Deep within the basement of Lingquan Corporation, something abnormal was beginning to stir.
The vast underground floor was usually a chaotic symphony of adventurers — some huddled in tight circles, whispering strategies to their parties, others laughing and exchanging stories with friends and colleagues. Portals shimmered all around — some glowing softly as teams stepped through, others flaring bright as exhausted adventurers emerged back into the real world. The air buzzed with anticipation and raw energy.
Near the portal linked to Lucas's quest, a cluster of adventurers stood, some waiting for their teams, some simply observing. Everything seemed ordinary — until suddenly, the atmosphere shifted.
A dense black aura began seeping out of Lucas's portal. It curled and twisted like smoke, but heavier… oppressive. A chill swept through the basement, and conversations faltered. Adventurers nearby instinctively stiffened, hands drifting to weapons. The portal's usual violet, pink, and red gradient flickered — then collapsed entirely into a roiling black and gray storm.
The aura pouring from it was thick with malice, heavy enough to make even seasoned warriors' skin crawl.
One of the adventurers standing nearby muttered under his breath, voice tight with fear.
"Dark Quest…?"
The words sent a ripple through the crowd. People stepped back, wariness sharp in their eyes.
Meanwhile, far from the basement, Lucas was inside the strange village of Quest 27's world — hands deep in his pockets, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp. He watched the villagers moving about, tending to their tasks with robotic focus. But something about them gnawed at him.
They looked human… but they weren't. Not quite. Their movements were too smooth, too detached. And up close, the differences were stark — no reproductive features, no pulse of life where a heart should beat. These people were like… living puppets.
As Lucas pondered, a figure crossed his path — a male, shorter than him, wrapped tightly in a white cloak. His head lowered, steps hurried.
Lucas stepped forward, placing his right hand firmly on the man's shoulder.
"Excuse me, I need to ask you something."
But the cloaked figure didn't stop. He moved on, ignoring Lucas entirely.
Lucas narrowed his eyes. This time, he reached out with his left hand, grabbing the man's thin wrist. His voice was sharper now.
"Why are you people so afraid?"
The sensation under his grip made Lucas pause. The wrist he held felt too thin, fragile — almost like gripping brittle twigs rather than flesh and bone.
Frowning, Lucas tightened his grip and yanked the cloak away.
What lay beneath made his breath hitch.
Lucas recoiled, stepping back in sharp instinct, breath catching in his throat. The cloak slipped fully from the figure's frail form, and what he saw churned his stomach.
An old man stood before him — if "man" was even the right word anymore. His scalp was utterly bare, not a single hair on his head. His face mirrored the same lifelessness: no eyebrows, no eyelashes, not a single trace of hair anywhere on his grotesquely thin body. Skin clung loosely over jutting bones, stretched so tight in places that it looked like it might tear with the slightest pressure.
But it was his flesh — slick and semi-melted in patches — that made Lucas's stomach twist. Parts of the man's skin appeared to sag like wax too close to a flame, the texture raw and oozing.
Then the creature opened its mouth.
Lucas flinched. The man's teeth were a ruined mess — blackened stumps, some broken, others missing entirely. His tongue, what remained of it, was riddled with open holes like a rotted sponge. The stench hit Lucas like a blow — an acidic, festering odor that made his nose burn. Instinctively, he thickened the Wrath layer cloaking his body, using it to filter the air before it reached his lungs.
"Please…" the figure croaked, voice brittle and dry as cracked earth. "Please… leave us alone. Let us be."
Lucas's eyes narrowed as he fought off the nausea. His gaze dropped to the figure's body — naked beneath the discarded cloak. Yet, disturbingly, there was no sign of reproductive organs, no human markers at all. Just smooth, featureless flesh where something should have been.
His voice hardened.
"Who did this to your people? Who made you like this?"
The creature's sunken eyes flickered away, and it bent down to retrieve the cloak, gnarled fingers trembling as they grasped the fabric. Without looking back, it muttered, "No one did. This is… what we are. Just let us go."
The figure wrapped the cloak around its broken form and hobbled away, leaving Lucas standing there in grim silence.
But then — a prickling sensation crawled up the back of his neck. The unmistakable feeling of eyes watching him.
Lucas turned sharply to his right.
Between two crooked houses, half-hidden behind the rotted wooden structure, stood a child. Unlike the others, this one wore no cloak. Pale skin, disturbingly smooth, and completely hairless. Empty eyes locked onto Lucas, unblinking, watching him with an unnatural stillness.
Meanwhile, high up on the rocky slopes behind the village, the battle axe user —had paused mid-ascent. He stood on a flat plateau, catching his breath as he gazed back toward the village.
And that's when he saw it.
His eyes went wide. A wave of cold panic gripped him.
"No… no, no, no…" He muttered, already turning to rush back down.
But before he could even take a step, a sharp whistle cut through the air. Reflexes kicked in, and he jerked his body back with all the speed he could muster.
A thin, gleaming needle shot past his face — so fast it blurred — and struck a boulder behind him.
The rock hissed, then cracked with a faint pop. A tiny, perfect hole — no bigger than the needle — had been bored straight through the solid stone.
His heart hammered in his chest.
That… had been aimed at his head.
His eyes snapped to the left, locking onto the spot where the deadly needle had come from. Standing there was a young man, likely in his mid-twenties. He wore the distinct garments of a seminarian—plain yet formal—with a long black coat that hung just below his knees. His mid-length black hair was styled back, the strands spiking slightly as if defying gravity. His features were sharp, above average in looks, and his black eyes held a calm, unreadable glint.
The man's lips curled into a faint smile as he spoke, his voice balanced—not too deep, not too soft. "Hello, kid. Your reflexes are quite impressive."
His heart pounded, the weight of danger sinking in. Without wasting a breath, he extended his right hand forward. A flash of crimson light flickered—and with a sudden burst of power, his massive battle axe materialized in his grip, the obsidian blade gleaming menacingly under the violet glow of the moon above.
His stance lowered, muscles tensed, ready for a fight. The mountain air felt even heavier now, thick with tension as both men stood facing each other on the barren plain.
The weapon in his hands wasn't just a battle axe—it was a symbol of sheer force and craftsmanship fused into one terrifying form. The shaft alone was a marvel: forged from reinforced black steel with a faint obsidian sheen, it seemed to absorb the surrounding light, making the air around it feel heavier. Delicate orange-gold veins pulsed faintly across its length, like molten lava trapped beneath volcanic rock, giving the impression that the weapon was alive, its core burning with dormant wrath.
At the top, the axe-head curved out with an aggressive, asymmetrical design. One side bore a broad, crescent blade—thick at the spine but tapering to an edge so fine it shimmered faintly in the dim violet light of the world. The metal surface shifted colors depending on how it caught the glow: from deep obsidian black to vibrant streaks of orange and flashes of golden yellow, creating a hypnotic gradient that almost seemed to ripple like liquid fire trapped in steel.
Opposite the main blade, a shorter, hooked spike jutted backward—a brutal counterweight designed for ripping and tearing through armor. This spike bore intricate engravings, etched deep into the metal, forming ancient patterns that flickered faintly with orange light every time Wei Jun tightened his grip. They whispered of forgotten wars and blood-soaked victories.
At the axe's center, where blade met shaft, sat a circular core—a rotating mechanism that clicked softly as the weapon moved. This core glowed steadily with an amber light, its purpose known only to him. Some said it stabilized the axe's weight during swings, others believed it amplified the force behind each strike. But to onlookers, it simply made the weapon feel otherworldly, mechanical yet primal.
Even the handle was carefully crafted—wrapped in dark leather dyed with pigments that shimmered gold when caught at the right angle. The pommel bore a jagged spike, ensuring the axe could deal damage from every end.
The entire weapon felt like it belonged not to a mere adventurer but to a war deity—an artifact forged in volcanic crucibles and quenched in the heart of a collapsing star.
The seminarian chuckled, the smile spreading across his face far too wide, making his otherwise average features twist into something deeply unsettling.
"Oh? You're getting serious already?" he said, tilting his head slightly. His voice was calm, almost playful. "Why don't we introduce ourselves before the battle, hmm?"
He stayed silent, his grip tightening around the shaft of his battle axe. His stance was steady, but his muscles were coiled tight like a predator ready to strike.
The seminarian didn't seem bothered by the silence. He continued, his smile stretching just a little further. "My name is Rein Arclight. And you, axe boy? What do they call you?"
His eyes narrowed, but he finally answered with a low growl, "Wei Jun."
Nothing more.
The air between them turned heavy in an instant. Rein's black eyes gleamed with a flicker of interest. Then, without warning, he stepped forward—casual at first, but the shift in pressure made it clear: he was closing in fast.
Wei Jun didn't wait. With a burst of speed that made the ground crack beneath his boots, he dashed forward, vanishing from Rein's direct line of sight and appearing just behind him in a blur. His battle axe roared through the air in a deadly arc, aimed straight to cleave Rein in half.
But then—
Rein's right arm snapped backward at an angle no human limb should ever move. Bones should have shattered, muscles torn apart, but Rein's body obeyed none of those rules.
Clutched between his fingers was another needle, thin and dark as a shadow.
With no visible strain, Rein caught the incoming axe strike with that single, fragile-looking needle. Metal met needle with a harsh screech—but Rein stood unfazed, smiling that same unsettling grin.
Wei Jun gritted his teeth, muscles flaring as he yanked his battle axe free from Rein's needle block. Without wasting a breath, he spun the weapon around and swung again, this time with enough force to split stone.
Rein Arclight's smile only grew wider. His body bent backward—no, folded backward—in an inhuman curve as the axe sliced through empty air just inches from his face. His spine arched like a serpent, and then he straightened in a smooth, unnatural motion, the needle spinning lazily between his fingers.
Wei Jun roared and pressed harder. Strike after strike, his axe blurred, sweeping in wide arcs and sudden chops meant to catch Rein off guard. Left, right, overhead—each blow powerful enough to break through steel defenses.
But Rein danced through them all. His body shifted in impossible ways—arms twisting at odd angles, legs bending where no joint existed. Every time the battle axe came close, the needle was there, meeting the weapon with a sharp metallic ping, redirecting the force with absurd ease.
Wei Jun's breath grew heavier, sweat dripping down his brow. He poured everything into his strikes now, slamming his axe down with enough might to crack the earth beneath them. Dust exploded upward, shrouding the scene.
But from within the dust cloud, Rein's voice echoed, light and mocking.
"Is that all, Wei Jun? I thought you were serious."
Wei Jun's eyes flashed with fury. He charged through the haze, battle axe raised high—
And then, through the swirling dust, he saw it.
Rein wasn't blocking anymore. He was standing still. His right hand, the one holding the needle, was gone—vanished.
But his grin was still there. And his left hand was now rising, fingers twisted into a shape no human hand should make.
Wei Jun's instincts screamed—