The gates of the Southern Dark Continent – Dawn
"...…"
"#^#&##&....you just got dumped, huh?" The hulking demon quipped, his voice dripping with mockery as he appeared at the crimson demon's side. His massive frame loomed like a shadow cast by an eclipse, but even he couldn't dim the palpable tension radiating from his companion.
The crimson demon said nothing, his gaze fixed on the edge of the valley where Atlas and the captain had vanished moments ago. Drops of blood still glistened faintly in the early morning light, mingling with the scent of humanity that lingered stubbornly in the air. It was a cruel reminder—a taunt written in flesh and fluid—that they were no longer within reach.
"Haaaaa....." the hulking demon sighed theatrically, scratching his grotesque chin. "Are you broken-hearted or some shit? Are you really gonna stand here all day? We need a whole race exterminated, not your emo pity party."
"%%%@^%%$...." the crimson one growled under his breath, his tone low enough to silence even the wind.
".....what?" the hulking demon replied, raising an eyebrow.
Without warning, the crimson demon reached into his side pouch and pulled out the severed hand of Atlas. The sigil ring gleamed defiantly against the rising sun, its golden hue cutting through the gloom like a blade slicing through despair.
"...do you believe in fate?" the crimson demon asked suddenly, his voice soft yet sharp, like shards of glass wrapped in velvet.
The hulking demon snorted loudly, crossing his arms over his chest. "Nah...I believe in free will and shit."
The crimson one didn't respond immediately. Instead, he paced closer to the edge of the valley, each step deliberate but strained. Something unseen pushed back against him, forcing sweat to bead along his brow despite his composure. He stopped abruptly, holding the ring up between two clawed fingers, inspecting it as if it held the secrets of the universe.
"...the bloodline that killed the Demon King and divided the realm…" he murmured thoughtfully, his voice tinged with irony. "Oh, the poetry of it all…" With a flick of his wrist, he dropped the ring into the abyss below, watching it disappear without so much as a sound.
The hulking demon blinked in confusion, scratching his head, trying to assemble what he was trying to say, when all of a sudden, it hit him. "Fuck!...the one who guides the way…yo…you think it's him? That puny human?"
A slow, sinister smile spread across the crimson demon's face, revealing rows of jagged teeth. "I don't 'think', I 'believe', you pile of fat. He is the one. It doesn't matter if he's born with human flesh—destiny has marked him."
His partner fell silent, unease creeping into his expression. Though the crimson demon was known for spinning webs of lies and deceit, there was one thing no one could deny: his devotion to the Book of the Damned bordered on fanatical. If he believed Atlas was the chosen one, then perhaps, perhaps it was true.
"...if you truly believe the chosen one has appeared," the hulking demon finally muttered, his voice heavy with reluctant conviction, "then we need to exterminate the remaining races much faster!"
The crimson demon carefully placed the severed hand back into his pouch, handling it like a relic too sacred to be mishandled. "On that, fatso, I can agree with you."
He turned back toward the edge of the valley, crimson eyes glowing brighter than ever before, reflecting both triumph and anticipation.
'Let's meet again…Atlas.'
.
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The Dark Continent
With his remaining hand, Atlas drove a sword into the jagged rock face beside him as they plummeted. The blade screeched and groaned under the strain, sparks flying like fireflies in the pitch-black void. Their descent slowed—grazing against sheer cliffs slick with moss and ancient grime—but only just enough to keep them alive.
Above, the world faded entirely. Fog and darkness swallowed light whole, choking out even the faintest glimmer of hope from above. Below? It was worse. A blackness so absolute it felt alive, breathing cold whispers that clawed at their sanity. But then, as if mocking them for daring to survive this long, shades of luminescence began to bloom. They pierced through the oppressive fog like veins of starlight coursing through an endless night.
And there it was—the infamous land of opportunity and despair. The motherland of all monsters, magical races, and forgotten dreams.
"…the dark continent," she murmured in awe, her voice trembling between reverence and terror. Her fingers dug deeper into Atlas's back, anchoring herself not just to him but to reality itself. ".....One of my dreams is now fulfilled, if I have to say…" She trailed off, laughter bubbling up despite the chaos—a sound brittle enough to shatter glass.
Atlas didn't respond immediately. He remembered the plan—or what passed for one before everything went to hell. His job had been simple: guide the party to the edge of the abyss and return home unscathed. Simple. Predictable. Safe. But life never followed scripts written by gods or men. And here he was, staring at the empty space where his arm used to be, wondering how far fate would stretch its cruel joke.
'Well,' he thought bitterly, 'I can at least enjoy this view.'
The valley below glittered with bioluminescent trees that stretched skyward like skeletal hands reaching for salvation. Giant trunks pulsed softly with inner light, casting eerie shadows across the canyon walls. No sunlight dared enter here; instead, the forest thrummed with its own heartbeat—a living, breathing entity untouched by time or man.
"…it reminds me of 'Avatar'," Atlas muttered dryly, half-smiling at the absurd comparison.
"Of what?" she asked, confusion lacing her tone.
"Nevermind…" He shook his head, dismissing the fleeting nostalgia. "Enjoy the view while it lasts. We're gonna reach down soon."
As they neared the ground, the makeshift sword finally gave way, splintering into tatters as gravity reclaimed its throne. They landed hard on soft grass, each step leaving behind glowing footprints that shimmered briefly before fading like ghosts retreating into the ether.
"…is it just me, or do I feel like it's easier to breathe here?" she remarked, her voice tinged with wonder.
Atlas knew why. In the game, nearly a quarter of the story unfolded within the Dark Continent—a place designed for leveling up, grinding skills, and confronting unimaginable horrors. But this wasn't a game. This was real. And the Dark Continent wasn't merely a field of trials—it was another planet entirely, teeming with magic so thick it saturated the air itself.
He reached out tentatively, brushing his fingertips against a leaf. Just as he suspected: every touch left behind a temporary glow. Whether it was plant, branch, or bark, the entire landscape seemed alive with latent energy, responding to their presence like a symphony tuning itself to their chaotic rhythm.
"So, Atlas," she began, sliding her battered sword back into its hilt with a metallic rasp, "what's the plan?"
Atlas hesitated, weighing his words carefully. "....Okay, do you still have the book I gave you? Turn to page… 82."
She nodded, pulling the worn tome from her belt pocket. Flipping to the designated page, she scanned the contents silently. Whatever she read made her pause, her brow furrowing slightly.
Again, she thought he was insane. But insanity had kept them both breathing this far. She'd given him her word—to trust him completely—and she intended to honor it, no matter how reckless his plans became.
"…didn't people around you ever tell you," she said wryly, breaking the silence, "that you're a bit crazy in the head?"
"Numerous times," he replied without missing a beat, already striding forward with purpose.
That's when it happened.
Without warning, the ground beneath Atlas collapsed, swallowing him whole like a predator claiming its prey. One moment he was there, steady and resolute, and the next—
"ATLAS!" she screamed, lunging toward the gaping chasm where he'd vanished. Her hands scrabbled uselessly at the edge, dirt crumbling beneath her desperate grasp.
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MONSTER'S GUIDE
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Chapter 5: Ground dwellers.
Part one.
Meadow Mimic
The Meadow Mimic is no ordinary patch of grass—it's a cunning predator cloaked in emerald blades, luring the unwary to a gruesome fate. Nestled in meadows or forest glades, this sinister creature disguises itself as a 5-foot circle of lush turf, so inviting it begs to be trodden upon. But step on its surface, and you awaken a nightmare.
Beneath its verdant facade hides a yawning maw, ringed with jagged, thorn-like teeth that snap shut in a heartbeat. The mimic senses footsteps through vibrations and heat, striking with lethal precision to swallow prey whole. Inside its acidic belly, victims dissolve—flesh, bone, and dreams alike.
Unnervingly still, its grass never sways with the breeze, and no insect dares linger near. By night, it creeps inch by inch to new hunting grounds, a silent stalker of the wilds. After a feast, it scatters spores on the wind, birthing new mimics to haunt distant fields.
Fire can sear its false skin, and arid lands sap its strength, but only the sharp-eyed spot its eerie perfection before it's too late. A stick to probe the ground or a torch in hand might save you from this verdant deceiver.
The Meadow Mimic is nature's cruelest lie—a carpet of green that hungers for your last step. Will you tread lightly, or become its next whispered secret?
Page 34
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