The city of Belmont was a place that time had politely refused to hurry.
It was nestled in the southern outreaches of Vale, cradled between soft hills and the gray line of the old river that once carried barges full of ore and timber. These days, the river only carried its reflection — a dull, broken mirror for the faint neon lights that blinked halfheartedly across its banks.
Unlike Vale proper, where the skyline shimmered with glass towers and lev-trams zipped like streaks of light, Belmont had an older soul. Its streets were paved with cracked asphalt, its cars hummed with internal combustion instead of quiet electric whirrs, and its citizens still gathered at diners that had vinyl stools and jukeboxes that didn't quite work anymore. The hum of progress was there, of course — holo phones and tablets and terminals flickered in windows — but it was a tired hum, an echo rather than a chorus.
And on this quiet evening, the echo of footsteps broke the stillness of an abandoned industrial district at the city's edge.
The man who walked there did not belong.
He strode with casual grace, as though the crumbling warehouses and the empty streets were a stage set for his performance. Each step was catty, a crisp tap of his polished shoes against the cracked pavement, and with each footfall, he kicked a faint puff of dust into the evening air.
A bowler hat, dark with a crimson band and a feather tucked neatly into the brim, rested upon his head. Beneath it, orange hair, slicked with immaculate precision, swept over one side of his face, leaving just enough space for a single emerald-green, foxy eye to glint through. The other remained hidden, a mystery shaded beneath the curve of the hat.
He smiled faintly, like someone savoring a private joke.
His attire was theatrical yet elegant — a white trench coat with tall collars and soft red inner padding that caught the faintest light when he moved. A pair of black gloves covered his hands, their leather gleaming faintly as he spun a white cane between his fingers.
The cane was no ordinary trinket. From afar, it appeared the accessory of a man with expensive taste. But up close — if anyone had been there to look — they might have noticed the faint seams, the precise mechanical interlocks, the quiet hum beneath its pristine surface.
A cane made not of wood, but of technology.
He hummed softly as he walked, some nameless, lazy tune that rose and fell with the wind.
The city around him was silent except for the creak of metal and the distant sound of cicadas. The warehouses loomed like ancient beasts, their steel ribs rusted and broken, their glass eyes shattered.
It had been decades since Belmont's industrial quarter had thrived — before newer cities stole its trade routes, and before the people of the south had packed up and left. Now, all that remained were ghosts of industry: empty shipping containers, sun-bleached signs, and graffiti that glowed faintly under the sun's light.
The man stopped in front of one particular warehouse.
It was larger than the others — a long rectangular building with a roof that sagged in the middle and metal doors that had rusted into a deep, crusted brown. The number "07" was barely visible on the front, faded beneath years of neglect.
He tilted his head slightly, examining the chains that barred the door.
"Hmm," he murmured, voice light and lilting. "How quaint."
He crouched, twirling his cane idly, and brushed a gloved hand across the chains. They were thick and industrial — the kind used for keeping shipments secure, not for decoration. The padlock was equally heavy, a relic from a time when locks were made to last.
The man smiled.
With a flick of his wrist, the air shimmered. A ripple — faint, almost invisible — spread from his hand, bending light like heat distortion. A second later, the chains vanished with a soft metallic snap.
The next instant, the lock and chains reappeared in his left hand, heavy and solid. He turned them over once, studying their weight with an amused expression.
Then he let them drop.
The impact was deafening — a metallic crash that echoed across the district like thunder. The sound carried far too loudly for its size, indicating its heavy weight.
The man chuckled. "Heh. Always a pleasure, old friend."
He straightened his hat, adjusted his coat, and pushed the warehouse door open.
It groaned in protest, scraping against the ground before finally yielding.
The air inside was stuffy and smelled of dust and oil. The faint beams of sunlight from the cracked skylights spilled across the interior, catching on long-forgotten crates and machinery. Dust motes danced lazily in the air, glowing faintly in the light.
He stepped inside.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The sound of his shoes echoed faintly, swallowed quickly by the cavernous space.
Rows of crates stretched toward the far wall, stacked haphazardly. The paint had peeled off most of them, revealing wood warped by moisture and time. Some had labels in old and faded lettering that he cared little about. But nonetheless, they were there.
The man moved a crate that seemed heavy with a slight kick of his foot. It screeched faintly as it slid across the dusty concrete, revealing a faint outline in the floor — a hidden hatch. He crouched, brushed his gloved fingers across it, and smiled faintly. A light tap from his knuckle was all it took.
The hatch popped violently out of its recess, as though struck by a sledgehammer from below. It spun into the air, weightless, until the man lazily waved his hand. The flying hatch shimmered and blinked out of existence… only to appear in his hand, perfectly balanced.
He examined it for a second, then flicked it aside. The metallic clang echoed through the empty warehouse like a gunshot.
Beneath, the hole gaped open, its ladder rungs descending into a darkness so complete that even the faint light from above couldn't reach the bottom. A chill wind rose from below, carrying the smell of stone and dust. Something buried.
The man adjusted the red-accented brim of his bowler hat and smirked.
"Well," he muttered, "time to see how deep the rabbit hole goes."
He didn't bother with the ladder. He simply stepped forward and fell.
The moment he vanished, the warehouse reacted. The hatch sealed itself shut, snapping into place with a hiss. The crate that had been moved slid slowly back into its original position. The lock and chain reattached themselves around the front door, glinting faintly in the gloom. By the time the echo of his fall faded, there was no trace he'd ever been there at all.
He plummeted for nearly a full minute, the air growing colder, heavier. Then—impact. But instead of shattering bones, the landing was almost gentle, as if gravity itself had decided to take pity on him.
The man straightened, brushing invisible dust off his coat. The space around him stretched out in eerie silence. It looked like a mineshaft, though far larger — towering walls of metal and rock reinforced by ancient support beams that reached up five stories high. The faint blue glow of luminescent crystals hummed softly along the rail lines that crisscrossed the ground.
And there it was.
A single, sleek minecart sat on the tracks before him.
He blinked once, incredulously. "You've got to be kidding."
The cart looked ridiculous — all polished metal and glowing lights, like someone had taken a piece of advanced military tech and forced it into the shape of an amusement park ride. He sighed through his nose, muttering under his breath.
"This is so beneath my aesthetic."
Still, he climbed in, shifting around until he found a vaguely comfortable spot. His coat rustled against the red-padded lining as he pressed the single illuminated button at the front.
The cart screamed forward.
The acceleration nearly tore the hat off his head. He grabbed it instinctively, one hand clamped tight to the brim while the other gripped the edge of the cart. The rush of air flattened his hair and pressed his coat against his body like a second skin. The tunnel walls blurred into streaks of blue and silver.
The ride was wild, reckless — a mad plunge through forgotten depths. The tracks twisted and coiled through vast caverns filled with glowing stalactites, old machine pillars, and black underground lakes that rippled with unnatural light. Occasionally, other tunnels branched off in the dark, glowing faintly with crimson or green luminescence before vanishing again.
Finally, after ten long minutes, the cart slowed. The brakes hissed and the whole machine glided to a stop before a massive steel platform suspended in midair.
The man exhaled sharply and stepped out, straightening his coat. The cart immediately shot back down the tunnel, vanishing in a streak of blue light.
He grumbled, glancing after it. "Not even a return ride. Typical."
He took in his surroundings — the echoing hum of machinery, the rhythmic clatter of footsteps. All around him, people were arriving by similar minecarts, stepping out with varying degrees of irritation, awe, or indifference.
The platform began to descend, lowering him and the others toward a sprawling base below. The place looked part research facility, part military bunker, and part something else entirely.
Dozens of figures milled about — at least fifty by his count. Some wore Rune Frames that hummed faintly with contained energy; others bore sleek modern armor that gleamed beneath the harsh white light. A few wore no armor at all, dressed instead in flowing robes or weathered coats, their weapons resting easily at their sides.
Swords, axes, plasma rifles, hybrid-tech revolvers — all mingled in a dizzying clash of eras and styles.
The man's green eyes flicked from one weapon to the next, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. "A proper circus," he muttered. "Just how I like it."
At the far end of the chamber, research personnel worked frantically around a massive array of stabilizing pylons. Sparks of energy arced between them as they channeled power toward the impossible thing at the room's heart — a Tear.
A jagged, triangular rupture suspended midair, big enough to swallow a building. It pulsed slowly, bleeding strange light into the air. On the other side was a vision that didn't belong in this world — a ruined city drowned in darkness and red light, its skyline cracked and leaning.
Above it all, a shattered red moon glared down from a lightless sky.
The man tilted his head, eyes glinting beneath his hat. "Still as charming as ever," he murmured.
He wasn't alone for long.
From the corner of his vision, he caught a flicker of pink and brown. A girl approached, silent and graceful, her boots tapping lightly against the floor. She was shorter than him, but carried herself with a poise that drew attention without demanding it.
Her hair was perfectly divided down the middle — half pastel pink, half deep chocolate — and her eyes mirrored that duality, each iris a different color. The faint shimmer of gloss and light makeup accentuated her features without softening the quiet confidence she radiated.
She twirled a sleek umbrella in her hand. Its frame hummed faintly, hinting at a hidden mechanism similar to the man's own cane.
They exchanged a glance — something unspoken flickering between them.
The man gave a lopsided smirk. "Shall we?"
She didn't answer, only nodded once. Her lips curved faintly, almost smiling.
Together, they stepped forward, toward the Tear.
The crowd parted as they approached, whispers trailing behind like smoke. The light from the rupture painted them both in red and white, their silhouettes elongating across the floor.
Neither hesitated when they reached the edge.
The man adjusted his hat one last time. The girl twirled her umbrella.
And with perfect synchronicity, they walked into the wound in reality — swallowed whole by the crimson glow of the broken moon.
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AN: Advanced chapters (up to 10) are available on patreon.