Finally, it was time to move out.
Thirty adventurers in total—seven parties of varying size—marched under the morning sun, golden light spilling over cobbled streets and fluttering cloaks. Steel clinked, voices murmured. Excitement, tension, and that silence just before something big.
Their destination:
The Capital's Teleportation Gate.
The gate stood at the city's far edge, a collaborative stronghold shared between the Adventurer's Guild and the Knight Orders, marked by a silver sigil of crossed swords and arcane rings.
At its heart:
A towering platform of carved stone ringed by silver pylons. The platform pulsed with faint mana-light, etched with runes that shimmered underfoot like water. A massive pedestal sat in the center, easily wide enough for fifty—its surface glowing faintly with embedded mana gems and ancient scripts.
And in front of it—
Two men.
Even from afar, their presence pressed on the air.
Knights.
Lucian felt it. Everyone did.
They wore light armor, elegant and functional, molded with tailored precision. One gleamed—silver and gold, polished like holy steel. The other bore dark iron plates layered asymmetrically, shadows clinging to him like old regrets. A scar ran diagonally across his face, refusing to be forgotten.
The shining one stepped forward first. His voice was strong, poised, meant for command.
"Sir Caelum. Sun Knight Division."
Then the other, quieter, as if spoken in dusk instead of daylight.
"Sir Garrick. Moon Knight Division."
Lucian blinked. The contrast was jarring.
One looked like he stepped out of legend.
The other… like he ended legends.
He remembered something Malrik once said:
"Knights don't begin until Master Rank. Some walk beyond that into myth."
Caelum gestured behind him toward the glowing gate.
"Your destination is the Glen Woods, outer sector. A C-Rank dungeon. Expect earth-elementals, unstable terrain, and ambient suppression. The pedestal will place you just outside the perimeter."
Garrick added, voice low but razor-sharp.
"MURK levels are estimated at two to three. The guardian is a solid four. You'll survive if you don't get stupid. Anchor yourselves."
Lucian knew MURK well enough:
Mutation Index, Unnatural behaviour, Resistance to mana and kill rate.
Four was dangerous. Lethal, even, for newbies like himself.
Cordelia looked at him with her usual smile.
"C-Rank is the general threat grade. MURK's the real danger, you know—"
"Yeah, yeah," Lucian cut her off, eyes forward.
They began stepping onto the pedestal.
The glyphs underfoot pulsed brighter. Runes around the edges snapped to life, concentric circles spinning into position.
Lucian glanced around casually.
Then—
A twitch.
His trait stirred.
Arcane Attunement suddenly flared, unbidden.
Something interesting?
His eyes flicked toward the edge of the platform.
A party of four stood together—clad in dark gear, hoods low, armor dull and tightly woven. They barely moved. Barely breathed.
Then—a flash of black.
One passed something to the other.
Small. Subtle.
But Lucian's trait reacted violently.
Thin strands of arcane perception surged toward the object, instinctively trying to wrap around it. Analyze it. Break it down.
But the moment the threads touched—
The feedback snapped back into him like a slap to the brain.
Blocked.
Blurred.
Like something in reality refused to be known.
All in the span of a single heartbeat.
Lucian staggered for a fraction, a breath caught in his throat.
What… in the Abyss was that?
But the runes beneath him were already glowing.
The world was starting to fold.
And the object—whatever it was—had been concealed.
The runes flared, light blinding. A dome of pure mana swirled upward like a blossoming flower. Lucian felt the air pull inward, the pressure shift.
Teleportation.
Space collapsed.
He had no sense of self—no limbs, no breath, no weight.
Just distortion. Stretching. Folding.
Inside out.
Then—
Impact.
Lucian landed with a squelch on moss-soft ground.
Gasps echoed. Armor clanged. Someone cursed.
Around him, the others stumbled to their feet, checking gear, gripping weapons. Some still reeling.
But no one spoke.
Because ahead of them—
The Veil.
A wall of green—not vines, not fog. Something elemental. Flowing like glass turned to liquid, rippling softly with light and color.
It hummed.
Low. Constant. Not with mana.
Aether.
Lucian's breath caught.
It wasn't just magic—it was something else.
Deeper. Older. Wrong in all the right ways.
He felt his mana recoil. Shrink away like prey.
Even the strongest among them froze.
Someone whispered:
"Magnificent… yet deadly."
Cordelia stood quietly for once.
Lucian had read the theory. Studied the diagrams.
But nothing—nothing—compared to this.
Beside him, Eri watched, coat swaying in the wind, arms tattooed, mask unreadable.
"This view never gets old," he said.
Then added, voice lower:
"Stay close. The Veil twists space. You enter alone, you might arrive alone."
Cordelia rolled her eyes, but Durn had already seized her wrist. With a grumble, she reached for Lucian.
Lucian took her hand. She was warmer than expected.
The group moved slowly.
Grass crunched.
Breaths fogged.
Even sound seemed muted.
And Lucian…
That suspicion stirred again.
That thing in the hands of those dark-armored men.
His trait had felt it—a flicker, a fracture.
He glanced back.
But they were gone.
Already through.
And then—
The Veil swallowed them.
Like stepping through liquid air.
Freezing. Drenched.
Falling through silence.
Lucian felt his hand slip.
Cordelia's grip vanished.
Durn's fingers crushed his wrist.
Folding. Stretching. Drowning.
Something cracked inside his skull.
Then—
Impact.
He landed again, gasping.
Moss beneath. Aether above.
The hum of another world pressing in.
Lucian blinked, heart steadying.
The raid had begun.