Welcome to the Enclave

The veil rippled—

And Leon stepped through, into a world that felt like it had already begun forgetting where he'd come from.

The bloodstained cavern vanished in an instant. So did the chill, the rot, the stench of things too long dead. In their place: open sky, green ridgelines, mountain air sharp as flint. 

Sunlight spilled through the canopy like it didn't know how to touch blood. A breeze swept across his face. Somewhere beyond the treeline, a stream whispered its way over stone.

Overhead, birds wheeled in silent arcs—small real birds, not the winged nightmares that haunted the skies back home. Animals like these had been erased long ago, surviving only in archived footage and propaganda textbooks that read more like fairy tales. He had forgotten they once existed.

The air didn't just smell clean. It felt… untouched. Like a world that had never known fire or ruin. Unreal, yet beautiful—like the kind of place that only showed up in the dreams.

He took a step forward—and stopped.

They were already there, waiting.

Figures. Kneeling. Still as stone.

A small group, dressed in crude furs and worn leathers, longbows slung across their backs—faces pale, postures rigid. They looked like remnants of a myth that had refused to die. Each one stared up at him, wide-eyed. Terrified.

Each of them bore a swollen welt on their forehead—raw and inflamed, as if they'd just barely escaped the claws of an unranked Shadowbeast.

What the hell was this?

Some kind of ritual? A prayer? Were they worshipping something?

He stepped sideways, scanning for altars, markings—anything that would explain their eerie synchronicity. The tension coiled in his spine didn't ease, but… they were human. And where there were people, maybe there weren't monsters.

Probably.

He raised a hand in half-greeting, half-caution.

"Uh… are you worshipping something? Because I'm not—whoever you think I am."

He took a step closer. Reached out.

Just to help one up.

"AAAH!"

The man recoiled like lightning had struck him, collapsed straight back into the dirt, legs folding beneath him. One trembling finger pointed. His mouth spilled frantic words, fast and senseless, thick with terror.

The others jolted upright. Same fear. Same disbelief.

Then they moved. Voices rose. Hands waved. Gestures overlapped in a scramble of panic and confusion. But none of them ran.

One even tried to bow again.

But it wasn't their behavior that unsettled him.

It was the air.

There was no Reiki. Not even a trace. The Aether in his blood, usually a quiet, steady rhythm, had stalled—caught somewhere mid-flow, like a breath held too long. The world felt muffled and slow, its weight pressing inward from all sides.

This wasn't just unfamiliar terrain. The way the Aether stalled, the way the air pressed in, the way even thought felt dulled—it all pointed to one thing.

This place was severed from the rest of the world, a fragment of reality governed by laws of its own.

There was no need to question it. This was a Stellar Enclave.

A few among them murmured—clipped, uncertain sounds that blurred into one another—before the hush spread. One by one, the others followed, until silence settled over the group.

They settled back onto their heels, eyes fixed on him, like he might change the shape of the sky.

"I grow a second heart on my face?" he asked, voice dry.

The villagers looked at each other.

Then shook their heads, in perfect unison.

"Right," he muttered. "Not creepy at all."

They kept staring. Not blinking. Not moving.

It was like watching a group prayer led by confused deer.

He ran a hand through his hair and sighed.

"Okay. Let's try something basic."

If they were from this world, then maybe—just maybe—they knew something about the veil. And even if they didn't, he wasn't about to waste the first real contact he'd had since stepping through.

He crouched a little. Kept his tone slow. Calm. Neutral.

"This." He pointed behind him. The veil still shimmered faintly.

"Veil. Door."

Then to them. Then the dirt beneath their feet.

"You. Where?"

Blank stares. No flicker of understanding. Nothing.

He tried again. Pointed. Mimicked walking through the portal. Repeated the words slower.

"Veil. Door."

Still nothing.

Then, after a long beat, one of them—tallest of the bunch, probably the oldest—parted his lips.

His accent was thick. The vowels dragged like half-frozen syrup.

"I… wus… hanter."

"Hunter?" he repeated, more to himself than to them. "You're hunters?"

The man nodded. Slowly. Eyes still wide.

Leon exhaled. Progress.

And they were improving. Rapidly.

Leon adjusted without thinking. He spaced his words further apart, softened his tone, and let each syllable drop like a stone into still water. Gradually, those stones began to settle. First came short replies. Then fragments of grammar. Words began to connect with meaning.

In ten minutes, they understood the basics. By fifteen, they were forming sentences—rough at the edges, but enough.

It wasn't mimicry. Not simple repetition and rote memory.

It was comprehension. Swift, precise, unsettling in its clarity.

Even trained linguists, educated in the heart of the Stellar Ascension Continent, would have needed weeks to reach that level.

These villagers were something else.

From what he gathered, this world had only one major city—just one place large enough to matter, and beyond that, scattered through mountains and valleys, were smaller villages. There were no countries, no drawn borders. Just land shaped by memory, by stories handed down like prayer, too old and sacred to be questioned.

The hunters said they'd come out searching for a dangerous creature called a Steelclaw, something that had been seen prowling near their village. It was supposed to be a simple mission: track it, confirm its presence, and return. But things went wrong. One of them, distracted or just unlucky, kicked a small blue stone that rolled straight into a notch beside the gate. That was all it took. The portal came to life.

They were already uneasy from stepping into what their elders called a forbidden zone. But when the light flared and the veil began to hum, their nerves snapped. Then, as if to confirm their worst fears, small glowing stones launched from the veil's edge—one of them hitting the oldest hunter square in the forehead.

Leon winced. Yeah… that one was entirely on him. He'd tossed a few pebbles at the veil, thinking it'd just bounce them off or swallow them like any normal interdimensional portal. He didn't expect them to pass straight through. And he definitely didn't expect the stones to fly halfway across another world and clock some poor hunter right between the eyes.

No divine force, no hex. Just a rock, bad timing, and the universe's idea of a joke.

Apparently, the veil wasn't the dangerous one. He was.

And somehow, all of it lined up. They triggered the portal. He triggered the "punishment." Then he stepped out of the light, sword in hand, looking every bit like something from legend.

No wonder they dropped to their knees.

It was absurd, but also strangely perfect.

Just beginning to think about how to explain the whole mess, maybe even laugh it off, when something changed. 

The air thickened—dense and still, like the forest itself was holding its breath. The stillness shattered with a sound that didn't belong to anything human—thick, wet, and disturbingly familiar. He'd heard it once already. Not long ago. It wasn't a frenzied snarl. It had rhythm Like a language.

He turned toward the sound.

And shadows spilled down the slope—fast, low to the ground, muscles coiled tight beneath fur mottled like ash and smoke, eyes burning with an unnatural gleam.

At least half a dozen of them.

Monsters.

Not animals. Not Shadowbeasts either.

Leon recognized them the moment they came into view—those eyes, that gait. He'd seen them before, in the dark. In the blood-soaked cavern.

Their yellow eyes locked onto hunters with that same mindless hunger.

"Shit—"

One lunged. No hesitation. No warning.

He triggered [Keen Sight] on instinct—nothing. No surge, no flicker. His blood stayed quiet. Reiki was gone. This world didn't follow his rules.

Didn't matter. His body was already moving.

The Cursed Sword came free in a flash, slicing the air before thought could catch up.

A choking gasp. A splash of heat. Then the creature hit the ground in a twisting heap, already dead before its claws touched dirt.

But not before it raked a hunter's face with its claws—three deep slashes from brow to jaw, blood spilling fast.

The others froze. Limbs locked. Eyes wide. Panic written all over their faces.

Too slow. Pathetic. Were these the hunters they'd claimed to be?

From the trees, more shapes burst into view—low to the ground, fast as sin, claws catching what little light broke through the canopy. Mouths open. Fangs bared. Kill in their eyes.

Leon stepped forward, slipping into the space between them and the oncoming threat. No hesitation, only instinct.

He stood alone—without allies, without divine aid. Just him and the blade in his hand.

Fine.

In an instant, the stillness broke. His body dropped low, weight shifted, blade already half-drawn. No wasted motion.

The Cursed Sword swung out, silver catching the air, and Leon vanished into motion—clean, silent, precise. A ghost among beasts.

The air filled with the hiss of steel and the wet rupture of muscle.

Blood sprayed in elegant, arching bursts. Bodies dropped mid-pounce, caught mid-growl, frozen in that last second between hunger and death.

The ground trembled beneath their sprinting limbs. Claws tore earth. Teeth flashed.

One leapt from behind—Leon twisted, ducked, and rammed his blade up through its ribcage. It jerked once, then fell limp against his shoulder.

Another came from the side. He spun and slashed low—caught it in the knee, then again across the throat as it collapsed.

Every heartbeat became a kill.

Every breath, another body hitting the dirt.

They moved fast—predators, monsters, made for this. Built to kill.

Even without Reiki, Leon had to stretch his reflexes past where he liked. His body could keep up, but already the strain was setting in. Muscles tightening. Breath growing sharp, uneven. Too early for fatigue. Too soon.

The Cursed Sword didn't care. It moved like it remembered this rhythm, like it had been waiting. No, hungering for it.

And then, finally, stillness.

The last Steelclaw hit the ground hard, ribs shattered inward, its blood pooling at Leon's feet. The clearing fell silent once more. Only the wind stirred—threading through trees, brushing over broken bodies, carrying the stench of blood and steam.

Behind him, the hunters hadn't moved. Not a sound. Not a breath. They stared like they'd seen something sacred—or something monstrous.

Leon wiped his face with the back of his arm, leaving a blood streak across his cheek.

"That's your idea of hunting?" he muttered, half a laugh caught in his breath. "What do you do when they fight back, pray harder?"

No one answered. One of them dropped to his knees.

And Leon, even as he stood, could already feel the fatigue creeping in—an unfamiliar tightness in his legs, a weight settling in his bones like the ground itself was pulling harder than it should.

This world was heavier than it looked.