It started from the plants they had walked past.
Red.
Slender, sinewy strands of it drifted up from the abyss below—first slowly, then with unmistakable intent. At a glance, they looked plant-like. Harmless. But the way they moved betrayed that illusion. They didn't float. They reached.
Tendrils—long and vein-thin—curled upward with unnatural grace, brushing against ankles with the gentleness of something trying to lull its prey. Curious. Eager. Patient.
But only for a moment.
Then they surged from behind them.
More of them burst from the water in a silent eruption, rising not like reeds, but like a field of hungry tongues. Dozens became hundreds. They whipped through the air, trailing stolen blood like streamers in the wind. The red liquid that had trickled from ears moments ago now dripped freely from the tendrils themselves, replicated and multiplied. Blood not their own—but borrowed. Claimed.
And worse still—it didn't vanish when it hit the water. Unlike before, the ink-black pond refused to drink it. As if even it had standards for what it would consume.
Sir Calden's instincts kicked in instantly. He grabbed Erasmus by the collar and yanked him behind, shielding the boy with his broad frame. "Behind me, prophet," he growled. "We're not letting you die before this mess gets explained."
The rest of the group exploded into action, blades drawn in the dim light. Swords hissed free of sheaths, steel catching glimmers of nonexistent light in the hollow blackness.
But something was wrong.
Terribly wrong.
Rei's first slash against the crimson tendrils was clumsy—too wide, too unbalanced. He staggered slightly with the follow-through, blinking in shock. "This... this isn't how I fight," he breathed, confusion thick in his voice. "What happened to all the training I did?!"
Riven, mid-swing, grunted as his blade narrowly severed a reaching tendril. "It's the memories," he shouted. "The damn Trial didn't just steal our past—it stole our experience. Our instincts." Another slash. Less precise than it should've been. "I should've realized it in the crimson forest. But everything was too chaotic."
Brin was beside Mira, swinging his blade with labored effort. "Great," he said between panting breaths. "It just had to steal the most important memories. You know—the ones that keep us alive."
Mira forced a laugh, slashing one of the tendrils in half as it barreled toward her. "Hey, at least they're clumsy. All they do is rush straight in. Even a blindfolded knight could cut these." Her tone was light—too light. The kind of forced optimism one forged in a fire of desperation.
They didn't speak of it aloud, but they all understood. Their memories of battle—honed through years of sweat and pain—were gone. All that remained were bodies with muscle and no muscle memory.
And through it all, Erasmus simply watched.
Detached. Curious. Fascinated.
His eyes followed the motion of the red plants, his gaze darting between the blood-dripping vines and the unchanging pond surface. He said nothing. He did nothing.
He watched it only for the pure reason of wanting to know what it was.
How it worked. How it absorbed. How it multiplied.
He would have gladly liked to have taken a sample. He wanted to know all about it.
Atlas, the water changed again.
Not visually—but viscerally.
A vibration shuddered through the liquid. A tremor, subtle at first, like the quiet prelude to something enormous. The surface began to rumble—not from above, but from below.
A sound rose.
A low, gut-shaking whum that vibrated through bones and souls alike. It grew—fast—into a deafening roar, like the world's lungs had turned inside out.
And then the pond sucked.
Not metaphorically. A real vacuum-like force opened in the depths, as if the water had transformed into a mouth, and that mouth was hungry.
The wrath of the pond was targeted at him.
It was as if the aggressor had focused all its force on just taking him.
Erasmus didn't resist it.
It wasn't like he could anyway.
He let the pull take him.
One moment he stood still, observing the chaos like an aloof godchild. The next, he was yanked under—his body folding into the black like he had always belonged to it.
Submerged.
Swallowed whole.
He fell. Spinning. Blinded. The pressure wrapped around his body like arms made of gravity. And still—he didn't panic.
His heartbeat thudded in his ears, calm as ever. Like he wanted this.
And then—he saw it.
The creature.
Dark orange.
Massive. Impossible. Unthinkable.
Its body was a flat circle, miles across, suspended in a space far larger than the pond above suggested. Reality had bent. The illusion floor had concealed a cathedral-sized abyss.
And in the center of that circle—teeth.
Spinning. Shrieking. Crowning the creature's round edge like a maw split open through geometry. Tentacles orbited its body at blinding speeds, whirling so fast they became halos of movement, creating the vacuum that dragged all things down.
Erasmus named it instantly in his mind: The Circular Vacuum.
Even now, his ears screamed from the soundless roar. Vibrations hammered through his skull, bursting his eardrums. Blood trickled down his neck—but he barely blinked.
Blurry-eyed, he spotted it—a weakness.
A sliver in the spinning teeth. A narrow gap.
He reached into his cloak and pulled out a thin dagger—his backup, not divine, but sharp. Reliable.
He let the vacuum drag him closer. Let the centrifugal horror become his tide.
And when the teeth opened just wide enough—he moved.
He slammed the dagger downward with inhuman force. Muscle tore in his arms. His shoulder snapped. But the blade sunk into that gap—wedging open a hole.
Using the last of his strength, Erasmus forced it wider.
Wider.
Until finally—it was large enough.
He let the vacuum claim him.
And just before he vanished into the spinning, serrated void, he thought out loud.
"At least I won't get shredded now," he sighed, letting go. "Let's see what this creature has to offer."
And with that, he was gone—devoured by something older than fear.
The Circular Vacuum had opened its eye-less mouth.
And Erasmus had stepped willingly into the truth inside it.