A black sky had hung over the valley for days.

  Nature, as if sensing the threat, tried to conceal the Dark Blight spreading slowly across the land. Beasts – even predators and twisted monstrosities – had fled, sensing the cold inevitability. The grass had dried. The trees had withered, as though life itself were abandoning the valley that had once been full of strength and energy.

  Silence and cold settled over it – harbingers of darkness.

  The army of the dead was led by Oron Gao, one of the Death Overlords, a lich who had emerged from the Otherworld. Once, he had served ancient gods, but he had long since abandoned that role. The living had never seen his true form; the shape he wore now was merely something their eyes could endure. For the dead, there was no death. And for Gao – who had bent other messengers of death to his will – even flesh had lost all meaning. His power was immense, even among Overlords.

  Darkness rolled toward Fortress Bur – the stronghold of the last Lord of Wind. Its goal was simple: to tear Life itself from within those walls. For thousands of years, the fortress had held back the hordes of the dead. Now Gao intended to end that resistance.

  “The dead will rewrite the borders of the world again,” the wind seemed to whisper across the field.

  Above the army, a dark horn thundered. The siege had begun.

  Max awoke on cold ground.

  Darkness surrounded him, and sound felt distant, as if it sank into a hollow space before reaching his ears.

  The air smelled damp. Something unpleasant brushed against his leg – like a touch against bare skin. Max jerked in reflex.

  He was naked.

  “Great. Now tell me someone’s watching,” he thought, feeling along the ground as he pushed himself upright. This had to be a dream. An incredibly realistic one. He had read about lucid dreaming at the boarding school – but nothing like this.

  Start with clothes.

  He focused on details: a modern, clean, durable suit; functional boots; warm lining; pockets exactly where they should be. Just imagine it clearly enough…

  A moment later, a cool sensation wrapped around his body. The outfit appeared – expensive, comfortable, perfectly fitted.

  That steadied him.

  Good. If this was a lucid dream, then he made the rules.

  “Flashlight,” Max thought.

  A bright white beam flared in front of him, blinding him. He stepped forward – and smashed his knee into a rock before falling face-first into bluish moss. Sparks burst in his vision. The stone beneath him was rough, cold, and damp.

  Then, from somewhere deep below, a voice echoed.

  “Who has disturbed the Void?”

  The low tone rolled through the cavern, striking his ribs as if the sound itself had weight.

  A chill crawled down Max’s spine. He instinctively glanced at his suit. Still clean. Good.

  “Who’s there?” he forced out.

  Eyes flared in the darkness.

  Something slid from the abyss – a creature shaped like a spider, but instead of legs it had hundreds of gray, wet tentacles. It stopped a meter away and froze.

  “I am Rig. I guard one of the entrances to another world,” the voice said. “The traveler was very foolish to ask a question and seek the Name of his own death. A Name means much in this world.”

  Max’s mind snapped into focus. The dream refused to release him.

  “That’s… not what I meant!” he said quickly. “You should have warned me that any question counts as a question.”

  “But you have already received your answer,” Rig replied with faint amusement. “And now hear your first and last true word – ‘Death.’”

  The word did not sound like a word.

  Max did not hear it. He felt it.

  It was a true word of another world – a word that allowed one to command that world. A word that carried real power.

  “Death,” Max repeated, without knowing why he had to. The word felt important to him, deeply personal. He turned his attention inward.

  Nothing visible changed. Yet something shifted inside him. Not outside – within. As if he had uncovered something long forgotten.

  He looked back at the creature.

  It did not attack.

  The level of detail in this “dream” was overwhelming.

  “Young. Very young,” Rig hissed. “You entered the world of the dead alive, and on the edge of the Road of Souls. Did you think you were Him? That you were truly alive? Foolish. Young.”

  “Respected monster,” Max said as politely as he could, “what are you talking about?”

  “‘Respected’?” Hundreds of eyes widened. “You are amusing. Look.”

  Rig shifted slightly aside.

  “Here lies the Road. Millions of souls pass along it every day.”

  “Is this hell?” Max asked before he could stop himself.

  “And what is ‘hell’?” the creature asked with genuine curiosity.

  “A place where sinners go after death.”

  “In a sense – yes and no,” Rig replied thoughtfully. “There is a place between. Where the Roads intersect. The Great Ones once ruled here, before they left. This is the boundary.”

  “You’re not going to… eat me or erase me?” Max asked carefully, feeling a tight pressure under his ribs.

  “I would like to,” Rig admitted without hesitation. “But it is not within my power. Perhaps not within anyone’s. Have you noticed that we are speaking in words? You are unusual. The young one may leave.”

  Leave is good.

  Max focused.

  I want to leave. Anywhere. Somewhere someone can explain what is happening.

  The darkness clicked, and the world split open.

  A library unfolded before him.

  It was the largest he had ever seen. Shelves rose into impossible heights. Ladders stretched like tangled webs. Dust drifted through thin silver beams of light.

  “Ah-choo!”

  The echo of his sneeze rippled through the endless rows.

  A short, hunched figure with a golden monocle froze mid-step, clutching a dusty book.

  “Eh…” he drawled, muttering something in an unfamiliar language.

  Max understood nothing.

  “Do you understand my language?” he asked.

  The short man stared at him in surprise, then waved a hand glowing faintly yellow. Max’s head spun – and suddenly the muttering made sense, as if someone had flipped a switch.

  “…these ghosts keep breaking into my world. Give a dead man some peace already. So why have you come? Can you understand me now? Then leave my library, ghost.”

  “I’m not a ghost,” Max replied politely. “And was that magic? How did I suddenly understand you?”

  The dwarf – because what else could he be? – slowly opened his mouth wider than Max thought possible. He stepped closer and prodded Max’s shoulder with a long pipe. It was not pleasant.

  “Not a ghost, you say?” he squinted through the monocle. “Never seen that before. A summoning ritual? Impossible. I’ve been dead a long time… This makes no sense. As for the language – when I was alive, one of my specialties was language trade. So who are you?”

  “I’m Maxim. I might be dreaming. Or maybe not.” Max gave a small shrug.

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  “Dreaming?” The dwarf snorted. “You’re in the world of the dead, boy.” He studied Max carefully, as if reading lines written across his face. “And you don’t seem to be lying. Then there’s only one explanation… You’re one of the new messengers of Overlord Nomi.”

  “Of who?” Max scratched the back of his head. “Who is Overlord Nomi?”

  The dwarf’s expression darkened at once. His forehead creased into deep lines.

  “If you are here and haven’t turned to dust, then you’ve already crossed his boundary. Otherwise, you couldn’t enter his domain. So who are you?”

  “I don’t understand…” Max felt the situation slipping beyond his control.

  “‘Don’t understand,’ ‘don’t know’…” the dwarf muttered, exasperated, raising his hand. “Guards!”

  Black doors at the far wall swung open. Two figures in dark armor stepped in – clearly minotaurs.

  Max instinctively took a step back – and the world clicked again.

  “Where do I find someone who can actually explain what’s going on?!” he shouted into the void.

  He found himself standing in a bedroom.

  The familiar scent of clean bedding. Wooden wall panels. Warm lamplight.

  A girl with green eyes sat on the bed.

  She looked at him – and recoiled in fear.

  “You…” she whispered, glancing at his strange suit and – more importantly – at the fact that he was not attacking. The fact that she had not yet reached for a knife was a good sign. “You think I’ll give up that easily? You won’t take me! I know your tricks!”

  “Wait, wait! I just need to ask something. Where are we?” Max raised his hands.

  “You’re… not one of the demons?” The girl hesitated. “Sorry. I’m Julia.”

  “Julia?” Max repeated.

  “You can call me Yu, or Lia, I don’t care. Just answer – how did you die?”

  “I didn’t,” Max said evenly. “Really. Just tell me where we are.”

  Julia let out a slow breath.

  “In a real mess. That’s where. In the world of the dead. Look.”

  She nodded behind her.

  Doors seemed to form out of the air itself.

  Half-open. Dark. Cold.

  Max felt it immediately. The doorway pulled at him like a bottomless well.

  “Why don’t you go through?” he asked quietly.

  “Only idiots rush to die faster,” Julia replied with a crooked smile. “I already tried. You walk and walk, and the room stretches. The door keeps moving farther away. In the end, you’re back where you started, holding a stick longer than this entire place. I got tired of it.”

  Max gave a small nod.

  “I ended up here after a portal. I stepped in – and that was it. Then a few more… jumps. And now I’m here.”

  “A portal?” Julia narrowed her eyes. “Listen. I don’t understand much, but I know one thing. Sometimes you can move here by force of will. If that works for you too – wish to go back. To the real world. But take me with you.”

  She held out her hand.

  Max looked at her fingers – thin, slightly trembling.

  There is always a choice, he remembered from the dream.

  He took her hand and squeezed it.

  The world clicked for the third time.

  At first, Kateryna thought she was simply tired. The new find refused to fit into her understanding of reality.

  The shovel sank too easily. It did not strike stone. It did not ring. It met no resistance. Instead, it slid against something solid and smooth. Kateryna froze, keeping the tool in place. Years of fieldwork had taught her to trust small details like that. Soil always resists. Even empty pockets have their own sound.

  Here, there was only silence.

  She frowned, unclipped the flashlight from her belt, and switched it on. A beam of white light cut through the darkness and revealed a flat, dark surface hidden beneath the soil.

  Metal.

  She crouched and brushed away the dirt with her gloved hand. The surface was too even. Not polished – just even, as if the idea of roughness did not apply to it. The flashlight did not reflect sharply. Instead, the light spread across it and seemed to sink partway into the material.

  “Interesting…” she whispered.

  There were no signs of corrosion. No cracks. No seams. She pulled off her glove and touched the surface with her bare fingers, then went completely still.

  It was neither cold nor warm.

  The temperature adjusted instantly to her skin. Kateryna jerked her hand back and grimaced.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she muttered. “Just a strange alloy.”

  She tested it with the edge of her knife. The blade slid across without leaving a mark. Kateryna’s frown deepened. Even the hardest alloys did not behave like that.

  A strange sensation rose in her chest – a faint pressure, as if someone had gently tightened the space around her heart. She drew a slow breath, switched off the flashlight for a moment, then turned it on again.

  “Focus, Kateryna,” she told herself quietly.

  As more soil was cleared away, she began to notice lines.

  At first they were shapeless fragments. She grabbed a brush and started cleaning the surface herself, refusing to let anyone else near it. Gradually, the lines formed images. Not immediately clear – just pieces of scenes. Parts of figures.

  Human silhouettes.

  Ordinary. No elaborate decoration. No excessive detail. Some were walking. Some stood still. Some carried tools. A wave of relief washed over her. Humans were familiar. Humans were understandable.

  Only a few minutes later did she notice the first ring.

  It did not touch the body of the carved figure. It was not part of clothing. It hovered around the chest, perfectly round and too precise to be decorative.

  “A symbol?” Kateryna murmured.

  She continued excavating along the wall. More figures appeared. More rings.

  Blue.

  Kateryna leaned closer. There were many blue rings. They appeared in simple scenes – labor, travel, construction.

  She brushed away more soil, and green rings emerged.

  There were fewer of them. They accompanied scenes in which the figures stood above others, gave directions, held weapons, or were surrounded by guards.

  “Nobility,” Kateryna decided. “Classic.”

  She nodded to herself.

  “Good. Clear. Markings. Most likely social status.”

  Everything fit familiar patterns. Humanity had always thought in hierarchies. Colors as markers – nothing unusual.

  Then she reached the yellow ones.

  Kateryna froze.

  There were very few yellow rings. Very few. And around them, the scenes themselves changed. Cities appeared. Fortifications. High walls. Other figures were carved smaller, as if the composition emphasized not physical size, but influence.

  “Rulers,” she said quietly. “As expected.”

  But the scenes that followed refused to fit that calm logic.

  The figures with yellow rings were shown destroying cities on their own. Perhaps the carvings were meant to suggest they commanded armies. Yet beside the ruined cities stood single, solitary figures.

  The walls were broken – not besieged, but shattered.

  Monsters – dragon-like creatures – lay fallen, their wings torn apart.

  And beside them stood the same bearers of yellow rings.

  Kateryna felt a flicker of irritation and clenched her fists.

  “Myths,” she said aloud. “Of course. Just myths.”

  She had seen this countless times. Ancient cultures always gave their rulers superhuman power. They exaggerated everything. One hero instead of an army. One ruler instead of dozens of warriors.

  There were inscriptions carved into the wall as well, written in an unfamiliar language. None of her colleagues recognized it, which was strange, because Kateryna had assembled an experienced team. Old Rahim – the one she trusted most – had calmly declared over dinner that the language was not of this world at all.

  Kateryna had nearly choked on her coffee and almost thrown the cup at him. Rahim was lucky it had been her favorite evening brew, the one she always drank at the end of the day. Habit proved stronger than anger.

  A ridiculous idea.

  And yet the pressure in her chest did not fade. If anything, it grew stronger the longer she stared at the rings. The flashlight in her hand felt heavier than it should have.

  “This is… a structure,” she whispered.

  It was not a place of worship.

  Not a tomb.

  It was something sealed. Something deliberately concealed.

  They had to find an entrance, and nothing in the world would stop her now. She needed to know what lay inside, beyond that wall.

  Her breathing shortened. The thrill intensified with each passing day – hot and dangerous. For the first time, she clearly understood that the world might not be ready to see this. Not because people would fail to understand it.

  But because they would understand too much.

  “No one,” she whispered. “No one can know.”

  She still believed the rings were only symbols.

  That the destroyed cities were exaggerations.

  That it was simply ancient faith in the impossible.

  She had no idea how wrong she was.

  If she could have looked even a moment into the future – seen what this discovery would bring, who it would touch, and what price would be paid – Kateryna would have walked away. She would have left the wall buried underground, forgotten the discovery of a lifetime, and fled without looking back.

  But she stayed.

  The dark passage in the center of the metal structure resembled an internal corridor. Covered in dust and filled with cold air, it did not glow or hum. There were no signs that it was a portal, as it would later prove to be. It looked like nothing more than an opening carved into an ancient mass of stone.

  Kateryna was the first to suggest they check it.

  Curiosity led them forward – professional, stubborn, almost childlike curiosity. No one imagined another world. At most, they expected a hidden chamber, a mechanism, perhaps a sarcophagus or a vault of artifacts.

  When they stepped inside, the darkness did not thicken.

  It deepened.

  Their flashlight beams slid across the walls, but the walls seemed to withdraw. The space behaved incorrectly. None of them noticed the exact moment of transition. There was no flash. No impact. Only a strange sensation, as if a single step lasted longer than it should have.

  They did not know that in that very instant, beneath layers of reality, an ancient algorithm activated. A system created by those who had once sealed themselves away from magic stirred awake.

  It did not see people.

  It saw blood.

  And within that blood, it detected the hidden key of the ancients.

  The test began without warning.

  And then the dreams started.

  Each of them experienced it differently. The last thing Kateryna saw was herself standing in endless space while something unseen wrapped around her body like cold water.

  No one felt pain. There were only dreams – too vivid, too real. Dreams where fire obeyed a gesture, where earth seemed to breathe, where space responded to a thought.

  And when they “woke,” a faint outline of power remained in their chests.

  The right of the pioneers.

  They believed they had experienced nothing more than a shared hallucination inside an ancient structure.

  They did not know they had crossed the boundary of their world. They did not know they had passed a system test.

  And they certainly did not know that the system of the magical world had tested not only those standing there on their own feet.

  Deep inside Kateryna, another heartbeat answered.

  Small. Pure.

  And that unborn, innocent soul passed the test not merely successfully – but too successfully.

  The algorithm registered the anomaly.

  And accepted it.