Several villagers lay scattered across the ground.
Blood mixed with mud and crushed leaves. Bodies motionless—or trembling faintly. Muted groans from those barely clinging to life. The village square, which only minutes before had seemed ordinary, had become a battlefield.
Eldoria did not forgive mistakes.
Nara clung to Adrian's arm with bruising force. She had never trusted him—not truly. In other worlds, she had seen him maneuver ruthlessly, cold and calculating. She had even thought of him as a villain.
But here, with the metallic scent of fresh blood thick in the air, he was the only solid thing left to hold onto.
Adrian said nothing.
He studied the corpse of a man impaled through the chest by a minotaur's horn. Both lay still—certainly dead. There was no irony in his expression, no surprise. Only an uncomfortable certainty:
This world was not a warning.
It was a sentence.
The village chief emerged from among the survivors.
Tall. Broad. Scarred. Draped in worn furs. He stepped forward slowly, hands raised in a ritual gesture. He murmured words Adrian could not understand, but the tone carried something unmistakable:
Recognition.
Adrian narrowed his eyes, assessing every movement. Surrender? Welcome? Or simply a ritual marking mutual survival?
Nara remained frozen, still gripping his arm, watching as the surviving villagers regarded them with a mixture of fear and respect.
The chief stopped before them. He pointed first to the fallen bodies, then to the living. His gaze searched for something—an unspoken pact. The bullets that had torn through minotaurs had earned respect.
But bullets were not infinite.
Nara exhaled slowly, letting a fraction of tension drain from her body. She did not understand the language—but she understood intent.
They had fought together.
That was enough.
A fragile thread of brotherhood had formed in a world that, until hours ago, had been incomprehensible and hostile.
Adrian gave a slight nod. Without breaking eye contact with the chief, he signaled his group to regroup and tend to the wounded.
Every shadow was still a threat.Every sound, a possible attack.
And one thought echoed relentlessly in his mind:
They needed to return to their world. The sooner, the better.
Burying the dead. Washing blood from skin. Continuing to live.
It proved far harder than anyone had imagined.
The square fell into a heavy silence, as though even the air refused to move. The metallic scent of blood lingered among smoke, damp soil, and dried sweat—seeping into skin, clothes… memory.
The villagers worked with sorrowful efficiency.
No one screamed.No one wept aloud.
They simply breathed… and continued.
They dug graves with crude tools. When the earth resisted, they used bare hands. Nails split. Skin tore. No one stopped.
They laid the bodies carefully. Straightened arms. Closed eyes. Murmured prayers in an incomprehensible tongue whose emotional weight required no translation.
Nearly half the village's men were gone.
This was not a funeral.
It was routine.
Nara stared without blinking.
Her pupils seemed too wide. Too still. As though the world had lost depth.
Three bodies lay before her on makeshift blankets.
Three archaeologists.
Her colleagues.
People she had shared weeks of expedition with—nervous jokes, arguments over ancient maps, absurd theories that now felt grotesquely insignificant.
Kenji, laughing as he insisted Eldoria probably hid lost temples.Laura, complaining about the climate, swearing she would never accept another excavation in "cursed territory."Darío, promising their discovery would make them famous.
None of them breathed now.
Beyond them lay four more bodies beneath military cloth.
The escorts.
Men she barely knew.
Men who had died protecting them.
Seven.
The number branded itself into her mind.
Her breathing faltered.
"They…," she whispered, her voice breaking. "…they weren't supposed to die here."
Adrian did not answer immediately.
Leaning against the splintered remains of a shattered palisade, arms crossed, he watched the burials. A mind once devoted to corporate crises, hostage negotiations, legal wars, and impossible deals now calculated something far simpler—
And far more terrifying.
Ammunition.Time.Probability.
He glanced at the magazines laid out on a blanket as the surviving escorts inspected each round, discarding warped bullets, wiping away blood and powder residue.
The faint metallic clink of brass striking brass sounded like a clock ticking down their survival.
"Four hundred rounds," Morales said at last.
The silence that followed weighed more than the number itself.
"If they attack again…" he added, leaving the thought unfinished.
He didn't need to finish.
Nara had not let go of Adrian.
It had become instinctual. Almost childlike. Her fingers trembled, but they remained locked around his sleeve.
Adrian watched her from the corner of his eye. Then he sighed softly and crouched beside a dented metal case.
He opened it.
Removed a pistol.
Held it out to her.
Nara hesitated. She stared at the weapon as if it were a living creature—something capable of turning on her at any second.
"Take it," Adrian said.
"I… I don't know how to use that."
"You need to learn."
His tone was not harsh. Not kind.
It was practical.
Inevitable.
He took her hand firmly and placed the pistol between her fingers. Adjusted her grip with unexpected patience. Corrected her wrist. Aligned the barrel. Guided her breathing.
"Safety's here," he said. "Only disengage it if you're going to fire."
He moved her finger gently toward the trigger.
"Never point it at someone you're not willing to kill."
Nara swallowed. The gun felt too heavy.
Too real.
"Squeeze slowly. Breathe first. Then fire."
She nodded, though her pulse betrayed her.
"Emergency only," Adrian added, meeting her eyes. "You're not a soldier. This is a last resort."
She pressed the pistol against her chest as though holding something sacred—
Or cursed.
An escort passed carrying Álvarez's body. His face was covered, but his boots dragged through the dirt, leaving an uneven trail across the square.
Morales followed behind, jaw clenched so tight it seemed painful.
Nara closed her eyes.
"They died… because of us…"
The wind swept through the village, stirring ash and dry leaves.
Adrian looked up at the gray sky.
It could have been them.
The difference had been a fraction of a second. A decision. A bullet.
For the first time since crossing into this world, he understood something no corporate strategy could calculate:
Survival meant carrying the weight of those who didn't make it.
The calm after the burials did not last.
When the final shovelful of earth covered the graves, something shifted.
Not visibly.Not audibly.
Instinctively.
The villagers began to move.
First the elders, returning to their homes with steady steps. Then women and children, gathering utensils, rolling blankets, dismantling wooden structures with the precision of repetition.
The men secured pack animals. Salvaged usable sections of the palisade.
It did not look like panic.
It looked like inheritance.
"What are they doing?" Morales murmured.
No one answered.
The village chief approached again, his fur cloak still stained with dark mud. He studied Adrian's group analytically—measuring how much weight they could carry.
Or how long they might survive.
Then he raised his arm.
Pointed to the forest.Then to a descending path between the trees.Then to Adrian's group.Then to the village.
Go.
He repeated the gesture.
Nara tightened her grip.
"I think… they want us to leave."
Adrian searched the chief's face for hostility.
Found none.
Only weary determination.
The chief touched his chest, then mimed horns with his hands. A charge. Then shook his head.
More would come.
Not a warning.
Experience.
Nara watched a woman remove a small amulet from her doorway before abandoning her home. Her hands trembled, but her face remained expressionless.
"They live like this," Nara whispered. "They build… bury… and leave."
Adrian assessed quickly: wounded, exhausted, limited ammunition, compromised ground.
Staying would be tactical suicide.
"We move with them," he ordered. "Tight formation. Check weapons. No one separates."
The escorts' relief was subtle—but real.
The chief exhaled faintly, turned, and began walking without looking back, trusting they would follow.
The column advanced toward the forest.
Restless animals.Children in absolute silence.Men guarding the rear with spears ready.
Adrian watched them abandon their homes without farewell.
A strategy.A tradition.An inherited condemnation.
Nara walked closer to him.
"Do you think they have another village?"
Adrian studied the dark path swallowed by towering trees.
"No."
She frowned.
"I think they have… many places where they don't die."
The wind moved through the canopy, carrying what might have been a distant roar—
Or merely Eldoria reminding them that nothing there truly belonged to the living.
The column moved on.
And behind them, the village fell silent… waiting for the world to reclaim what had always been its own.
Meanwhile — Kael
Dawn at the Sanctuary of Helior painted the frozen lake in pale gold when Kael awoke.
The fire still burned. Lyra slept wrapped in blankets. Arkhavel meditated before the cutting wind.
Kael touched the pendant at his chest.
The key.
Ancient metal. Shifting engravings. Alive since it opened the gate between worlds.
"It is not of Eldoria," Arkhavel said without turning.
"I found it in my world."
The old man nodded.
"A relic of the Threshold Walkers."
Lyra sat up.
"It can guide you to artifacts from before the kingdoms."
The key vibrated. Invisible symbols arranged themselves in Kael's mind.
North. Farther north.
"It also lets me understand any language," Kael added.
Arkhavel planted his staff in the snow.
"Then you have been chosen. Primordial relics do not awaken without drawing calamity."
Kael smiled.
"Then I'm on the right path."
Two days later, he traveled alone.
The deep north transformed snowfields into towering rock formations—like petrified titans. The air hummed with ancient power.
The key glowed.
Between rune-carved columns, Kael found it:
A colossal black door, covered in symbols that moved like stars trapped in stone.
The key pulled against his chest.
"Here you are…"
When it turned in the lock, the valley trembled. The stone split open with an ancestral roar.
Inside lay a vast chamber. At its center floated a pedestal.
Upon it rested a golden gauntlet etched with living inscriptions.
Kael touched it.
Visions tore through him—forgotten armies, dragons in crimson skies, kings kneeling.
A voice echoed in his mind:
Bearer of the Threshold Key.If you claim the Gauntlet of Dominion,you shall conquer impossible frontiers.
The gauntlet sealed around his arm.
Then—
A roar.
A colossus of stone and magma erupted from the entrance, eyes blazing like volcanoes.
Kael drew his blade.
The battle shook the valley. The colossus struck, shattering rock. Kael moved on instinct. When a massive fist descended, he raised the gauntlet.
A golden barrier absorbed the blow.
He advanced.
Channeling its power, his sword carved a line of light that split the colossus in two. The creature collapsed in burning fragments.
Silence returned.
Kael stood amid ash.
The gauntlet pulsed softly—approving.
He looked toward the northern horizon.
He felt the world opening before him: relics, kingdoms, conquest.
And as he walked, the Threshold Key shone brighter—
As if Eldoria itself recognized the birth of something new.