The morning sky was clear, sunlight spilling softly over a lonely well.
A young man stood beside it—his skin pale yet strangely smooth, his expression shadowed beneath tired eyes. He wore a white shirt and torn jeans, his right hand gently caressing a silver skull-ring that gleamed faintly crimson, as if a drop of living blood pulsed within the gem.
"Even if dimensional travel is dangerous," Lang Lin muttered, "I can't let time slip away for nothing."
He still remembered vividly the terror of that last encounter with Zhang Yang Rui. It had left him shaken, wary of opening the portal again. He'd promised himself to wait—to strengthen his body first.
But days had passed. Weeks. His impatience grew like a storm inside his chest. How long would he have to wait before becoming strong enough? And if he simply let fear rule him, wouldn't he become nothing more than a frog hiding inside its well, afraid to see the sky?
No.
Today, he would open the gate again.
Lang Lin's fingers brushed across the skull-ring once more.
A massive skeletal door materialized before him, its surface engraved with writhing runes. Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward—dragging his crippled leg—and vanished into the gaping darkness, a rusted knife clutched tightly in his hand.
In Another Dimension...
The city of Seoul.
A place suffocating under its own smoke—factories stacked like termite mounds, air thick with dust and disease.
The people here were workers—exhausted, hopeless, and trapped.
Among them lived the Ikeda family.
It was a small house, bought with the life savings of a couple who had worked themselves raw.
Ikeda Makisu and Ikeda Rina, both in their fifties, shared the home with their only daughter, a ten-year-old girl named Saya.
Makisu sat on the couch, chain-smoking and drinking cheap liquor while the news droned on the TV.
"Honey, I told you not to smoke in the house," Rina said sharply.
Their daughter was inside—the air outside was already poisonous enough. The last thing she wanted was for their little home to reek of tar and ash.
Makisu exhaled a lazy puff.
"It's just one or two smokes. Don't nag me so much."
"You know how bad the ventilation is! We're getting old. If Saya gets sick from all this pollution—where will we find the money for treatment?"
Rina's voice trembled between frustration and fear. They had conceived Saya late in life, and the weight of that decision haunted her every day. Jobs were scarce for the elderly. Sooner or later, they'd be thrown out like broken tools.
Makisu snorted. "I know. And I've already got a plan. You don't have to worry about Saya's future."
"You always say that!" Rina snapped. "But you never do anything! You just drink, smoke, and sit there wasting away. Look at us—this isn't the life I wanted."
She sighed bitterly. "Maybe I should never have married you."
"What did you just say?" Makisu's eyes narrowed, voice rising like a growl. "You still thinking about Ayato? That lover boy of yours?"
He could never forget that man—the junior colleague Rina used to laugh with. The jealousy had festered, rotting his mind from within.
Rage twisted his face.
In one violent motion, he stood up and grabbed her hair, yanking hard.
"W-What are you doing? Let me go!" Rina screamed.
He ignored her cries. "What am I doing? I'm your husband! I can do anything I want. Your body… your life… they belong to me!"
Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe madness.
Makisu dragged her toward the kitchen, his grip iron-tight.
"Let me go! You old bastard!"
Rina struggled, but he was a large man, and she—small, frail, terrified—could do nothing.
Her heart pounded as dread took hold.
"Dad, stop! Don't hurt Mom!" Saya's tiny voice pierced the chaos as she ran forward, hitting her father's leg with her fists.
"Shut up!"
The slap rang through the house.
Saya fell to the floor, sobbing, as he glared down at her.
"Maybe you're not my daughter," he hissed. "Maybe you're his!"
"Y-You're insane! She's your daughter!" Rina cried.
But her words only fanned the flames. Makisu seized a kitchen knife, its blade catching the dim light.
He smiled—a crooked, chilling smile.
"I won't let him have you. You'll never belong to anyone else."
The knife plunged into her abdomen.
Rina gasped, eyes wide, as he pulled the blade out—then sliced across her throat.
Blood sprayed the floor, blooming like crimson roses across her apron.
He leaned in and pressed his lips against hers—cold, lifeless, trembling.
Her tears glistened one last time before her eyes went still.
"Mom!" Saya's scream echoed through the house.
Makisu turned, face twisted in a grin, and dropped his wife's body to the floor.
He advanced toward Saya.
The child tried to run, but his hands were already on her shoulders.
From the corner of the room, unseen, Lang Lin watched.
His breath caught in his throat.
This wasn't what he had expected to find.
"Should I help?" he whispered, voice trembling.
He was crippled—weak—but the sight of a child about to die churned something deep inside him. One part of him screamed to act; another begged him to flee.
Then he saw Makisu turn on the gas stove and boil a pot of water.
"No... he wouldn't—"
But the next instant proved him wrong.
Lang Lin froze in horror as Makisu forced boiling water down his daughter's throat. Her body convulsed, the scream cut short. He then slit her open and—God help him—started to eat.
Lang Lin gagged, bile rising in his throat. The stench of blood filled the air.
He watched in disbelief as Makisu butchered his wife's body, cutting through bone with the same kitchen knife, piece by piece—arms, legs, head. Then he stripped off her tattered clothes and threw the remains into the boiling pot.
Soon, the room filled with a nauseatingly rich aroma, like soup… meat stew.
A whisper brushed Lang Lin's ear.
"Are you hungry?"
His scalp went numb.
He turned slowly—and saw Saya standing there.
Her face was half-melted, skin blistered as if scalded, blood dripping from her mouth.
She smiled sweetly, clutching her own intestines and taking a bite.
"AHHHH!" Lang Lin screamed, slashing wildly with his rusted knife. He shut his eyes tight.
Silence.
No scream. No boiling water. No sound at all.
When he opened his eyes again, the kitchen was empty.
No Saya. No bodies. No blood.
Only dark, dry stains on the floor—old, faded, as though years had passed.
Makisu was gone.
Lang Lin's heart pounded.
"What... what's happening?"
Then he heard it—
a giggle, faint and near his ear.
"Hehehe…"
Every hair on his body stood up.
He turned toward the door to escape—
"Going somewhere, big brother?"
Saya's voice again, playful, echoing from behind him. "Stay and eat with me. My intestines are delicious."
Lang Lin stumbled toward the door, dragging his leg, but his crippled body slowed him down. The gravity-reduction effect of the dimensional ring helped a little, yet terror made every step feel heavy.
Then came a voice that froze his blood.
"Leaving so soon? Trying to take my child with you?"
He looked up—and saw Rina Ikeda crawling across the floor.
Her skin was pale as paper, her body held together by strips of duct tape.
Each joint creaked as she moved, her long black hair spreading across the floor like a dark tide, creeping slowly toward him.
Scratch... scratch...
The sound of blades against walls.
The sound of something alive that should have been dead.