It was a tall, sturdy man standing approximately 1.9 meters in height. He had a bald head, a short moustache, and a powerful build that radiated an imposing presence.
He wore a worn-out T-shirt that seemed almost incapable of containing the constantly ticking, blazing furnace-like heart embedded in his chest. A pair of black jeans and oversized sandals completed his rather unremarkable attire.
Despite his ordinary appearance, the strange, furnace-like heart within his chest gave him an unmistakably extraordinary presence.
It was Marco.
Marco unceremoniously stretched out his right hand toward One, his intention painfully obvious.
One's expression immediately darkened. Nevertheless, he still gritted his teeth, reached into the box, and reluctantly took out two serums, carefully placing them in Marco's outstretched hand.
The moment Marco received the serums, his previously stern expression vanished, replaced by a look of satisfaction.
He couldn't help snickering inwardly.
'Hmph! How dare you start giving away such precious serums on my vehicle without even considering me, your own teacher? Just you wait, you little brat. I'll deal with you later. Such valuable treasures should be kept safely in my possession!'
With that thought, Marco turned his back on the others and spoke calmly.
"We're approaching the nearest Sanctuary we could find in these wastelands. We should be arriving in just a few days."
Having delivered his announcement, he immediately turned and walked away, his demeanour as casual as it had been when he first appeared.
One, whose expression had already returned to normal, could only watch him leave helplessly.
Of the six serums originally contained in the box, only one now remained.
Brant, Steven, and Veronica each glanced at One, their expressions flickering with complicated emotions. None of them said anything, leaving their thoughts impossible to decipher.
Five days later.
The atmosphere suddenly changed, growing noticeably heavier.
The mechanical vehicle gradually slowed as a massive structure emerged from the polluted haze ahead.
Hundreds of crudely constructed houses formed an enormous circular settlement, sprawling across several kilometres of desolate land.
The buildings were uneven and mismatched, assembled from whatever materials their inhabitants could scavenge. Twisted metal sheets, broken stones, and strange pieces of mutated organic matter had been fashioned into makeshift walls and roofs, creating a settlement that looked as though it had been pieced together from the ruins of a dead world.
At first glance, the entire settlement appeared to be nothing more than a sprawling collection of shabby dwellings.
However, a closer look revealed that these ramshackle structures occupied only its outermost region.
Beyond the crude houses, deeper within the settlement, the silhouettes of more elegant and carefully constructed buildings could be vaguely discerned. Unlike the makeshift dwellings on the outskirts, these structures appeared considerably more refined, suggesting that not everyone living within the Sanctuary was condemned to such harsh conditions.
Clearly, some of its inhabitants occupied a much higher position in the social hierarchy, enjoying relatively luxurious lifestyles while those on the outskirts struggled to survive.
Yet, even these more sophisticated buildings paled in comparison to what stood at the very centre of the vast settlement.
There, towering above everything else, stood a colossal structure unlike any other.
It resembled a massive church from the old world, although its present purpose seemed far removed from that of a place of worship.
In this ruined age, it had been transformed into something far more imposing, a gigantic fortress.
Its faint silhouette was visible even from several miles away. Dark stone walls rose majestically toward the corrupted sky, while countless jagged spires pierced the polluted haze like enormous blades.
The structure possessed an oppressive grandeur, its ancient-looking architecture standing in stark contrast to the crude buildings surrounding it.
Most unsettling of all, the entire fortress radiated a faint, unnatural warmth, as though an enormous furnace were perpetually burning somewhere deep within its walls.
And whatever burned within that colossal structure, it showed no signs of ever going out.
A distant glance at the Sanctuary revealed something rather unusual.
There were no visible guards stationed around its perimeter, nor were there any apparent patrols keeping watch over the surrounding area. Only a handful of residents could be seen moving about, their figures occasionally appearing between the scattered buildings.
Despite this, the settlement appeared remarkably well-organized, especially considering the state of the world outside its walls, where even the faintest semblance of law and order had all but disappeared.
The group parked their mechanical vehicle a considerable distance from the settlement, intending to cover the remaining distance on foot. None of them had any intention of driving the vehicle closer to the Sanctuary than necessary.
Steven noticed the look of amazement displayed on One's face as he observed the distant sanctuary and casually remarked,
"In the current world we live in right now, even being ninety-nine percent certain that you're much stronger than your opponent isn't enough to guarantee you're going to win."
Brant, who had overheard the remark, slowly nodded in agreement before adding his own thoughts.
"That's right, brat. All it takes is just one 'nobody' with some kind of concept-based ability, and you're as good as dead."
The conversation ended almost as soon as it had begun.
With no further words exchanged, the group finally stepped out of the mechanical vehicle and ventured into the wasteland on foot.
In the distance, the Sanctuary loomed before them, its imposing silhouette serving not only as a symbol of safety but also as a grim reminder.
A terrible reminder that somewhere deep within that colossal fortress, something far more dangerous than any ordinary Abomination might be lurking.
The group's arrival at the Sanctuary was hardly a secret, particularly with someone as well-known as Marco accompanying them.
They were simply the only ones who believed it was.
Long before Marco had even switched off the mechanical vehicle and suggested that they approach the Sanctuary on foot, a terrifying consciousness had already detected their presence and begun observing them from afar.
It did not watch them with eyes, nor did it listen to their movements with ears. In fact, it relied on none of the conventional physical senses that most living creatures depended upon.
Instead, it detected them through the thermal signatures emitted by their bodies, silently tracking their movements from a distance.
Its attention had already settled upon the approaching group.
That vast consciousness belonged to Malcolm.
Malcolm had once served as a butler in the household of a relatively wealthy family. He was a quiet, well-mannered, and ultimately expendable man.
For nearly a decade, he had served that household with unwavering diligence, remaining inconspicuous enough to earn their trust yet replaceable enough to be blamed whenever something went wrong.
He had spent almost ten years fulfilling his duties without complaint, quietly carrying out the orders of those above him.
To the outside world, he had been nothing more than an ordinary butler.
The accusation came suddenly and without warning.
Two hundred thousand dollars had mysteriously vanished from the mansion, an absurd sum of money Malcolm had never even seen, much less dared to touch in his entire life.
The night before, the mistress of the household had attempted to seduce him, seeking pleasure through intimacy and foreplay. But Malcolm had refused. He had no intention of betraying his employer's trust, no matter how tempting the offer or how uncomfortable the situation became.
His refusal humiliated her. What began as wounded pride soon twisted into anger and malicious intent. Before long, she had carefully laid a trap for him, turning the missing money into the perfect excuse to destroy his life.
His employer didn't bother to question him. He didn't investigate the matter properly or even consider the possibility that Malcolm had been framed. He simply accepted the accusation and passed judgment without a second thought.
Malcolm was beaten mercilessly until his bones cracked beneath the blows. Then, barely conscious and unable to defend himself, he was dragged into the industrial freezer in the mansion's basement.
The heavy door slammed shut.
And he was left to die.
Alone in the suffocating darkness of the cold storage room, Malcolm lay battered and broken, with nothing but the bitter resentment burning inside him and the faint, steadily weakening rhythm of his heartbeat to remind him that he was still alive.
At first, he screamed.
Then he begged.
Then he cursed.
He cursed the mistress who had framed him, the employer who had condemned him without a proper investigation, and the world that had repaid his loyalty with such a cruel betrayal.
But as time passed, his voice grew weaker, his body grew numb, and his curses faded into silence.
That was when fear finally took root in his soul.
Yet it wasn't death itself that truly terrified him.
It was the cold.
He hated the way sensation slowly abandoned his fingers, the way each breath became more difficult to draw, and the way the last remnants of warmth seemed to retreat from his body, piece by agonizing piece.
He could feel himself growing colder.
And he couldn't bear it.
More than revenge, more than justice, more than even the desperate desire to escape, he began to crave the faint warmth that remained within him. He clung to it obsessively, as though that fragile sensation were the only thing separating him from oblivion.
If I can just hold on to it...
If I can keep this warmth from disappearing...
I can survive.
That thought became the center of his collapsing world.
His anger became fuel. His fear became fixation. And his despair slowly descended into madness.
He no longer cared about anything beyond that single, desperate objective.
He had to preserve his warmth.
And then, something happened.
The Inkforce Invasion began.
The universe itself seemed to tear open as conceptual corruption flooded into reality, twisting the laws that governed existence and forcing countless living beings to endure transformations beyond their comprehension.
Malcolm was among the earliest individuals to be caught in its reach.
At that moment, the industrial freezer became his crucible.
As the Inkforce descended upon him, it attempted to rewrite his existence, distort his body, and shatter whatever remained of his identity. Others might have fought the corruption through sheer strength, overwhelming willpower, or an instinctive refusal to surrender.
But Malcolm had nothing left to fight with.
His body was broken. His strength had abandoned him. His mind was already teetering on the edge of madness.
So he resisted in the only way he could.
Through obsession.
Through desperation.
Through the madness that had taken root in the darkest corner of his soul.
There was only one belief left within him, one conviction so absolute that even the encroaching corruption could not easily erase it.
Heat was life.
Warmth was survival.
To lose it was to cease existing.
That was all Malcolm understood. That was all he wanted. And as the Inkforce invaded the depths of his being, it seemed to recognize the terrifying intensity of his obsession.
It found something within him that resonated with its own conceptual nature.
And, rather than simply destroying him, it answered his obsession.
The Inkforce granted him its gift.