The world folded sideways.
One moment, there was solid ground beneath Jethro's cheap boots, the smell of rusted metal and smoke, and the constant shift and clang of armor all around him.
The next moment— for any one who believed in common sense —everything defied it. There was no land, no air, nothing tangible or real. Only the existence of a quantum presence and shifting space that twisted violently.
His stomach flipped, his ears popped, and dozens of colors spun in his vision, till one remained.
Black.
The color of darkness.
Alongside a chilling silence, it painted the place. Jethro knew undeniably that he was no longer in Nebulon, neither was he back on earth. This place— with its dim light, pungent smell, and crooked structures —far beyond the realm of the living.
The darkness itself was weak, like the sun was struggling behind a thick violet fog. The ground stretched out in cracked stone and black soil, covered with moss and ash. Broken ruins jutted from the swampy terrain like fingers clawing up from the earth.
The structures he had seen before became clearer: They were crooked pillars, shattered obelisks and melted statues with hollow eyes.
It was as if there had once been a civilization in this place, and a darkness had consumed it.
A 'Darcness.'
Jethro looked around his feet. He stood on a pathway made of smooth, dark slabs. There were ridges the colors of bones ingrained into their surface.
He noticed some stones pulsing faintly around his boots, half-hidden by moss and dirt. Aether crystals.
They glowed purple, blue and green, though they were too tiny to contain enough aether that could intoxicate him.
He watched some of them die off. The mechbeasts were harnessing the aether out of them. He clenched his nose, catching the stench in the air of something burned and buried.
"So this is it, eh?" Moffrey stepped forward, gazing into the hazy distance. "Darcworld. The realm of the conqueror himself."
"Looks just like the pictures on screenpages," Anson added, leaning on his spear.
"This isn't a screenpage," Songred muttered coldly, his eyes locked on the path ahead. "This is the world that has brought nothing but suffering and disaster to ours ever since the First Beast War. Every single one of us should hate this place… but never forget to be afraid of it."
Everyone looked at him, silence once again filling the air.
On Jethro's shoulder, Lizard twitched.
"Mhm?" Jethro glanced sideways. The little mechbeast had its claws dug tight into his vest. Its body was rigid, tail curled protectively along his shoulder line, beady eyes staring into the mist like it had seen a ghost.
"Relax, Scales. Don't let Viserys here get to you," he whispered. "You're safe. I think."
But that was Jethro's way of reassuring himself.
Truth was, he was just as jumpy. His fingers were already fidgeting with the pulse dial on his glove. Even though this was the Outer Mire where threat levels were lower, the smell in the air, the color of the sky and that haunting feeling that they were being watched unnerved him.
He prayed they'd finish this quickly.
At the front, Moffrey spun toward the escort and barked shrilly. "What are you doing? Are we just gonna stand here all day?!"
The escort didn't answer. He stood rigid, eyes forward, a bland expression on his face.
Moffrey scowled. "What's with this guy?"
Songred stepped in smoothly. "He's not part of this anymore," he said, adjusting the cuff of his jacket. "This training is about using initiative to carry out your role. Since I'm the captain, then I'll be leading the team."
"Oh yes, captain!" Moffrey nervously snapped into attention.
They began moving forward, falling into a natural line; Songred led, Moffrey just behind. Pott and Mory flanked either side, with Anson and Padva in the rear, and Jethro bringing up the end.
The escort trailed them quietly from the left, a shadow more than a guide.
The path curved through the fog-choked ruins. They stepped on small pools of dark water, splashing away the reflections of the ashen sky. The wind was faint, and everywhere was silent, safe for the squelch of their boots and purrs and growls of their mechbeasts as they walked.
Jethro's eyes darted around the terrain, trying to find something familiar in it— but everything looked alien. Alive, in the worst way.
"What type of Darcbeasts are found in the Outer Mire?" he asked the escort.
"That's a good question," the escort spoke for the first time. "Like mechbeasts, Darcbeasts reside in habitats best suited for survival, growth and power. So in a region like this, Gloom Moths, Mist Leeches and Stone Frogs are common."
He continued. "They sound like simple enough creatures but their powers are no joke. Rot, poison, paralysis. Darcbeasts have terrifying abilities that even Gray Ranks are considered very dangerous."
Lizard let out a tiny squeak and ducked further into Jethro's collar.
Jethro didn't blame him.
He glanced at the others. Their mechbeasts were glowing. Not bright like a star, but a subtle illumination that created vague spores of light around their body.
The slithering Frostbitten Cobra's scales had icy-blue sigils shining, mist curling around its body like breath. The Geargrinder Rhino's plating was thrumming softly, brown light emanating around it. Even the Direwolf had a faint silver sheen clinging to its fur. The Doomsday Panther too had spores of purple around it.
'What's with the lightshow?' he wondered.
Jethro glanced at his Lizard. It also shimmered, though faint— barely glowing. Weak.
The escort noticed him. "That's ambient aether," he said, pulling Jethro's gaze to him. "They're drawing it from the atmosphere. Beast cores act like a magnet to aether. That way, it strengthens them, and more importantly, reduces the amount in the air that could poison us."
He paused, then added, "The higher the beast rank, the stronger the core. Which means they would absorb more. So you should all be grateful for the two Platinum Rank beasts on your team. Without them, the atmosphere here would already be wearing you down."
Jethro shot a look at Songred and Padva. Their mechbeasts practically glowed like walking fortresses.
He sighed. 'Must be nice being useful.'
"Wait!" Anson said, raising an arm. "I sense something behind that mist. Many somethings."
Songred narrowed his eyes. "If by 'somethings' you mean Darcbeasts…" He extended his hand forward and a lotus bursted open around his palm. "...then we're ready for them."
Jethro almost scoffed. 'Seriously, who the hell does this guy think he is?'
Scritch. Scritch.
The sounds cut through his thoughts and he snapped his eyes at the fog.
Everyone had heard them. The grating sound of claws on a surface.
Moffrey took a step backwards, but when he saw that no one else followed, he gulped and stepped forward again. "What the hell are those?"
His Cobra began to hiss. Songred's Direwolf growled.
"Those noises are chitters," Padva spoke for the first time, winning glances in her direction. "From the sound of it, they're moving sideways… and there's a horde of them. They're synchronized, but loud, yet smart enough to use camouflage like the fog to disguise themselves."
Moffrey looked around. "What is she saying?"
"They're Moss Skitters," Padva stated plainly.
Everyone turned their gazes back to the fog as multiple creatures crawled into view.
They were roughly fist-sized with crab-like bodies. On their corrupted shells were plates overgrown with glowing violet moss. Six needle-tipped legs of fused obsidian shards propelled them, while their claws had distant shapes. One had a sharp edge of rusted iron, and the other, a hooked claw of chipped bone.
They had three eyes each, green and bioluminescent, gleaming unsettlingly through the fading fog and the encroaching darkness as they closed in on the team.
The escort chuckled. "Looks like Padva Darlstarc was right. Those are Moss Skitters."