Omen watched the spectacle, his jaw tightening. Then, without a second thought, he spat into the abyss where Maloch had vanished.
"Pto!! Motherfucker."
He looked up at the crimson sky, took a breath, and muttered, "Fine."
Then he jumped.
As Omen fell, long leaves slapped against his body, the branches of colossal trees scraping across his skin. These trees grew out of the abyss itself, their roots hanging like the tendrils of something ancient and alive. Each strike sent him spinning, his long coat fluttering like torn wings.
Down below, the darkness opened like a gaping mouth—and in the distance, he saw a faint green light, glowing deep within the chasm.
Omen swallowed hard.
So this is it, huh? he thought. Death finally comes.
But instead of fear, a mad grin spread across his face beneath the mask. It wasn't defiance—it was excitement.
He turned his body headfirst, diving faster toward the green opening. His aura flared for a brief second—a faint, crimson mist against the wind.
Just as he was about to hit the ground, something snatched him—a hand shot out from a nearby tree. It caught his overcoat, stopping him for a split second before the fabric tore apart with a sharp rip.
He crashed into the ground with a dull thud.
The impact sent a sharp pain shooting up his spine, and for a moment, the world tilted. A single drop of blood ran from his mouth, rolling down his cheek and onto the dirt.
But through the haze of pain, he was smiling. A bloody, satisfied grin.
He was alive.
Above him, Maloch swung down from the branches using what was left of Omen's shredded coat, landing lightly on his feet.
Omen lay there, staring up at the fool.
"Young Master," Maloch said as he sat beside him, perfectly calm. "Why did you jump like that? You should've grabbed a tree branch! I tried to catch you, but sigh—you're too heavy."
Omen clenched his jaw and forced himself to stand.
To his surprise, the pain faded fast. His body felt lighter again—his regeneration working silently.
He yanked off his white mask, slammed it on the ground, and wiped the blood from his lip. His red eyes burned faintly.
"Motherfucker. When were you going to tell me that?"
He stormed forward, grabbed Maloch by the neck, and lifted him clean off the ground.
Maloch just dangled there, smiling. "It's common sense, Young Master."
Omen's eye twitched. Then, with an irritated sigh, he tossed the idiot aside. Maloch rolled once on the ground and sat up, still grinning.
"Well then, Young Master," Maloch said, his tone suddenly formal. "You still want my guidance to get out, right?"
Omen glared at him. "Why are you smiling?"
Maloch tilted his head, a mischievous look on his face. "Well, your face. Have you ever looked at it in a mirror?"
Omen frowned. "What the fuck are you talking about?"
"If I had a face like yours," Maloch said proudly, "I'd be sleeping with elves by now."
Omen blinked. Then he sighed.
His patience snapped.
He grabbed a large stone from the ground and charged at Maloch with intent to kill.
Maloch laughed as he dodged each swing effortlessly, skipping backward like it was a game. His laughter echoed through the cavern walls.
"Slow, Young Master! Too slow!"
"Stand still!" Omen shouted, swinging again.
But Maloch was already sprinting toward an open field of tall, dark grass. The ceiling above them curved like a cave roof, with massive tree roots hanging down like fangs.
"Look, Young Master," Maloch said suddenly, stopping mid-run.
Omen's fist collided with his stomach—it didn't even make him flinch. Maloch just pointed ahead.
Omen followed his gaze.
In the distance, the meadow shimmered with movement—countless black dots shifting in waves.
"What are those?" Omen asked, panting slightly.
"Black dots?" Maloch grinned. "Ahaha, those are men. Woodcutters—cutting down Aisenmoor trees. This jungle's also called the Jungle of Eternity, because no one knows if it ever truly ends."
He hopped down to a lower stone ledge and gestured for Omen to follow.
Omen blinked at the sight, his irritation momentarily forgotten. The entire place felt unreal—like a hollowed mountain breathing around them. The cavern roof glimmered faintly, its mossy surface reflecting the dim Redstar light filtering from above.
Omen sighed. "I don't know shit about this world's geography," he admitted to himself. Then he picked up his mask, cracked his neck, and leaped down after Maloch.
The two of them ran side by side.
"Why are you smiling again?" Omen asked, noticing the cheerful idiot next to him.
"Well, we haven't run into any beasts or monsters yet," Maloch said with a wide grin. "That's always a good sign."
"Are we out of the jungle then?" Omen asked, scanning the open meadow.
"Not yet," Maloch said, swinging his stick to clear the grass ahead. "This used to be part of the jungle. The trees here were cut down. Once we cross the meadow, we'll reach a crossroad. That's when we're out."
His pace quickened, his energy renewed.
Omen gritted his teeth and tried to keep up, but his level was too low. He was falling behind.
With a growl, he unfurled his black wings—sleek and shadowed, pulsing faintly with qi.
"Don't!" Maloch shouted, stopping instantly. His voice dropped to a whisper. "Don't fly. Just run. If you fly here, the flying beasts will tear you apart before you blink."
Omen froze. His wings dissolved into smoke. He nodded silently.
They moved quietly now, their steps soft against the grass.
The meadow was deathly still. Even the air felt trapped.
"Shhh," Maloch hissed, raising a hand.
Omen froze.
The fool even stopped breathing, so Omen followed suit—crouching lower, his long frame folded awkwardly among the grass.
Everything went silent. No insects. No wind.
Then Omen saw it—shadows passing overhead. He looked up slowly.
A group of bat-like creatures glided through the sky. Their wings stretched wider than houses, their skin glistening black under the faint light. Each flap of their wings stirred the air like thunder.
Omen's blood chilled. Even from here, he could sense their aura—heavy, ancient, and suffocating.
He whispered softly, "What… are those?"
Maloch's voice was a thin breath. "Sky Reapers… Conflictor-class beasts. Don't move."
The grass swayed once.
Then silence reclaimed the world.
Omen held his breath.
For the first time in a long while, even he felt it—the raw, crushing weight of fear.