—Raymos—it was clear enough. That rank marked the threshold, the bare minimum for those daring to step into the next perilous region of the Dark Continent: the Forgotten Valleys.
The members of his squad exchanged brief, deliberate glances. Words slipped between them like whispers.
"What do you think, Orin? Did your sub-ability—Faint Step Echo—pick up anything?" Varik asked quietly.
The man he addressed was lean, short-haired, his gray attire blending into the dim corridor. Since they'd entered, he had barely lifted his eyes from the ground as if listening to something beneath the world itself.
His name was Orin, wielder of a sub-ability belonging to the Trace Path, specifically the art of Faint Step Echo.
That sub-ability let him detect the lingering tremors of erased footsteps, residual pulses left behind when living beings crossed stone or earth, even if they had tried to hide their passage. It wasn't scent or sight or sound, it was the faint hum of motion, the whisper of movement that never fully died.
In this world, there were eleven Sacred Paths, divine routes once laid by the gods:
The Trace Path, The Thread Path, The Fracture Path, The Hollow Path, The Mirror Path, The Merge Path, The Darkness Path, The Void Path, The String Path, The Nowhere Path, and The Unbalance Path.
Orin advanced slowly, separating from the main group, hugging the left-hand wall. His hand lifted, glowing faintly with a muted, silvery light.
He studied the ground, the air, the stones around him, measuring vibrations and energy shifts too delicate for ordinary senses. His task was simple, but crucial: to determine whether the path ahead was safe… or if the corridor was about to devour them whole.
The others halted. Silence returned, tense, deliberate, like the breath before a blade is drawn.
After a few moments, Orin shook his head. "Nothing. No residual vibration. No kinetic echo. It's… empty."
Varik's team exchanged uncertain looks.
Then the deep-voiced giant, Darius Venn, spoke. "Maybe someone with a sub-ability from the Void Path could sense it."
But none among them belonged to the Void Path.
Silence lingered for a few long seconds.
Then Varik exhaled slowly, the corner of his mouth curving into a faint smile.
"Well then," he said, turning to face the mercenaries. His tone was calm and controlled, yet carried a cutting edge.
"Let's make use of what we paid for."
He raised his voice slightly, careful not to let it echo.
"There's something unknown ahead. We need someone aligned with the Void Path to identify it. Anyone belonging to that Path, step forward and state your sub-ability."
As expected, no answer came.
Who would risk it?
Who would volunteer to be the first offering?
Varik's lips tightened, and a dry snort escaped him.
"Fine. If you're useless even at the first obstacle, then there's no reason to keep you."
He motioned with a flick of his hand toward his squad. "Deal with them."
In an instant, his squad shifted into formation.
The slender girl in light armor, her face expressionless, drew her short sword. A faint, sky-blue radiance ran along its edge, the weapon's dormant power awakening.
Orin conjured a bow from nothingness. When he drew the string, the arrow that formed wasn't entirely real; it shimmered with translucent energy, half-born from shadow and silence.
Darius slipped on his pitch-black gloves, flexing his fingers one by one, ready to strike.
The other woman didn't draw a weapon at all. She simply lowered her stance, posture sharp and poised, as if mocking the others—too confident, or too contemptuous, to bother with steel.
And the last of them, the man who wielded sound itself, drew a Shaqratam, a small circular metal disc that thrummed with restrained violence. When spun or thrown, it could unleash concussive shockwaves capable of shattering stone.
The mercenaries recoiled. The crowd rippled with fear, men and women stumbling back, gathering instinctively into uneven clusters. Pale faces. Wide eyes darting between Varik's cold stare and his squad's drawn weapons, now glinting under the dim, trembling light.
Some pressed against the walls. Others trembled openly. One man let out a strangled sigh, as though trying to smother a scream.
Sylvan watched the scene in silence.
It wasn't unfamiliar to him. In the Gray Belt of the Dark Continent, betrayal wasn't a sin; it was survival. Greed, deceit, ambush—these were as common as air. He himself had once been used as bait, thrown to the hound-Strip while others escaped.
But for those still on their first or second expeditions, this was something else entirely.
To his left stood Elowen, rigid, breath shallow, her wide eyes glistening with fear. Strands of her black hair clung to her cheeks, slick with cold sweat. Her slight trembling wasn't from the chill; it was the paralyzing sense of being caught in a nightmare she couldn't wake from.
Her gaze darted helplessly between the drawn blades and the unreadable faces of Varik's squad.
Then, suddenly, a voice broke through the silence.
"I—I possess a sub-ability from the Void Path!"
Everyone turned toward the sound.
For those trembling in fear, that voice might as well have been a divine echo — fragile hope in human form.
A man stepped forward, mid-thirties, armored lightly, his face pale but determined. He hesitated, then pointed at his chest. "My Sub-Ability… is called Void Insight. I can sense minor spatial distortions in the air."
Another followed, a thin young man, voice shaking as he spoke. "I'm from the Void Path too. My Sub-Ability is Twilight Glow. I can see the faint distortions of light formed by warped space."
A third man came forth — older, steadier, though fear still shadowed his voice. "I… also walk the Void Path. My Sub-Ability's not for combat. It's called Air Cushion. I can create a thin layer of compressed air around myself or others to dampen vibrations or impact."
Sylvan's gaze flickered. A supportive Sub-Ability, not useless, but not one that would save them either.
Varik, however, smiled faintly. It wasn't amusement. It was disdain.
"You are late," he said, voice low, smooth, cutting. "Step forward. Don't worry, if you prove useful, I'm never stingy."
The three exchanged hesitant looks, then obeyed. They stood before him, silent, uncertain.
Varik studied them coldly, then gestured. "You, the one who sees distortions — up front. You with the air barrier — beside him. And you, the one who senses voids — center. If there's a trap or anomaly, you'll be the first to know."
He gave a brief nod to his squad. Their weapons lowered, but the air didn't relax. The tension only condensed, sharp and breathless.
The three Void Path users advanced with care. The faint, shifting light in the corridor revealed shapes without form, walls that seemed to breathe, a floor that felt too still. Each step echoed softly, too softly, swallowed by something unseen.
Varik's voice came from behind them, calm, deliberate. "Search. Feel for what's wrong. Any void, any distortion, any movement in the air. Find what hides from us."
They obeyed.
The man with Twilight Glow raised his head. "There is a bend in the air—five, maybe six steps ahead. It's faint, like a ripple that shouldn't exist."
The one with Void Insight closed his eyes. "I feel it too. A distortion… small, but unstable. The air folds on itself for an instant, then smooths out again."
The third, the veteran with Air Cushion, lifted his arm. A faint shimmer surrounded them. "I have activated the layer," he murmured. "But something's wrong. The pressure's… uneven. It's not wind. Not vibration. It feels… alive."
Varik watched in silence, eyes narrowing.
"Go on," he said.
They stepped forward — once, twice, three times.
Then stopped.
No sound.
No movement.
No warning.
And in the next heartbeat…
They were gone.
No scream.
No flash.
No trace of movement.
One heartbeat — they were standing.
The next — three bodies hit the ground, lifeless.
A collective gasp tore through the ranks.
Dark crimson seeped across the stone floor, thick and slow, glinting under the dim light. No one moved. No one spoke. The air itself felt frozen — thick with a silence that pressed against their chests.
Then it came.
Not a voice. Not a step.
A sound — raw, jagged — like the earth itself being ripped apart. A deep crack thundered through the corridor, shaking the ground beneath their feet. The stone shattered. Fragments burst outward, scattering near the fallen bodies.
However, nothing stood there.
No enemy.
No shadow.
Only air — trembling, heavy — as if the corridor had drawn a furious breath and was now holding it.
Silence returned. Heavier this time. Denser. Alive.
A mercenary stumbled backward, eyes wide. "W–what was that?! What happened to them?!"
His voice echoed, small and terrified, swallowed by the corridor's stillness.
Panic broke loose. Men retreated, tripping over one another. Some fell to their knees, others pressed against the cold walls as if they could sink into them. But there was nowhere to run. The iron gate had sealed shut the moment they entered.
Even Varik's squad stepped back, despite their forced composure.
Varik alone remained still.
He watched the motionless bodies in silence, expression unreadable. Then his eyes lifted — slowly — to the spot where the distortion had been.
"It's real…" he whispered.