Sylvan froze where he stood, his eyes fixed on the three corpses lying in pools of their own blood.
The shock wasn't total, he had seen Death waltz across this forsaken land of nothingness many times before, yet something in this moment twisted the rules he thought he understood. He had expected death, yes, but this?
This surgical precision. This horrifying neatness. This speed that mocked all anticipation, it was something else entirely.
No screams.
No spasms.
Not even a muffled clash of steel.
Only disappearance.
Three adventurers erased in the span of a heartbeat — a faint flicker of light, then silence. Absolute. Crushing.
No one intervened. No one even flinched. The scene felt less like slaughter and more like a performance, death rendered as still, indifferent art.
Sylvan had seen death take countless forms in the cursed Gray Strip: grotesque beasts ripping flesh apart, stray traps pulverizing bone. But those deaths resisted. They gave the dying a heartbeat to scream, to struggle, to feel despair before the dark swallowed them. There had been conflict — brief, futile, human.
Here, there was none.
This silence that followed a single motion — this quiet, surgical annihilation — it wasn't death. It was… completion.
Perfect. Absolute.
As if the victims had never existed at all.
With barely two years of experience in this damned territory, Sylvan knew the difference all too well. He'd entered and left its shadows more times than he could count, clinging to what others called the safe zones.
But "safe" in the Gray Strip was a lie, a bedtime story told to keep newcomers from breaking.
For adventurers like him — Kiren-rank wanderers scraping survival — every step off the mapped path turned the odds against them to something near-suicidal. And now, before his eyes, he was witnessing a new kind of loss.
Not death.
Erasure.
Gack.
Sylvan's head snapped sideways.
Elowen was gagging, her body trembling as waves of nausea gripped her. The thick, metallic stench of blood clung to the air like fog, searing through her lungs and curling her stomach. Before her, the ground was a chaotic canvas of red and black, torn limbs tangled with slick, dark patches that looked like some twisted art form.
Her body folded forward.
The sound of retching broke the suffocating stillness.
That single sound was enough to spark a chain reaction. Another gag erupted nearby, then another, as though the putrid air itself linked them in shared revulsion.
Sylvan watched faces warp with shock, bodies shaking as they fought to contain their sickness. Some pressed hands to their mouths, others leaned on the walls, pale and sweating, all bound by the same, humiliating moment.
He remembered his first time. The same smell. The same trembling hands. The same stunned disbelief before the mind accepted that this — this horror — was real.
He understood then.
It wasn't a weakness. It was the body's rebellion, mourning the innocence it just lost.
In the Gray Strip, every adventurer's story began the same way:
You throw up before you learn to kill.
The sound of retching was not disgust. It was a hymn — the first shared prayer of the damned.
Varik's squad paid little mind to the unrest swirling around them. Their focus was fixed solely on the unseen threat ahead.
A heavy silence hung over the corridor, broken only by the sound of uneven breaths. Then, like a whisper slicing through the still air, a voice murmured: "It's not a trap… it's a distortion. Something… incomplete."
All heads turned toward the source.
Beside Varik stood the squad's swordswoman. The faint blue light radiating from her short blade glinted across the fractured stone. Her icy eyes were locked on the wall ahead with unnerving focus.
"As sharp as ever, Lira." Varik's lips curved faintly as he turned to her. "Your perception never fails to impress me. Looks like something damaged it… made it unstable. Otherwise, we would've never noticed it."
Lira raised her sword, the soft azure glow pulsing gently along its edge as she aimed it at the wall.
"Spell formation," she whispered, her tone smooth, precise, almost serene. "Something passed through here… and left a scar."
"Or maybe the spell just decayed with age," another voice chimed in—gentle, melodic, carrying a hint of amusement.
A young woman stepped closer, her movement fluid as drifting silk. Her long black hair cascaded like a midnight waterfall, and her warm amber eyes shimmered in the faint halo of light.
"Yes, that's possible too, Marissa," Lira murmured, stepping slightly aside to stand beside her.
The contrast between them was striking—like blade and breeze.
Lira was the sword made flesh: her fitted leather armor gleamed like tempered steel, every motion disciplined and efficient. Her short dark hair was neatly tied back, revealing a smooth forehead and piercing blue eyes. Even her lips, crimson and exact, carried the precision of a trained soldier. Every step, every movement, seemed deliberate—measured as if written in a combat manual.
Marissa, on the other hand, was the whisper of air beside the steel. She wore a translucent violet silk robe that revealed more than it hid: skin pale as frost and the subtle curves beneath. Her hair flowed to her waist like a ribbon of night, catching glints of dim light with every breath. Her long lashes and delicate brows framed eyes of quiet mischief, and her full lips held the ghost of a smile. Even in stillness, she seemed to move—grace embodied.
Side by side, they looked like opposites incarnate: Lira, the vigilant guard; Marissa, the sleeping flower nestled in danger's palm.
"What do you think, then?"
A third voice joined them—a man cloaked in black, his robe flowing like frozen smoke. His eyes, half-concealed in shadow, glimmered silver beneath the dim glow.
"I don't know, Ryn." Marissa's shoulders lifted in a light shrug as she offered him a faint, teasing smile. "My sub-ability is useless here."
Ryn—the squad's String Path practitioner—stood silent for a moment, his presence stretching the air between them thinner than thread.
Meanwhile, Varik examined the wall with quiet precision.
Between the cracks, his sharp eyes caught a faint carving—nearly worn away by time.
He bent closer, brushed the dust aside, and revealed a simple mark: three dots connected by a short horizontal line.
Straightening, he turned to face the line of mercenaries behind him.
He stopped before the first man.
"You," he said. "State your Path and sub-ability."
No name. No courtesy.
Just an order—soft as falling snow, yet carrying a weight that demanded obedience.
The mercenary of average build, with a pale, weary face, flinched slightly before replying in a hesitant tone.
"Thread Path… Faded Trace Weave. It leaves a faint visual mark on the ground—temporary, only lasts a few minutes."
Varik's expression barely shifted, but his words cut sharp. "Is that really all we brought? Trash?"
A faint exhale, half disdain, half resignation, "Well… not that I expected any better."
He turned to the next man. "And you?"
The mercenary cursed his luck inwardly, then stammered,"Hollow Path… Movement Hole. I can create a small zone where motion slows drastically."
At that, Varik's eyes glinted faintly—just for a moment.
"Good," he murmured. "That will do. You two—front line."
He brought them forward — to the place where the air itself seemed to ripple, faint but wrong.
The scent of blood hung thick in the corridor, sharp and metallic. The corpses behind them still bled, their lifeless forms feeding the stone floor beneath.
"Faded Trace Weaver," Varik said, voice calm yet absolute. "Step forward. Do not activate your sub-ability."
Then, to the other: "Movement Hole — activate it. Both of you, advance."
No room for hesitation. No space for thought. His words fell cold and heavy, like ice water poured down their spines.
The two flinched — trembling, their bodies stiff and unwilling. However, still obeying.
They stepped forward, one slow pace after another. The air thickened, the metallic tang of blood and the damp chill of stone blending into a suffocating stillness.
No movement. No sound.
Only the faint echo of their boots and the quiet hiss of their breath.
The corpses lay sprawled behind them, dark stains widening slowly beneath.
And ahead… nothing. Only the unseen. The wrong.
Then, the one called Movement Hole raised his hand. Slowly, deliberately.
No sound escaped him, yet the air around their feet shifted.
A distortion — subtle, invisible — pressed outward, warping the space around them.
Every motion grew slower, heavier, as though the flow of time itself resisted.
"Movement Hole" was active. And the corridor held its breath.
They advanced together.
One step.
Then another.
The air around them seemed to freeze.
The silence deepened.
Nothing moved.
Nothing sounded.
Even the blood seeping from the corpses seemed to flow sluggishly under the Movement Hole's effect.
Then—impact.
No sound of footsteps. No glimpse of form. No shadow appeared.
But something slammed into the "Movement Hole" bearer – from behind? Above? – with colossal force. He saw nothing. Couldn't defend. Couldn't even scream.
His body jerked backward violently, as if colliding with an invisible wall. Then he crashed to the ground, motionless. Darkish-purple blood exploded from his head, neck, or some unseen point where the blow landed with brutal speed and power. But one thing was certain… he died instantly.
Then… a second impact.
This time, it struck his body directly. But he didn't move. He was already dead.
His weak "Movement Hole" hadn't saved him.
The Faded Trace Weaver stood frozen in place, trembling, surrounded by blood and silence. However, unharmed!
He looked around in horror. Then at his companion's corpse—the one who had stood beside him only moments ago. Then ahead… where nothing remained but darkness and silent walls.
He didn't move. But he wasn't dead.
Everyone—Varik's squad, Sylvan, and Elwyn standing silently behind them—watched the scene in numb disbelief.
The air stayed thick.The stench of blood still acrid. The bodies on the ground are still bleeding.
And the two men who had advanced toward the danger zone… had stopped moving moments ago.
But suddenly... something happened.
An unheard strike. An unseen movement.
The body of the man who had activated "Movement Hole" jerked violently backward and fell motionless to the ground.
Then another blow followed.
And suddenly… blood began to flow.
He lay on the ground. Body stretched out. His head... or neck... or some part of him... grotesquely disfigured.Thick, darkish-purple blood oozed slowly onto the cold stone. And the worst part... no one had seen anyone approach him.
No one moved at first. No sound broke the silence. Even the faint wind whispering through the corridor seemed to vanish.
Then… a low groan.
A fearful whisper.
A stifled laugh.
But it wasn't a laugh of joy—it was a laugh of terror.
One mercenary spun around.then looked forward again, whispering, "W-what… what happened?"
No one answered.
Varik slowly raised his head. He stood still, watching with steady eyes, though his pupils had dilated slightly.
There was no fear in his face—only realization.
He looked at the corpse on the ground, then at the other man—the bearer of "Faded Trace Weave"—who still stood frozen, unmoving, silent.
Varik's gaze lingered on him for a moment, then returned to the corpse.
After a brief silence, Varik's voice echoed again in the narrow corridor.
He lifted his head slowly, eyes fixed on the corridor ahead, where the strange air disturbances had begun to stir again, an inexplicable pulse, as if the walls themselves were breathing.
"I see…" he murmured.
Then he turned toward the others, offering a faint smile—not one of joy, but of comprehension.
"I thought it was a coincidence. Or that we faced a hidden entity… or a trap. But the truth is simpler than we imagined."
He gestured toward the walls, speaking not to the men but to the air itself.
"This current… this pressure in the air… it isn't from a creature, nor a trap, nor even a curse."
His gaze drifted to the fallen mercenary, then to the survivor standing beside him.
"It's the residue of an old ward-spell," he continued. "A safeguard once woven into the castle's foundation to maintain order."
His tone shifted, colder now—measured, certain.
"This ward-spell… it doesn't seek to kill. Not directly. Its purpose is simpler, and far more precise، to deny anyone the use of their sub-ability. Completely."
He paused, letting the silence sink in, the air pressing heavier with each word.
"When someone attempts to use their power within a forbidden zone—without understanding, without permission—the ward reacts. It responds… violently. But never without reason."
He gestured toward the body of the man who had used the Movement Hole.
"He tried to activate his power where it wasn't allowed. The spell may be damaged… but it leaves no room for error."
Then his eyes turned to the surviving man—the bearer of Faded Trace Weave.
"As for him… he obeyed. He didn't invoke his sub-ability. So the ward-spell spared him."
Varik turned back to his squad, his voice sharpening once more into command.
"Now we understand what we're dealing with. The ward is fractured. That means some areas might still permit sub-abilities—but not all. If it were otherwise, the first one to die here… would've been Orin."
Orin's hand twitched against his thigh, his jaw tightening. "Damn it…" he muttered.
Varik inclined his head slightly, half to himself.
"We tread blind here. No sub-abilities—not until we understand this place's rules. Not until we know where it permits us to act… and where it forbids us."
His eyes lingered on the corridor ahead—where the faint shimmer of displaced air still quivered.
As if it were alive.
As if it were watching.
Waiting.
Warning.