ABYSS REALM — SHORE #0
Two figures tore across the sands like phantoms. With Fear gnawing at their heels, relentlessly, as they ran down the dune, as the weight of death pressed upon them like a mountain. Behind them came a loud rattling screech that caused the air to spilt.
It was an ABYSS BEAST.
A shadow-like being, Bore from Death Qi, radiating the aura of death, as it chased. Its form was that of a colossal centipede—fifty meters long and ten meters wide—with rows of spear-like legs that carried its massive weight, churning through the sands with terrifying ease.
It's head, a work of a mad god—a grotesque fusion of centipede and human. Where a woman's eyes once were, now only hollow sockets remained, with two long, twitching antennae writhing out.
Below, the lower half of the torso had been hacked away, replaced instead by a gaping maw lined with jagged fangs, flanked by long mandibles that jutted from beneath the ribcage like blades.
A sight to behold—for those fortunate enough to witness it.
" JEMMA!"
"YOU SAID THEY'D BE EASY KILL! THAT THING DOESN'T LOOK EASY TO KILL! "
Val's voice cracked, raw with fury and panic. Her lungs burned, her legs trembled, and every step dragged as if the sand itself sought to drown her.
With a face as pale as a corpse, she pushed her already exhausted body beyond its limit. This was not a choice, but a necessity to survive.
As she ran, regret clawed at her from all sides of her mind.
She regrets trusting someone she had just met.
She regrets accepting the mission in the first place.
She regrets stepping into an unknown cult, going against her instincts.
But most of all, she regrets her weakness.
But. None of it mattered now. Not now. As every choice, every death, every sacrifice—they had all been hers.
....
Ahead, Jemma ran like a woman mad, her face pale as a corpse, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped beast. Fear had sunk its claws deep into her, not because she was a coward, but because she had knowledge.
In the DARK-SISTERHOOD-Chapter. Acolytes, preparing for the awakening, are required to read and understand-
'THE WAY -ABYSS'
It is a journal filled with compiled knowledge, written by those who had undergone the awakening and survived.
Within the thin, fragile pages of the journal, detailed observations about the Abyss are recorded—its terrain, the different types of beasts that dwell within, their strengths, weaknesses, and habits—all written in desperate, meticulous detail.
Though not perfect, it was far better than walking in blind… and embracing death.
By the time one reaches the end of the journal, their attention is inevitably drawn to a strange piece of art etched onto the final page. It holds the gaze of anyone who sees. The drawing depicts four Catastrophes.
The full image unfolds when the journal is turned horizontally.
On the far left, the Spine-worm coils like a living nightmare. To its right, the grotesque Human-Centipede stands tall and unnatural. Further still, at the far right of the page, lies a depiction of a vast, dark body of water—The Abyss Sea. And above them all, soaring ominously, The Assimilation.
'To encounter one is not to fight. It is not a challenge. It is the end.'
Now that they had encountered such a thing, knowledge had become a burden, transforming the brave into cowards, and emboldening those ignorant of it.
"Jemma... we can't keep... huff... running forever... huff... can't you feel it? The vibrations?... huff. It's getting close... huff... we can't run much longer. Think of a way—huff—a way we could survive this!"
"You don't get it. We're already dead!"
Jemma's reply was swift and loud; it is not that she does not want to survive these circumstances, but her knowledge deemed survival impossible.
Alas, this was a form of brainwashing; one's life and death can be decided by the knowledge of others.The ignorant wore their chains with pride, too weak to question, to seek the truth, to gain their own knowledge, or at the least, confirm the authenticity of said knowledge.
But she wanted to live. This was motivation enough.
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THREE DAYS AGO, SOUTHERN FRONT OF THE FIRST DEFENSE LINE- FALLEN FORTRESS OF THE GIGGADON EMPIRE.
...........
This battle should have been a one-sided slaughter in favor of the Giggadon Empire. As they held the advantage in numbers and, more importantly, in strength.
Strength was the only truth. The only determining factor in every facet of life in this world. It decides who lived, died, ruled, conquered, and submitted. And those who refused to recognize this truth are slaughtered, enslaved, raped, exploited, and used.
Because, that is the only purpose their existence served to the strong.
These were the rules.
Strength, an important component to determine the victor of this battle, was in favor of the Giggadon Empire, as they had standing at their head Commander Balt Clayledge.
—a man built like a fortress, a Seventh-Class Grandmaster whose heart had long since grown cold to bloodshed. A knight forged in the flames of the countless wars during the northern conquests.
Besides him, there is Vice Commander August—
A man of cold intellect and ruthless efficiency. A Sixth-Class Grandmaster and strategic genius.
Along with two additional Sixth-Class Grandmaster knights,
five Fourth-Class Grandmasters,
and an army of thousands—each a trained mercenary or knight whose strength ranged from the First to Third-Class Grandmaster level.
But this was war, a chaotic mess of desires, emotions, blood, and steel. It is unpredictable, and those advantages that the Giggadon Empire had were crushed an hour ago.
Now, only countless sounds of battle, cries, and blood-curdling screams of men could be heard in this chaos of madness.
Gerald, in this chaos, was like a sinking boat—adrift, broken, and at the mercy of the tide. He cut his way through the carnage, stumbling over mangled corpses that blanketed the battlefield like fallen leaves. Again and again, he fell. Again and again, he rose. Blood soaked, breath ragged. With hazy eyes, he cast his gaze about—searching for a friend, an ally, a familiar face in the blinding fog.
But there was none; he was alone.
A whistling sound erupted—sharp, shrill, like death's breath. From the fog, a blade surged forth like a phantom's claw. Gerald reacted on instinct alone. He twisted, shifted—steel met steel with a jarring clang as he raised his sword just in time. Sparks burst. His arm quivered, narrowly escaping death.
The fog in front clears a little, revealing the form of the attacker. Noticing the triangle-shaped insignia etched into the enemy's armor, Gerald's eyes narrowed. An enemy. Without hesitation, he charged. In an instant, the distance vanished beneath his feet—he was upon them. His blade howled through the air in a wide, horizontal arc, aiming for the exposed side.
The knight sees this and reacts, placing his sword to defend his side. Unaware of the short blade.
The sound of a blade piercing flesh rang out, as blood spurted out of his neck like a fountain, painting the air with his life. He stiffened before falling to the ground like wood with a thud sound; he was dead.
............
Over twenty minutes had passed in this chaos, and Gerald stood amidst the carnage, his breath ragged, armor torn and riddled with fresh cuts. The cheap metal barely clung to his frame now—scratched, cracked, soaked in blood.
"Ah. One more."
Gerald muttered, his tone low, complicated—caught between weariness and cold calculation. His gaze drifted to the war merit badge at his waist, now faintly glowing, tallying another life claimed.
A flicker of disgust stirred within him.
He realized then—he no longer saw them as men, as lives with names or families. Only merit. Only benefits. Each corpse was a stepping stone, and the path forward was paved in flesh.
This was an unrealizing realization, by Gerald. A truth of this world, where there are benefits, there are people, and where there are people, there are conflicts. This is a rule that applies to those at the bottom and those at the top equally.
Every conflict or war in the history of any world happened because someone wanted to gain benefits.These benefits come in different forms- food, water, faith, pride, power, wealth, greed, lust. As long as there are benefits to be gained, wars and conflicts are immortal.
"COME AT ME! LET ME SEE HOW THAT ARMOR ON YOUR HEADS FARES AGAINST MY AXE!"
Gerald flinched. That voice—he knew it. Loud, arrogant, unmistakable. It was Gray.
A flicker of hope stirred in his chest, raw and fragile. For a moment, he was glad to hear that familiar tone in this sea of death. It was like catching sight of a star in a sky smothered by ash.
Without thinking, he ran. Through the blinding fog, through the stink of blood and metal, he ran. Toward Gray. Toward that voice.
But then—
A head rolled past his boots.
He stopped.
He recognized the face. A man he knew. Someone important. A comrade? A rival?
No... he remembered now.
This was Vice Commander August. A man of noble rank, of proud stature, a Sixth-Class Grandmaster. His presence once commanded respect, fear—even reverence.
But titles meant nothing here.
In death, he was no different from a commoner-born knight. Just another severed head—kicked absently between fighters too desperate, too blood-soaked, to care.
With a swift, brutal kick, Gerald sent the head hurtling forward. It struck the face of a charging enemy.
The man staggered—just for a heartbeat.
But a heartbeat was enough.
Gerald lunged. Both hands gripped his sword tight. Steel tore through breastplate, through flesh, through bone—piercing the heart without mercy.
The blade burst from the man's back in a spray of hot crimson.
And just like that—
Another corpse.
As he stepped forward to continue his search, the fog parted, revealing a dozen enemy knights encircling him. Twelve first-class Grandmasters. Luck, indeed.
...........................
"When one is on the battlefield, if he looks up to the skies and down to the earth and cannot tell the difference, then you have truly experienced war."
Those were the words written in a chronicle by a knight known only by the initials B.W.—a knight Gerald deeply admired.
And why did he think of these words now?...
It was because he was now experiencing what the knight described. He looked to the sky and to the earth and could not tell the difference, just like him, everything had been painted red, drenched in cold, thick, cloying blood, making every breath he took that of iron and death.
Whose blood was it?
Was it his enemies'?
His comrades'?
Or his own?
He didn't know. And it didn't matter in such circumstances.
As the only thing that mattered was the sword in his hand, its weight the sole anchor between life and death.
Swing. Kill. Swing. Kill. Block.
These words repeated in his mind endlessly like a melody. Despite the chaos of the battlefield, he was strangely tranquil—almost filled with a sense of happiness. The clash of swords, the piercing of flesh, the spilling of blood—began to bring about a sense of ease.
Now, he felt free. Free from regret. Free from the thoughts that plagued him when it was quiet. All he had to do now was-
Swing. Kill. Swing. Kill. Block.
Bringing him back to simplicity.
To survival.
.................
Meanwhile...