The moment the rift stabilized, a low hum pulsed across the valley like a second heartbeat. The armies of the four Houses moved without hesitation—shields raised, spells primed, weapons drawn. Their formations shifted into the predetermined spear-head wedge, sigils glowing faintly along the front ranks as protective barriers overlapped seamlessly.

  A tide of light pushing into the dark.

  Vatican knights took point, armor gleaming faintly under the remaining sunlight.

  Behind them moved the Callus vanguard—hunters trained in tight, fast-striking formations, their weapons laced with anti-miasma enchantments.

  The East, West, and North followed behind in layered support lines, mages weaving buffs and defensive lattices in all directions to shield the advancing forces.

  Zero stood at the tip of the formation, stepping through the rift first.

  The world changed instantly.

  The air grew heavier—thick with old magic, stagnant silence, and the faint metallic taste of blood.

  The ground was dark stone overgrown with violet moss.

  The sky was… wrong: a shivering twilight of purple and grey, with no sun, no moon—only drifting embers like dying stars.

  The Shadow Realm.

  Elric, entering beside Theoren and Mereth, exhaled slowly.

  “We are no longer in our world.”

  Eslene drew her blade, voice sharp.

  “This is where our troubles began.”

  Lucien nodded grimly.

  “Stay close. Once we reach the first ruin—”

  Sarville finished the sentence for him.

  “—the rift stalkers will come. They always come.”

  The first ruin appeared exactly as the previous expedition described:

  collapsed spires, shattered arches, and a long stone causeway half-sunk into miasmic fog.

  But this time…

  There was no silence.

  The air vibrated.

  The shadows shifted.

  Sarville’s eyes widened.

  “Positions! Get ready!”

  Lucien shouted:

  “Stalkers inbound! Look sharp—their movement patterns—!"

  He didn’t finish.

  Because this time, the rift stalkers didn’t stalk.

  They charged.

  Hundreds of them.

  Exploding from every direction—ceiling, walls, ground, fog—like a flood of talons and eyes and jagged teeth. Their bodies twisted unnaturally, spines cracking as they lunged with impossible speed.

  “For the front line—BRACE!” Theoren roared.

  The Vatican knights slammed their greatshields into the ground, forming a wall of interlocking steel.

  Callus hunters leapt forward, blades flashing.

  The first wave hit like a storm.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Razor limbs slashed across barriers.

  Teeth tore through armor.

  Knights were thrown like dolls.

  A hunter’s scream cut through the chaos as a stalker ripped him clean off his feet.

  Mereth’s sword ignited with shadow-steel resonance.

  She cleaved one stalker straight down the middle—then pivoted to bisect another that had leapt for Elric’s throat.

  Eslene called out:

  “Two on your left!”

  “I see them!” Mereth spun, her cloak flaring.

  Lucien slipped under a stalker’s swipe, his daggers piercing its throat with brutal precision.

  Sarville parried a lunge, then drove a silver spike into its skull.

  The Vatican generals fought like machines—precise, cold, terrifying.

  And Zero…

  Zero moved like a phantom.

  One glide of his hand melted a stalker into ash.

  One sweep of his cloak blew another apart into drifting particles.

  His movements were simple—elegant—yet devastating.

  He fought without effort.

  Without urgency.

  Without fear.

  It unsettled nearly everyone.

  Fifteen minutes of brutal combat passed.

  Then another five.

  Then another.

  When the last stalker finally fell, hissing its last breath, the battlefield was littered with mangled bodies—both monster and man.

  The air reeked of iron and decay.

  Theoren assessed the damage grimly.

  “Fourteen knights lost.

  Nine hunters.

  Dozens injured.”

  Kazane spat to the side.

  “This is only the outer ring.”

  Eslene wiped her blade.

  “That was more than we fought last time. Ten times more.”

  Sarville nodded.

  “And they never attacked this aggressively.”

  Lucien’s expression darkened.

  “They’re afraid. Or forced. Or someone is pushing them to test us.”

  Everyone turned toward the same direction—

  The deeper path into the Shadow Realm.

  Zero dusted his gloves, unfazed.

  “We continue.”

  Theoren scowled.

  “We haven’t even tended to the wounded yet.”

  “No time,” Zero said.

  “The momentum must not be lost. If we stall, this place will swallow us whole.”

  Elric stepped forward, voice sharp.

  “And who decided that?”

  Zero turned his masked face toward him.

  “Your saint.”

  Elric froze.

  “Serena?” Theoren muttered.

  Zero nodded once.

  “She is awake—and she is moving. Toward him.”

  Seraphine’s blood ran cold.

  “Him… you mean Kevlar.”

  Zero didn’t answer.

  He didn’t need to.

  They marched deeper.

  The ruins grew more sophisticated—tall towers carved with unfamiliar runes, bridges suspended by impossible geometry, fragments of murals depicting winged beings with flowing robes and radiant halos.

  But these were not holy images.

  They were warnings.

  Mereth slowed.

  “These symbols… they depict containment.”

  Eslene traced a cracked mural.

  “And defeat.”

  Sarville pointed to a collapsed statue—gigantic, humanoid, with four wings.

  Lucien swallowed hard.

  “What were they fighting?”

  No one answered.

  Not until the path opened into a vast clearing.

  And they saw it.

  The ground trembled slightly before they even reached it—a massive silhouette lying across a ruined courtyard.

  A corpse.

  Huge as a mansion.

  A creature with a double wolf-head, each jaw lined with serrated fangs.

  Its body was armored with bone plates thicker than steel.

  Its arms were long, ending in claws that could tear through mountains.

  And it was dead.

  Very dead.

  Mereth whispered,

  “…Even the Vatican doesn’t have record of this.”

  Kazane stepped back.

  “If something like this entered our world—”

  Theoren finished bleakly.

  “Civilization would end.”

  Eslene clenched her teeth.

  “So vampires… demons… everything we feared before—”

  Lucien shook his head.

  “They’re nothing compared to this.”

  Sarville murmured,

  “What killed it?”

  The silence that followed was suffocating.

  Zero stared at the corpse for a long moment.

  Then he spoke softly.

  “…He did.”

  Seraphine’s heart stopped.

  “Kevlar?”

  Zero finally turned toward her.

  “No one else has ever possessed the power to kill a Titanborn beast.

  No one still living.”

  A chilling wind passed through the ruins.

  Everyone felt it.

  Doubt.

  Fear.

  Suspicion.

  And the question none dared speak aloud:

  If Kevlar could kill this…

  what chance do they have?

  Zero’s posture shifted—and though his mask hid his face, the tension was unmistakable.

  “Our saint is nearing him. Once she finds him… the true nature of this cycle will reveal itself.”

  Eslene narrowed her eyes.

  “Reveal… or unravel?”

  Zero didn’t deny her implication.

  Behind him, the Vatican generals remained silent—too silent.

  Too coordinated.

  Too ready.

  Whispers spread through the Houses.

  Zero knew too much.

  Zero anticipated too much.

  Zero was leading them, not assisting them.

  And above all—

  Zero is hiding an agenda.

  Theoren spoke quietly to Mereth.

  “We follow for now.

  But keep your eyes on him.”

  Mereth nodded.

  She already was.

  And as they marched deeper into the Shadow Realm, one undeniable truth pressed into everyone’s mind:

  This was no expedition.

  It was a descent.

  A guided descent.

  Into the domain of the Shadowborn.