The air inside the Grade B-Minus Gate tasted exactly like bad copper and ozone, a noxious combination Leo Maxwell—or "Four-Eyes," as his rapidly dying teammates preferred—had documented over eighty times. He cataloged the scent as Predictable-A1.
The team, "The Sunken Five," was supposed to be a low-risk, high-reward clear. Their objective: a clutch of mana-rich geodes guarded by low-tier fungal husks. Instead, the husks had been replaced by something fast, something with teeth, and something that had just shredded their tank, Marcus, into an abstract composition of bone and armor plating.
Leo crouched behind a jutting shard of crystallized purple chitin, his primary function—Survey and Analysis—currently useless, given that the combatants were moving too quickly for his antiquated optical scanner to track.
"Someone get a stun lock! I'm out of mana!" screamed Anya, their Caster, her voice cracking with fear.
Leo sighed internally, adjusting the thick, unnecessary glasses perched on his nose. Anya's mistake wasn't running out of spiritual energy, he analyzed, the words forming instantly in the sterile library of his mind. Her mistake was inefficient execution of the 'Wind Cutter' technique, wasting eighty percent of her reserve on an angular spray pattern instead of a concentrated linear strike. Sub-optimal, bordering on idiocy.
He wasn't judging them out of malice, but academic boredom. He was a historian, a specialist in pre-Breach esoteric runic languages, forced by circumstance to serve as a high-risk Scout. He survived not through fighting prowess, but through superior predictive analysis fueled by cynical observation.
Their leader, a muscle-bound boor named Ryker, was holding the line with a clumsy but sturdy shield, his body steaming as he poured raw, unrefined spiritual energy into it. A flash of silver light, impossibly quick, broke through the shield's glow. It wasn't the clumsy fungal husk this time.
It was a creature Leo had only seen in high-definition field reports: the Failed Swordsman. It was a gaunt humanoid clad in armor made of solidified mana, carrying a massive, rusted blade that moved with a horrifying, cultured grace. It was the remnant of a failed cultivation attempt, a ghost trapped in a combat shell.
Ryker roared, dropping his shield and lunging for a final, desperate, mana-fueled punch.
The Swordsman simply tilted its head—an act of chilling, detached elegance. The rusty sword dipped, then blurred, shearing through the air where Ryker's torso had been a second ago. There was no sound of tearing flesh, just a heavy, wet thump as Ryker's two halves hit the ground.
Anya screamed, a sound that finally broke Leo's academic detachment. She stumbled backwards, her mana gauge officially empty, leaving her defenseless.
The Swordsman paused, its head slowly rotating, its empty helmet eyes locking onto Leo. It recognized the weakest link, the least threat, the easiest kill.
Leo felt the cold press of absolute finality. He wasn't afraid of dying; he was irritated that his final analysis would be: Death due to association with grossly incompetent peers.
The Swordsman raised its heavy blade, preparing the final, decisive strike that would end the mission, the team, and Leo's history of observational sarcasm.
He squeezed his eyes shut, his hand instinctively reaching for the only non-standard piece of gear he carried: a small, dark, fragmented runestone he'd unearthed during an archeological dig before the Breach. It was meant to be a paperweight. Now, as the shadow of the sword fell over him, he gripped it with desperate, sweating fingers.
The moment the metallic edge was inches from his face, a silent, conceptual switch was flipped.
Instead of the taste of copper, the air filled with the scent of old paper and leather. Inside Leo's mind, the darkness vanished, replaced by an infinite, sterile white room. And in the center of that room, a massive, obsidian gate shimmered, flanked by endless shelves. A silent, authoritative text appeared before his eyes:
[Aetherial Archive Protocol Initialized.]
[Targeting: Defeated Combatant Essence – Failed Swordsman.]
[Do you wish to ARCHIVE this entity?]