(Historic Dimension )
The kingdom lay far to the east, beyond the familiar trade routes that connected the realms of Firestone and Ironveil. Unlike Victor's kingdom, which stood proud on volcanic stone, or William's lands guarded by steep ridges, this kingdom was surrounded by wide plains and slow rivers that reflected the sky like polished mirrors. The air here carried a quiet authority—calm, watchful, and heavy with strategy.
At the heart of the kingdom stood a palace built of pale stone and dark timber, its towers modest in height but precise in design. Nothing here was excessive. Everything existed for a reason.
This was the kingdom ruled by Sebastian Holmes.
Sebastian sat upon his throne not like a man who enjoyed power, but like one who understood its weight. His posture was straight, his hands resting lightly on the armrests, fingers unmoving. His eyes—sharp, observant, and calculating—were fixed on a map spread across a wide table before him.
A soldier entered the hall, his boots echoing against the stone floor. He dropped to one knee immediately.
"My king," the soldier said, lowering his head. "King , the assistant general of the Firestone Kingdom, has arrived. He claims the matter is urgent."
Sebastian did not hesitate.
"Let him in," he said calmly.
Moments later, the Assistant general stepped inside. His armor bore the marks of long service, scratched and darkened, not polished for display. He bowed deeply.
"King Sebastian," he said. "I thank you for seeing me on such short notice."
Sebastian gestured toward the seat across from him. "If Firestone sends its assistant general personally, then time itself must be impatient. Speak."
He inhaled slowly. "There are movements in the shadows, my king. Movements that do not belong to war, yet smell of it. King Victor believes alliances must be… reconsidered."
Sebastian's fingers tightened slightly on the armrest.
"So," he murmured, "the quiet has begun to break."
(Modern Dimension )
The city was already awake. Cars moved like restless insects, horns cutting through the air, vendors shouting, people rushing with purpose or panic—it was impossible to tell which. Beneath this chaos, hidden from most eyes, lay the underground world.
And walking toward it were Erika and Scott.
Scott dragged his feet with exaggerated misery, his shoulders slumped, his face pale with exhaustion.
"Please, Erika," he begged for the fifth time. "Just today. Just one day. My body feels like it's been run over by a truck, reversed, and run over again."
Erika didn't even slow down.
"We're not going to fight," she said firmly. "We're just going to talk."
Scott groaned. "That's what you said last time. And last time, I almost died."
"You're still breathing," Erika replied. "Which means it wasn't that bad."
Scott stopped walking entirely. "I cannot go to the underground site today. I physically cannot."
Erika turned around slowly and stared at him.
Scott swallowed.
"…Fine," he muttered, and resumed walking.
They entered the elevator—an old, scratched metal box hidden behind a false wall in an abandoned building. As the doors closed, the noise of the city vanished, replaced by a low mechanical hum.
Scott leaned against the wall, eyes closed.
"I hate this place," he said.
Erika said nothing. Her eyes were scanning the reflections on the metal walls, alert, focused.
When the elevator doors opened, the underground greeted them with neon lights, narrow corridors, and unfamiliar faces. Erika immediately began searching the crowd.
Five faces.
She scanned every corner.
Nothing.
They took a few steps forward.
Suddenly—thud.
Someone slammed into Erika's shoulder and kept walking.
Scott spun around instantly. "Hey—!"
But Erika was already moving.
She grabbed the man's wrist and yanked him back.
"This is the second time," she said coldly. "And I know it's intentional. I don't want excuses. I need the reason."
The man was large—broad shoulders, thick arms, scars visible above his collar. He stared down at her, unafraid.
"We need to talk," he said. "There's a lot to talk about."
Scott leaned close to Erika. "I don't like this."
"I know," Erika replied. "But we're going."
They followed him.
They walked far from the usual rings of activity, deeper into the underground, where lights flickered and voices lowered. The space opened into a wide concrete chamber.
Ten people sat and stood around casually.
Men. Women.
All of them marked by tattoos—symbols, numbers, scars layered over old ones.
Erika's eyes narrowed.
Five familiar faces.
The same five men.
The big man stepped forward. "We're Sherlin's group , I mean her friends."
Erika crossed her arms. "And?"
"You disrespected her."
Scott scoffed. "She attacked first."
A boy stepped forward—young, sharp-eyed.
Erika tilted her head. "How old are you?"
"Seventeen."
Scott blinked. "Only people above eighteen can be here."
The boy smirked. "You don't look eighteen either."
"I am!" Scott snapped.
Erika sighed. "Both of you—stop acting like children."
She turned back to the group. "I didn't intend to hurt anyone. If you think I spoke rude, that's your interpretation. I don't care."
The big man's eyes darkened.
"You want to know why Sherlin couldn't stand against you properly?"
Erika froze.
He continued.
"A week ago, she won a match. Her opponents didn't accept defeat. Three men attacked her afterward. Three against one woman."
Scott clenched his fists.
"She still won," the man said. "But she was injured badly. That's why she fell at your fifth kick. Otherwise, she would've finished you in the first move."
Erika's voice softened. "Doesn't she have parents?"
"She does," the man replied. "A father who forces her to fight. Not a good man."
Silence hung heavy.
Scott stepped forward. "Ten people are here to talk about Sherlin. But I'm the only one who is here to talk about Erika. She is not someone who fight without a reason, she always have a logic.That's it. And we're leaving."
They turned to go.
Erika stopped once more.
"I don't fight without reason," she said calmly. "Don't block my path again."
They left.
(Robotic Dimension)
The toy shop looked cheerful.
Too cheerful.
Bright colors. Shelves overflowing with dolls, cars, guns, puzzles. The owner stood behind the counter, smiling widely—too wide.
Every tooth visible.
A clown's smile.
Outside, Sergain ended the call with Olive.
"You really want your assistant with me?" Sergain asked.
"Yes," Olive said. "He'll inform me of everything."
Sergain nodded and entered.
He checked cameras, shelves, corners. His eyes lingered on toys he once loved. A water gun. A plastic robot.
He picked one up, grinning.
The assistant sighed. "Please don't act like a kid."
Deeper inside, they found older toys—20th-century designs.
Now the assistant smiled.
Sergain smirked. "You too?"
A mechanical sound echoed.
A lift.
Sergain turned sharply. "You have an underground?"
"Only stock storage," the owner replied quickly.
Sergain moved toward the door.
Suddenly—scream.
Outside, a man in a black scarf was carrying a child.
Sergain ran.
Ten minutes. Alleys. Corners.
Gone.
He returned, shaken.
The owner shouted. "You cannot enter without permission!"
Sergain opened the door.
Only toys.
Nothing.
Yet his instincts screamed otherwise.
(Historic Dimension )
King Victor sat alone, reading a letter slowly.
Carefully.
At the bottom a name was written
By Erika.
The candle flickered.
And the worlds held their breath.