It was pitch black all around. But if he could see in this darkness, he might have noticed the crooked trees stretching unnaturally upward, or the elegant flowers with five thorny petals. Occasionally, one of those flowers would stab his foot—not a pleasant experience, as their petals were as hard and sharp as actual thorns.
The grass was equally tough, and the bark of the trees was impossibly hard... The primary reason all plant life here had grown so rigid was the lack of a proper water source. Instead of water, there was something else: black ink.
Well, we call it ink—but it probably isn't. We only named it that because it looks so much like ink and stains everything in black. The humidity in the air, the puddles on the ground—everything liquid here was made up of that black substance.
But that wasn't the reason it was so dark.
Anything that produces light draws the attention of Titans or Dhunes. As a child, he could only handle Stage 1 Dhunes, the weakest of them all. Stage 2 would be difficult, but he might get away. Stage 3? He might escape, but not without injury. Stage 4? If it reached that point, it wasn't a Dhune anymore—it was a Titan. And encountering a Titan meant death.
He walked down the same path he traveled every day, the crackling of dry grass beneath his feet the only sound around. He didn't even know his own name. Maybe he never had one. Still, he was content with his life.
He kept moving forward. The dripping sound of ink and the snapping of the grass, which cracked like brittle tree branches, accompanied his steps.
Finally, he arrived. This was his favorite place.
He walked to where the trees ended and the grass gave way to stone. Sitting at the edge of a cliff, his legs dangled freely in the air.
The view was beautiful. This place marked a transition zone between the Inksworn Depths and the central region. The land close to the cliff was barren and dry, filled more with stone than soil. Across the chasm, all plant life softened—the ink didn't reach that far, and the terrain was parched in a different way.
The reason for the drought became clear the moment he looked out toward the horizon.
In the distance, he could see a desert surrounded by a thick layer of mist. Through a few gaps in the fog, he could glimpse ruined buildings—remnants of an ancient empire, perhaps. And right at the center of the horizon, symmetrically aligned with the desert's heart, was a shining, radiant light. If the name wasn't mistaken, that light was known as "The Sun of Undergarden."
It lit up the entirety of Undergarden like a true sun. Of course, very little light ever reached the western region—known to most as Inksworn Depths—where he currently lived. Only during certain hours of the day would the region see any illumination.
He didn't know much about the desert and had never ventured there, but he often wondered what it would be like to live in a place filled with daylight. What would it feel like to spend an entire day in brightness?
What exactly was the Sun of Undergarden? No one knew for sure. But everyone knew about the enormous, immobile metal tendrils that extended from its base. These tendrils emitted immense heat for two hours every day, drying the surrounding land and even allowing people to cook food—he'd tried it a few times himself.
After scanning the vast desert, he tilted his head upward to gaze at the ceiling of Undergarden. The view wasn't as grand as below, but it was intriguing nonetheless.
The world he lived in was called Undergarden. Every three years, gateways called Monoliths would open between Earth and Undergarden. These magical structures—tall stone pillars covered in arcane runes—would remain open for a month before closing again.
He'd never seen one. And he had no plans to, either.
There was no sky here—only a ceiling. He didn't really know what a real sky looked like… or what a real sun felt like.
"I'm sure they must be beautiful…"
This place was more like a massive cave, and each biome had slight variations in its ceiling. For instance, the ceiling of the Inksworn Depths was studded with pristine white crystals—unlike any other region. For five hours a day, these crystals would glow all at once, illuminating the entire western zone. But after those five hours, darkness would return.
Whenever the light came, the monsters went mad. Dhunes and Titans hated the light. They destroyed all sources of it—except this one. When faced with an unbreakable source of light, they lost all sense of purpose...
…All except one.
A Phase 7 Titan. The Baron of the West. The savage hunter of Inksworn Depths.
Oddly enough, more was known about this Titan than the Phase 7 Titans of the other biomes. Each region had one—unique and unmatched. The hunter of the West clung motionless to the ceiling. In darkness, it was almost invisible. But when light returned, you wondered how you ever failed to see it. It was colossal. It never touched the ground—always hanging from the top. It would sleep until awakened by some foolish soul. If no such fool appeared, it would wait for the light, and then gorge itself on any creature nearby. Gluttonous and insatiable. Though it rarely bothered with surface dwellers, there were rumors that it could extend its massive limb from ceiling to earth and snatch prey whole.
The only thing people agreed on was this: it looked like a bird—but no one who had seen it wanted to describe it.
Thankfully, the western biome was vast. Encountering the Phase 7 Titan was unlikely.
He lifted his hand and stared at it.
His skin was pale—sickly white. Yet still human. The reason? He drank ink instead of water. His blood was pitch-black. His hair, too. His skin turned white as chalk. Once, his eyes and hair had been brown. But now? His eyes had darkened to near black, and his hair turned a deep ink-black as well.
He had lived here all his life, near the desert-connected heart of the Inksworn Depths. Contrary to what others believed, the desert's monsters didn't cross the border. Nor did the beasts of the Inksworn Depths wander far. That made the area relatively safe.
He'd turned twelve just a few days ago… and yes, he had a reason for living here. He was searching. Searching for a corpse. He hadn't found it yet—but he didn't believe he had another four years. He'd already spent four years in this place.
Before that? He didn't want to think about it.
"Damn it, I remembered those awful memories again. What a way to ruin such a beautiful view."
Just as he tried to bury his thoughts beneath the view, a sound echoed from the ink behind him. Footsteps—!
He pressed a hand to the ground and jumped to his feet, pulling out a dagger from his pocket. It was made from the tooth of a Phase 3 Dhune—not a kill of his own, of course. He had scavenged it from a corpse.
But when he turned around, he flushed with embarrassment.
It was his only companion—his pet Dhune.
Towering behind him was a creature with the skull of a wolf. The top of its head was bone, but its ears and some parts of its face had grown skin and muscle. Its legs were skeletal, but its paws were oversized and clawed—perfect for scaling mountains. Those same strange feet were why its approach had been so silent.
It was a Soul Wolf—a rare and elite breed. He had found it as a pup in the nest of a dying Phase 2 Dhune. It had been severely injured and on the brink of death.
Now, after years of healing and rapid growth, it had grown over 1.5 meters tall. Maybe it would reach Phase 2 someday… no one really knew how monsters evolved. The only rule was that offspring inherited their parent's phase. But there had been exceptions.
Still, all his information was outdated—four years old. He'd lived in isolation ever since.
Thanks to its rare bloodline, the Soul Wolf healed from most injuries by simply eating. Sometimes it could breathe white flames that seared through spirits. The skull and legs never healed, though—wounds too old, taken during its youth. No amount of food could restore them. But by now, it had adapted, and so had he. This was its "normal."
Its tail burned with white flame—a trait of its kind. Its eyes were twin white fires, flickering in empty sockets like ghostly lanterns.
When the boy realized it was just his wolf, he hesitated with shame and then leapt forward.
"Luo!" he cried, diving into its fur.
He had named it Luo. It licked his face. The two survived together here—Luo, the stronger of the two, protected him from wild beasts. And in return, the boy shared fish he caught.
He wore a massive cloak—far too large for his age. The cloak itself was enchanted, making its interior darker than shadows. Perfect for the Inksworn Depths.
After a long embrace, he climbed atop Luo's back. At only twelve, he could still ride the oversized wolf.
It was morning. Every day began like this—with that same cliff, and that same view. But now, it was time to find food.
Silence cloaked them. Luo's strange feet made no sound. The only thing they heard was their own breathing.
His eyes had finally adjusted to the darkness. After four years here, he could see better than most humans.
He didn't steer Luo. The wolf knew where to go. He simply looked around—gnarled trees, hardened grass, ink puddles… not much else. But the quiet journey wasn't boring. The boy felt a thrill—anything could appear at any moment.
After ten or fifteen minutes, they reached a large ink lake. He could see the opposite shore but not the lake's depths. This was his fishing spot—though not his favorite one. They kept moving.
Soon, they arrived at a twisted tree—larger than the others.
"Here," he thought.
He leapt from Luo's back and climbed the tree.
Balancing on a branch that extended over the lake, he stopped where it thinned and sat. From his back, he pulled out a handmade fishing rod. It had taken countless failed attempts to make this one. But this rod had saved him during food shortages. It was precious.
He didn't bait the hook with meat. Instead, he made a tiny cut on his left arm—just enough to draw blood—and let a single drop fall onto the hook.
"One, two, three, four, five. That should do."
He quickly bandaged his finger. He always did this—meat was scarce, and the creatures here were drawn to blood. It was easier than baiting with flesh, but he had to cover the wound quickly.
With everything ready, he cast the line as far as he could. And now… he waited.
He was hungry. But he had to be patient.
Luo had already wandered off. He often did that. The boy would have to return home alone. Still, if he caught something, he'd save a fish for Luo.
Luo was a good boy.