The moss beneath him was soft, but it clung like damp memory. His fingers brushed through dew-slick grass as he pushed himself upright, blinking hard.
Glen Woods... or whatever it had become.
From the outside, it looked like any ordinary forest. Just another stretch of woodland—dense but tame, with groves and streams winding through. But this… this was something else entirely.
Now that he was inside the dungeon, he understood.
The Aether had changed everything.
Trees loomed like living towers, their bark twisted into looping ridges. The canopy above wasn't just high—it spiraled, braided like woven ironwood, with shafts of eerie green light filtering down through gaps in the leaves. Small glowing spores drifted lazily on the air. Vines pulsed faintly underfoot, twitching when stepped on.
The atmosphere was thick. Not with fog—but with presence. Aether pressed against his skin like the weight of deep water.
Lucian took a slow breath.
Even his mana didn't feel right. He reached out, letting it trickle to his palm—and winced. It moved like honey. Sticky. Sluggish.
So this is what it's like… inside a dungeon.
Aether suppression. Mana here resisted being twisted into complex forms. Spells would be harder. Cruder. Slower.
Cordelia mustn't be far, he thought. He closed his eyes, steadying his breathing.
Sensory Drift.
His consciousness blossomed from his mind like ink in water—slow, labored. Its range barely half what it should've been. Still, a hazy web of magical awareness began to form around him.
That's when something shifted behind him.
A presence. Faint.
His eyes snapped open. Instinct moved before thought.
Mana flared to his palm, a swirling orb forming—
Mana Bolt.
He spun and released it. The bolt cracked the air and slammed into something just emerging from the thicket.
Not dead center—but close enough to splinter an arm.
The creature recoiled, and stepped into full view.
A wooden elemental.
Its form was vaguely humanoid—jagged limbs, moss-covered shoulders, bark-like plating where skin should be. It pulsed green at the chest, just faintly—like a firefly heartbeat.
Lucian clicked his tongue. "Dungeons are weird."
His Arcane Attunement surged.
Threads of magical perception unfurled around the creature like spider silk. They wrapped around its body and locked onto something in the center of its torso.
There.
An Aether Core. In its solar plexus region. Just like a mage core.
Aether didn't just spawn monsters—it mutated them. Fed them. Empowered them.
He read about this.
The creatures near the heart of a dungeon were more than monsters. They were constructs—biological, yes, but backed by warped magic.
Lucian's fingers flexed.
This was why he trained. Why he studied so hard while others slept.
Back at the Academy, he spent sleepless nights debating what kind of magic could work in situations like this—deep within hostile zones, Aether-heavy environments where casting was a struggle.
And then, one night…
He had an epiphany.
So simple in theory. So direct in purpose. Not reliant on shaped elements. Not on fancy patterns or unstable constructs.
Just pure mana, weaponized as raw momentum.
Force Magic.
Crude in elegance. Perfect for Aether-suppressed zones.
He stepped forward. His mana shifted color—faint red, pressure-heavy. Runes traced themselves into the air around his hand, glowing like fresh iron.
The elemental lunged.
Lucian twisted, ducked under its swing—and drove his palm straight into its core with the crack of a hammer.
Impact.
Red force burst outward from his strike like a shockwave. The creature's torso caved in—splintering inward, greenish sap spraying from the core as the body fell twitching.
Lucian took a breath.
"Force magic: Force Impact."
Man, somebody write that down!
Then—
A scream.
He bolted.
Branches whipped past him, roots snagged at his ankles. He stumbled once, caught himself, kept going.
Up ahead—Cordelia.
Surrounded.
Four wooden elementals circled her. One already smoldered on the ground—charred to a crisp. She was panting, back to a thick trunk, robes dirtied and torn.
Lucian didn't hesitate.
Mana gathered in his palm again—this time shaped by runes. Twist. Force. Impact.
His signature move.
It shot forward like a dart of light and punched a hole clean through an elemental's shoulder, missing the core—but it staggered.
Cordelia reacted instantly. Her staff flared. A burst of flame arced out in a ring—engulfing one. She followed with a hard staff slam, igniting a barrier that flung another backwards into a tree with a satisfying crack.
Lucian joined her side as the last one charged. He ducked under a clumsy swing and drove his palm up into its side.
Force Impact
The red blast tore through it like a pressure cannon. It collapsed into ash and bark.
Cordelia stood hunched, her bright staff shaking in one hand. Scratches lined her legs, and her robe—far too short for dungeon work—was tattered, showing way too much skin.
Lucian noticed, then looked away. Immediately.
Clearing his throat, he extended a hand.
"You alright?"
She took it, stiffly.
"I could've handled it myself," she said, flicking her hair with as much dignity as she could muster.
Lucian let go.
She immediately slipped, falling back into the moss with a soft yelp.
She glared up at him. "You did that on purpose."
Lucian raised an eyebrow. "You can cast flame rings but can't stand up?"
She cursed under her breath, grabbed her staff, and scrambled upright.
He was already walking.
"Let's find the others," he called over his shoulder.
"Wait for me, peasant!" she shouted and stomping after him.
Lucian smiled faintly. Aether suppression or not—he was starting to get used to this place.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Deep in the canopy of the dungeon, far from any path laid by man, two figures walked in silence.
If Lucian had seen them—he would've known instantly.
These were the ones.
The group with that object that made his trait ache.
The first was a girl, hooded and quiet. Slim. Mid-height. Black hair spilled in wisps from under her hood. Though her eyes were hidden beneath the shadow, her lips curled into a smile—not warm. Not kind. Just... wrong. Two curved daggers hung at her hips, resting lightly against her sides with every step.
She didn't walk. She glided.
Beside her strode a man in long, heavy robes. No beard. No facial hair. But deep stress lines furrowed his face, and his skin held that odd paleness of someone who had forgotten how sunlight felt. Yet he moved with poise—like a teacher, or a priest.
They reached a clearing—one that seemed to reject light entirely.
The man paused.
Without a word, he knelt and reached into the folds of his robe.
A moment later, he pulled out a round metallic object—roughly the size of a palm. He twisted the sides. A soft mechanical click echoed through the clearing.
The orb opened.
The air changed.
Inside was a single obsidian shard. Jagged. Cold. The moment it was revealed, the world itself seemed to warp—colors muted, sounds dulled, time hesitating like a held breath.
It was wrong.
Profoundly wrong.
Even the Aether seemed to recoil.
Then the man closed the orb without emotion.
"Still stable," he muttered.
Just then, voices broke the quiet.
A new group entered the clearing—five adventurers, young, lightly armored, talking too loudly for the dungeon's mood. Their faces were bright. Hopeful. They looked like they still believed in the idea of heroism.
"Ah, strangers!" the lead adventurer said, noticing the two. "You okay? You part of the raid too?"
The cult mage rose slowly and nodded, his demeanor shifting like clockwork. A warm smile bloomed on his lips.
"We are," he said. "We got separated from our group. My sister here is... not much of a talker."
The girl didn't react. Just kept her eyes beneath the hood. Her lips still curled in that gentle, permanent smirk.
The party offered fruits, dried meat, and even suggested possible routes to regroup with the others. The cult mage laughed, accepted the food with both hands.
"So kind of you," he said. "Truly. May you find your team quickly."
They nodded, exchanged parting words, and began to walk off through the woods.
As soon as they were gone, his smile dropped like a broken mask.
What remained was only contempt.
"Why do they always get in the way?" he muttered, flicking imaginary dust from his sleeve.
Then:
"Serene."
"Yes, Master Vael?"
(She said it without looking. The first time her voice was heard—light, musical, a touch too pleased.)
His tone was dead calm.
"Take care of them."
She smiled. No hesitation. No questions.
With a blink, her body dissolved into a tendril of black mist—rushing across the foliage like living shadow.
Moments later—
Screams.
Short. Violent. Then silence.
Vael adjusted his robes again. The clearing around him flickered slightly, as though even the dungeon disapproved.
He looked toward the forest's heart.
"The Aether here is still too weak…"
His voice dropped into a whisper, full of purpose.
"The core will be better. Yes... closer to the guardian... That's where it will begin."
Then he turned—and disappeared into the trees.