A World Turned Inward
The portal was less a gateway than it was a scar in the fabric of reality—an irregular, thrumming fissure carved deep into the belly of the cavern wall. Its edges bled a sullen violet light, not divine, not elemental, but something more ancient, more wounded. It pulsed, slow and rhythmic, like the breath of something sleeping just on the other side.
Koda stood closest to it, feeling the way the air distorted around its edges—too cold, too still, as if time had begun to slow. The moss near its base had died, blackened and curling away from the wound in reality.
Behind him, Grent checked the straps on his greatshield one last time. His bulky frame was clad in chain and thick leather, his square jaw set beneath a crooked nose that had clearly met more than a few fists in his life. Despite his gruff demeanor, he hadn't said a word since they confirmed the scar wasn't sealed.
"I'll go first," Grent muttered, voice like gravel. "Just in case."
"No," Renn said, slipping past him lightly. Her steps barely touched the wet stone. She held her bow low, but not unready. The scout's eyes—sharp, dark, always flickering to movement—were locked on the center of the scar. "I'll go. If something's waiting, I want to see it before it sees us."
Koda watched her disappear into the light.
Erilan stood beside him, calm and unreadable. Older than the rest by at least a decade, he wore the years lightly—still lean, still sharp—but there was a gravity to him. His robes were always immaculate, layered in deep gray trimmed with subtle copper runes. His spellbook floated just over his gloved hand, turning pages at his silent command.
Lumia, standing just behind Grent, closed her eyes. Her lips moved silently—not in prayer, but in focus. A halo of pale green light settled over her shoulders, the telltale shimmer of the Holy Mother's touch.
Then they followed Renn.
Koda stepped through last.
—
The air changed instantly.
If the slums of Oria had stunk of ash and damp brick, this place reeked of wet metal and spoiled nectar. The world around them blurred, twisted, then cracked back into shape like glass under pressure.
They stood in a forest—but not like any Koda had ever seen.
The sky above was not a sky at all, but a vast dome of swirling amethyst clouds shot through with teal lightning. Trees twisted impossibly high, their bark like bruised flesh, their leaves thin and needle-like, shimmering with faint phosphorescence. Vines with pulsing veins of bioluminescence curled over roots that writhed ever so slightly, as though reacting to their presence.
The ground was soft—too soft. Fungal patches broke underfoot with a wet squelch, releasing clouds of yellow spores that drifted sluggishly in the heavy air. Something chirped in the distance, sharp and alien, echoed by a low grunt that rumbled beneath their feet.
Koda could feel the world breathing.
"This isn't kobold territory," Erilan said, his voice quieter than usual.
"No…" Lumia replied, eyes wide, her hand hovering near her satchel of healing salves.
"There's no map for this," Renn added, her voice flat. "Keep close."
Koda summoned his blade again. It hummed faintly in his hand, a ghost of silvered steel wrapped in a halo of muted shadow. The cave had accepted it. But here—this place rejected it. The blade pushed against the air like oil against water.
Still, it held.
And as the five of them began their slow descent into the unknown, the scar pulsed behind them once more.
Like a heartbeat.
Like a countdown.
_____
The alien forest thickened as they moved further from the scar's boundary. What little sunlight that had pierced the smoky dome of the sky was now swallowed by a canopy of gnarled trees and twisted vines. The atmosphere reeked of damp decay and feral magic—a far cry from the worn streets of Oria.
Koda, his features still blurred by pain and determination, took cautious steps behind the group. His youthful face, not yet hardened by decades of survival, betrayed vulnerability despite his resolve. Lumia, similarly, moved a few paces to his side. Her gentle eyes shone with an earnest mix of trepidation and wonder, her hands clutching her small satchel of healing salves.
Ahead of them, the experienced members led the way. Renn moved lightly along the forest floor. Grent followed with measured, heavy strides and Erilan silently recited runes as he studied the chaotic energy that pulsed from the forest, his every gesture precise, his eyes a calm harbor amid the mounting tension.
In the oppressive, humid air, every footstep on the damp earth seemed magnified—the crunch of dead leaves, the squelch of moss between worn boots, and the faint, relentless dripping of water falling from dripping stalactites overhead.
Then, as if commanded by the rustling dark, a new sound emerged: a chorus of harsh clicks, wet gurgles, and ragged grunts coming from a dense thicket on their left. The group tensed.
Renn signaled silently with her hand, and Grent's eyes narrowed. Erilan intently studied the shifting shadows. From behind a lean clump of dead reeds, a figure emerged.
It was a beast unlike any of the stray goblins they'd encountered before—similar to a kobold, but distorted by the alien marsh. This creature, as it materialized from the tangled undergrowth, was taller than its kin, nearly seven feet in spindly, twisted stature. Its skin was an unsettling, mottled sickly green, pocked with patches of mottled decay and raw, exposed sinew. The creature's eyes, small and burning with a dim, unnatural orange glow, darted erratically. Its elongated snout was filled with a jagged array of broken teeth, some missing, others overgrown and yellowed. Most grotesquely, its arms ended in gnarled, swollen claws that seemed to writhe as if in perpetual arthritic torment.
Every movement was marked by a low, wet clicking—a sound of its brittle bones scraping against one another as it moved. The creature's breath, fetid and heavy with the reek of decay and stale water, filled the air like a malevolent fog. A faint cord of ragged cloth, tied clumsily around its neck—possibly trophies from a past victim—trailed along its tattered form.
The beast did not attack immediately. Instead, it lurched forward in a slow, desperate gait, its movements erratic yet laden with the hungry determination of one starved to madness.
"Watch it," Renn whispered, voice low. "This isn't just scavenging for scraps—this one's stalking its prey."
Koda's heart hammered. The pain from earlier throbbed in his wounded side, yet his mind sharpened as he gauged the threat. Even in its frailty, the creature's appearance was horrifying—a living caricature of decay and desperation.
The creature let out a rasping, gurgling sound, its eyes fixed on the group as it edged closer, each limping step drawing it nearer. Then, fueled by desperation, it surged forward in a burst of speed, aiming its spindly claws toward Grent, the bulwark of the group.
The ensuing chaos was swift and brutal. Renn's arrow sang through the humid air, striking the creature's flimsy shoulder with a sickening thud. Grent swung his massive shield with the precision honed over years, intercepting a swipe that, despite its feeble form, carried undeniable malice. The creature staggered, its grotesque features contorting in a wail of agonizing hunger and pain. Yet its decrepit state made it resilient in its own unthinking way.
Koda clenched his grip on the hilt of his summoned blade—a weapon he had learned to trust—and prepared to act as the next assault wave. The creature's slow, desperate charge belied its inner torment—a feral dance of instinct and starvation. Its mangled fingers clawed at the air before snapping onto nothing but escaping dust, while its fetid breath stirred revolting images of decay.
The young warrior's pulse thundered in his ears. He knew that, despite the beast's weaknesses, the encounter could be lethal— every misstep counted. He steeled himself to engage.
The battle against was not nearly as graceful as one might hope. Every movement was a struggle: Koda's feet slipped on the wet, blood-mixed mud; every swing of his blade was met with a chorus of squelches as both blood and mud danced off his wounds. The creature's low, grinding clicks and desperate grunts wove together into a horrifying symphony that underlined the primal struggle.
For a moment, the creature's gnarled claws caught at Koda's arm in a frenzied grip. Pain exploded as its fangs bit into his flesh, and for a few agonizing seconds, Koda found himself ensnared in a desperate, feral embrace. But in that heart-stopping moment—as dark as the void outside—the resolve surged from deep within him.
He summoned his blade back in a flare of unwavering determination. With a guttural roar, he twisted his body and drove the Blade of Conviction deep into the creature's skull. The cut was savage—a sickening, grinding slice that sounded like bone cracking under the weight of a final exodus. The blade plunged through, carrying with it the weight of Koda's fear, pain, and fierce will to live. The creature convulsed once, its clicking ceasing abruptly, then collapsed, a broken husk in the wet grass of the alien marsh.
The battle was over swiftly, leaving the team in a momentary stunned silence, punctured only by ragged breaths and the drone of distant, unknown sounds.
As the team regrouped, taking stock of minor cuts and bruises, the alien marsh seemed—for now—to hold its breath.
Koda stood silently above the mangled body, his blade slowly dissipating back into shimmering ether. His breath came in shallow, burning gasps, blood still trailing from the bite in his arm. The weight of it all—the reek of the beast, the warmth of blood seeping into his sleeve, the eerie quiet—settled like mud in his lungs.
Then it came again.
That faint, unmistakable chime.
[LEVEL UP]
You have reached Level 6.
All attributes increased by 1 via [Balance].
—-—-
HP: 78 / 100
Mana: 90 / 100
Stamina: 50 / 100
Strength: 9 → 10
Vitality: 9 → 10
Agility: 9 → 10
Intelligence: 9 → 10
Wisdom: 9 → 10
Endurance: 9 → 10
—-—-
He exhaled, body still trembling, and let the glow fade. One more step. One more rung climbed. It didn't feel like victory, not in the traditional sense. It felt like survival—earned, not granted.
His hand flexed.
The pain was still there. But so was the progress.
And in a world like this, that was enough.