"...Where…are we…"

  A shaky voice broke the silence.

  One of the Coreborns blinked rapidly, vision blurry, like waking from a nightmare still in progress. His eyes adjusted, catching only silhouettes at first—shifting shadows, faint purple pulses, a darkened ceiling etched with moving runes.

  The room wasn't normal.

  It wasn't even a room.

  It was a sanctum.

  But not one made by human hands.

  The air was thick, pressing down on their lungs like invisible hands. The scent of ozone and burnt mana lingered, along with a buzzing noise that wasn't quite sound but wasn't silence either—like a distant electric hum drilled into the mind.

  Then the figures came into focus.

  Dozens of them.

  No—hundreds.

  RuneGuards.

  Monstrous constructs, each the size of a small tank, stood like unmoving statues. Their frames were forged from blackened alloy and arcane glass. Each one bore a glowing core fragment—impossibly stable—embedded into their right shoulders. Their chests were branded with sigils pulsing in sync with the dome's heartbeat.

  "…Huh?" one of the Coreborns gasped.

  "What the hell is happening?!"

  "I can't… move my body!!"

  "Shit—!"

  Panic spread like wildfire.

  The Coreborns were locked in place—every single one of them. Arms trembling. Legs frozen. Their cores? Suppressed. Suppressed so brutally it felt like their souls were sealed in ice.

  A few tried to flare their aura. The result?

  Nothing.

  It was like trying to scream underwater.

  Seo Juntae's eyes twitched, teeth grinding as he tried to shift his stance—but even his captain-tier strength couldn't break the paralysis.

  He managed to glance upward.

  What he saw drained the colour from his face.

  A ceiling that wasn't a ceiling.

  A barrier.

  A dome.

  No—it was alive. It wasn't made of mana. It was something else—something colder, more ancient. Void-colored threads wove through it like a tapestry of locked dimensions, shimmering and pulsing with eldritch rhythm.

  "…We're locked in," Seo Juntae muttered.

  "What?"

  "What are you saying, Captain?"

  Someone asked, already breathless from panic.

  "I'm saying," he exhaled, "we're trapped inside a dome of energy. Something that won't let us out… or let anyone in."

  The silence that followed was unbearable.

  Because deep down, they all understood what that meant.

  Who—or what—could cast a magic like that?

  Outside the Rift.

  The air was humid with Dust, glinting faintly in the shafts of light leaking through the canopy. A gust swept through the broken terrain as she arrived.

  A lone figure approached the encampment's perimeter—her footsteps light, but the weight she carried behind her eyes was far from it.

  ****

  "Foreman," Ha Yura spoke, her voice clear but calm.

  "HYUCK!"

  The foreman visibly jolted, spinning around with a hand on his chest.

  "M-Ms. Ha! What brings you here?! Did something happen?!"

  His words tripped over each other, full of panic and respect. But she didn't respond immediately.

  Her sharp eyes were scanning the area.

  "Is Han Jaemin here?" she asked—softer this time, almost... different. The way her tone shifted, like her entire reason for being here was in that single name.

  The foreman blinked, caught off guard. He paused, processing what she just asked.

  "Uh—yes, well, he is."

  Her eyes lit up instantly, something between relief and urgency sparking behind them.

  "Where?" she asked.

  "Inside the Rift," he replied.

  "Already? The strike team went in?" Her voice dropped into a whisper, "So I'm late…"

  "Y-Yes, ma'am. Although… they haven't returned yet."

  That stopped her cold.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Her gaze returned to him, slightly wide, lips parting, but no words came out. The bun in her hair began to loosen—unravelling on its own as if her Core was responding to her state.

  The braid that fell down her back flicked in the wind, strands rising as though charged with unseen force.

  She turned toward the Rift's jagged gate, gaze sharpening,

  "I need to get in. I need to see what happened."

  But just as she took her first step—

  "Ms. Ha!" the foreman called out, panic tightening his throat.

  She stopped. Mid-step. Her heels firm against the dirt as she turned her head to look back at him.

  The silence after was deafening.

  "Yes?" she asked, turning her head slightly.

  "Are you planning on going inside the rift?" the foreman asked again, his voice layered with concern.

  "I am. Why do you ask?" Ha Yura's tone was calm, but sharp.

  "You'll go in barehanded? Without a weapon?" he pointed out, a bit startled.

  She paused.

  "I will. I don't need one."

  Her words weren't arrogance—they were fact. With that, she resumed walking.

  "Ms. Ha!"

  She stopped again. Her expression didn't change, but she turned just enough to acknowledge him.

  "Why are you going in without a weapon—and that too so suddenly? Is something wrong with the strike team?" the foreman asked, his worry deepening.

  Yura blinked once. Her expression shifted faintly—not fear, not anger, but something else entirely.

  "I-I don't know about the strike team," she admitted. "But the person I want to meet is inside."

  A familiar image flickered through her mind—someone fragile, someone serious, someone she hadn't forgotten.

  Her eyes softened.

  She didn't say anything more. She turned toward the rift, stepped forward, and vanished inside.

  "Please be alive…"

  Even her own thoughts were hushed—barely a whisper in her own mind.

  She moved through the steaming corpses of the Iron Golems, each of them towering and still faintly glowing from residual heat. Their exteriors were blackened and cracked, their chests bearing strange, geometric markings that pulsed faintly with leftover arcane residue.

  "Arcane sigils..." Ha Yura narrowed her eyes, not even needing a second glance. These weren't just manufactured constructs—someone had imbued them with high-level spellcraft.

  Not the kind of Rift naturally produced. Someone had tampered with them.

  The deeper she walked, the heavier the scent of scorched metal and ozone became. Bodies littered the broken terrain. Shattered limbs, molten plates, fragments of their once-formidable iron armour… they were everywhere. And it wasn't just a few dozen—there were hundreds. A battlefield massacre.

  She stopped.

  "...The strike team killed all of these?" she muttered under her breath, incredulous. Her brow furrowed. "No. That's impossible…"

  Even the most experienced coreborn wouldn't be able to handle these numbers without casualties—especially not this fast. This many golems would require coordinated flanks, rotations, backup waves, Bastion support, and time. Yet here she was, and there was only silence. No clash of weapons. No sounds of aura being flared. Just... quiet.

  She scanned the ground, looking for blood—there was none. Not even footprints.

  She inhaled, lips parting just slightly.

  Then, her feet pressed down harder into the ground, and her senses flared for a second. Just enough to catch the traces of residual energy in the air.

  There.

  Two distinct trails: one thick and overwhelming, a violent mix of Arcane and raw Core Energy that felt unstable—barely contained. The other... fainter. Measured. Flowing like a thread weaving through chaos. She recognised the second one instantly.

  Her eyes sharpened.

  "Jaemin…"

  She took off, no hesitation, moving in swift bounds, her movement nearly silent as her feet barely touched the cracked stone ground.

  She followed the trail through the warped terrain, past shattered golems and melted stone, each step increasing her pace. The two energy signatures were converging ahead.

  As she turned a jagged bend of the Rift's inner chamber, the air grew heavier. Oppressive.

  As though the Rift itself was responding to something deeper inside. Her pulse quickened—not from fear, but from the sharp, gnawing certainty beginning to form in her chest.

  Something had gone terribly wrong here.

  And Jaemin was still inside.

  ***

  Jaemin stared at the dome—an eerie, translucent sphere of pulsating arcane energy. It hummed low, a vibrating resonance that clawed into his bones, like the sound of dying breath trapped in a loop.

  He had tried everything.

  Daggers. Bombs. Core techniques.

  Nothing worked.

  His weapons bounced off like toys hitting a fortress. Even his Binary Stars, sharpened to molecular precision, couldn't leave a scratch.

  "Tch…" Jaemin exhaled hard, sweat rolling down his cheek.

  "This is bad."

  His gaze remained locked on the dome, his jaw clenched.

  That energy signature…

  It was familiar.

  Deep inside the swirl of arcane currents that made up the dome's wall, he'd sensed a heartbeat—a flicker of Core energy amidst the chaos. It wasn't just a guess. It was someone from the strike team. Maybe more than one. But were they still alive?

  He didn't know. But he had to find out.

  Jaemin stepped back, breath steadying. "Think, think, think…"

  His fingers hovered in the air. With a flick of his wrist, his inventory flickered to life in front of him—a holographic array of items, gear, and tools. He scrolled.

  Fast.

  Frantic.

  Most of it was trash for this kind of situation. Healing vials. Core Dust. Light wards. Junk.

  Then his thumb stopped.

  There.

  An item he barely remembered picking up. Looted off a corpse in a forgotten rift. A drop he'd tossed in without a second thought.

  [Winter's Reach]

  [Type: Long Sword]

  [Class: 3]

  [Used by the Priests of the Frozen Wilds. Made with sharp ice crystals and dark hymns.]

  Jaemin's pupils dilated.

  "…Cythari's sword," he murmured.

  He summoned it.

  In a gust of frostbitten wind, the blade materialised in his hand—long, cruelly carved, and shimmering with a faint blue gleam. The hilt was wrapped in old temple cloth, frayed and brittle. The edge? Serrated with shards that looked like frozen fangs.

  The moment his fingers wrapped around the hilt, he felt it.

  Jaemin kicked off the ground, wind whipping around him as he soared toward the dome with the sword raised high. A sonic boom trailed behind him.

  "We. Kill. YOU."

  The Rune Guards echoed the same phrase, mechanical and lifeless, their voices devoid of intent—but full of threat.

  Their massive frames loomed over the squad of Coreborns, armor carved with black arcane patterns, eyes glowing pale violet. They didn't move. They didn't attack. Yet the threat clung to the air like poison gas.

  The squad didn't breathe.

  "Captain…?" someone called out.

  Silence.

  The team looked to him, eyes wide, faces pale. But even the captain—usually steadfast, unshakable—stood still. His lips moved. Not words. A prayer.

  He couldn't say anything useful. What could he say? The protocol didn't cover this. No simulation prepared them for motionless enemies repeating a kill phrase like they were waiting for… what? A command? A trigger?

  A divine intervention?

  Time slowed. Seconds felt like glass about to shatter.

  ***

  Ha Yura stopped dead in her tracks.

  The moment she saw the Mist's veil, she stiffened. Her breath hitched.

  "...No way."

  She squinted, taking a cautious step forward, eyes widening further with every inch. What was once a stable, semi-crystalline Rift portal now looked like a curtain of grey mist, dancing unnaturally within the confines of spatial tears.

  "Mist…? Inside a Rift…?"

  It didn't make sense.

  Her stomach twisted.

  "No… no, no no—"

  She backed up. Paused. Reassessed. Then she rushed forward.

  "Please—please be alive!" she muttered under her breath, voice trembling. Her figure cut through the veil of the mist and disappeared into the murk, black braid flaring behind her.

  ****

  The Rune Guards still hadn't moved.

  Then suddenly—one blinked.

  Not metaphorically. The glowing eye flickered.

  The captain saw it.

  "...Shit."

  Too late.

  The first Rune Guard moved.

  Its body didn't animate like a machine. It glided. And the second followed. Then the third. The entire front wall of runic warriors clicked into motion like a puzzle solved by an unseen hand.

  Their weapons unfolded from inside their arms.

  Serrated. Inhuman. Arcane-core forged.

  Their visors glowed brighter as their chorus returned.

  "We. Kill. YOU."