His eyes burned as he ventured deeper into the dungeon. Hours passed—or so it felt. But the voice had explained: time here was distorted. Two hours within a dungeon equaled only minutes outside.
He'd slain more Boli since. Each one fell beneath his fire-forged spear, its flesh splitting with a hiss, the last one growling before it disintegrated into scorched ash.
"That was the final one," Icariel murmured, his White Sense sweeping the thick air. "I can't detect any more."
"Which means," the voice answered, "that only one remains. The boss of this place."
He nodded and walked forward.
And then—
A door. Not of bone, nor grown from the dungeon's grotesque architecture.
A door made of light.
It shimmered white-blue, not glowing but breathing mana. So pure it hurt the eyes. He stepped closer, hand raised to shield his vision.
"What is that?" he asked.
"...I don't know," the voice said. Quiet.
He froze.
Even the ancient whisper didn't recognize it?
"Should we leave?" the voice continued. "You've grown enough for now. This place—this unknown—is dangerous."
But Icariel didn't turn back.
He smiled.
"I came to build a life even death would envy"
The voice fell silent.
He reached for the door.
Light swallowed him.
His body didn't fall or shift. It transferred. One breath in the dungeon—the next in a field of impossibility.
No walls. No blood. No corpses.
Just grass, soft as velvet.
And one lone tree with rose-colored leaves, swaying in wind that didn't blow.
Mana filled the space like air. Orbs floated, gentle and alive, like they were watching.
Then—his White Sense screamed.
Behind the tree. A presence.
He turned.
A figure sat, cloaked in black, her legs crossed casually. Her hood bore a chain of pale stones. Black hair spilled down her shoulders in razor-straight strands. A tight black dress cut high at her knees, beaded with shards of starlight.
"Who are you?" Icariel asked.
She didn't move. Her voice echoed. Feminine. Deep. Final.
"Who are you to ask questions in a place you shouldn't exist in?"
"I saw a door. I opened it."
She blinked—or perhaps didn't. In an instant, she stood where he had been. No sound. No warning.
He stumbled back.
Her eyes were covered by a thin black band.
Yet she saw him.
She leaned in, nostrils flaring, breathing his scent.
"Strange... you reek of something ancient."
Meanwhile, outside—
The red-eyed girl stared at the burning corpse of the Boli she had slain. Above her, a flare of crimson spiraled into the sky—a signal for disaster.
"Only in emergencies..." she muttered. "That brat better not have gotten himself killed."
She turned and entered the dungeon.
Back inside, the woman in black stepped around Icariel, her tone suddenly analytical.
"You shouldn't be here. You shouldn't even be alive."
"I just... am," he said. He didn't understand. But something in her tone made him feel like a specimen.
"Impossible," she muttered. "But also...Perfect."
She tilted her head.
"Do you know where you are, boy?"
Icariel blinked. "No."
The voice in his head whispered.
And so did she.
"The Abyss," they said together.
"You are in the Abyss Gate. The first of the Four."
Icariel's eyes widened. He didn't even know what she meant—but it didn't matter.
He stepped forward, voice firm. "I came here to clear the dungeon. I don't know that door would brought me up in this place. Can you send me back? I'm not here for riddles."
She tilted her head. ""You truly don't know what you've done. That explains it." Her voice wavered, not with irritation, but something else. Wonder.
"I don't care," Icariel said. "If I did something, I didn't mean to. But if you can send me back, do it please."
She stared, stunned. "You're the first human to reach this gate without a pact, without a contract... without giving something up. Do you understand what that means?"
He didn't.
She continued. "No one should be able to enter this place—not this gate. Not without sacrifice. And yet here you are. The first human I've seen in over a thousand years."
A thousand years. The words echoed in Icariel's skull like war drums.
"That long?" he thought. "How could she be alive that long and look human?"
She read his expression and chuckled softly. "Yes. I've lived for more than a millennium. Guarding this place. Waiting."
"For what?"
"For someone like you."
Her voice wasn't warm. It wasn't hopeful. It was tired. Bone-deep.
"I was obsessed with life once," she said, staring up at the breathing ceiling. "Every heartbeat—I clung to it. But eternity... eternity breaks the bones of longing. It poisons time itself."
"You want to escape?"
"Or die." Her smile didn't reach her lips. "But this place won't let me. My task is to be the lock on this gate. If I fail, something worse escapes. That is the burden of my life. And now I regret every decision I made that led me here. I dream of release."
She stepped forward. The air around her shimmered. Her voice softened. "Speaking to someone after so long... perhaps I've grown soft. But the fact you reached this place means something's changed. The world breathes differently. I can feel it."
She studied him in silence, then said, "Because you reached me without paying a price, I can offer you one thing. Just one. A gift. A boon. A curse. Choose wisely."
The voice inside Icariel spoke, sharp and certain:
"Ask her for a skill. One that hides your mana. Your body's different. You breathe mana. You'll never be able to suppress it like normal mages. That's why you need a skill, not a method."
Icariel nodded. "Then I ask for a skill. One to hide my mana."
Her brow arched faintly. "Of course. I should've guessed. That purity—it's unnatural. You may walk like a human, but your mana is... wrong. It would draw attention no matter where you go."
She clicked her fingers. A rune-etched stone appeared in a pulse of light, floating before her.
"This will do. Break it."
Icariel crushed it in his palm. A flash of blue aura surrounded his body—then vanished.
"It's done," the voice said.
"Just like that?"
"Yes."
The girl spoke. "To activate or dismiss the ability, simply call its name. Null Presence. One of the few skills that can suppress even a body like yours."
"Thank you," Icariel said.
"No need to thank me," she replied. "It's the reward for reaching me... and listening."
She turned her head slightly, but he noticed—she never made direct eye contact. Her face stayed half-shrouded by the black band across her eyes.
But he could see.
He saw beyond it—his White Sense perceived the truth. Her body bore multiple cores. A spell circle burned behind her heart. Her mana was a dark, ancient flame.
But it was her eyes that stunned him.
They were sad. Not in the way mortals knew sadness—but the way dying stars weep.
Elena's face flashed in his memory—her last expression before she died.
And something inside him, against all his instinct and logic, stirred.
"…Is there a way to get you out of here?"
She froze. Her mouth opened in shock. For a moment, she wasn't a guardian. She was just... a woman. Tired. Surprised.
And he was just a boy. Still young. Still raw.
But he had asked.
And she had no words.
"There is," she whispered finally. "But..."
"But?" he asked.
"Either someone takes my place and becomes the lock... or someone kills the thing I guard."
Icariel's eyes darkened. "How strong is it?"
"Beyond strength. A disaster given flesh. When it appeared in the world, even your greatest champions couldn't destroy it. They only sealed it. Barely. And only because of its… nature."
His voice, low. Sharp. A whisper meant only for the thing living inside him.
"Voice…?"
"Yes."
A pause. Long. Heavy.
Then—
"Can White Lightning kill something like that?"
Silence.
Then the voice replied.Cold. Certain.
"White Lightning is built different. You saw what it did when it fused with your mana. I don't believe there is a single beast alive that can endure it... if it's hit directly, and if the user doesn't run out of mana a user like you."
"No. I don't think even that thing could survive it."
Icariel stared at the horizon of this false, perfect world.
He clenched his fist.
He had his answer.