Beyond the inexplicable limit of his calm self was a raging hurricane of emotion. He could stand on the precipice, and peer down into the abyss, only superficially aware of the terror that awaited him should he take one step further. It was Chaos. It was everything and nothing, simultaneously; it was the wreckage of his life and his love for what once was. It was every dream — every hope — he once selfishly and jealously guarded, now screaming and falling apart.

Because he couldn’t stand the sight of an advertisement.

Once again, Fubuki Heavy Industries had ruined him. Even though he knew that this was not true, his irrational hatred only grew stronger. Even though he was aware of how irrational it was, somehow, that only made it more justified.

Was it Fubuki Heavy Industries’ fault that he was here? Infallible AI; immaculate manufacturing; impossible accidents. No. In all likelihood, Fubuki Heavy Industries had nothing to do with his accident — they just manufactured the APV.

Perhaps in Aren’s mind, Fubuki Heavy Industries represented the true culprit behind his cruel fate. It was the face of his villain, but not his villain’s identity. It was a stand-in, so to speak, — a cardboard cut-out — of the vile and terrorizing entity that shattered his life.

Aren walked for what felt like hours. To him, at least. Here, on the precipice, the perception of time was warped. Reason and logic themselves were warped. He tried not to think about anything. He tried to think about the road in front of him, the literal road, and perhaps even wondered about the mechanics and the workload required to pave it with stone like this. It was the King’s Highway, after all. Countless caravans passed over this road each day, carrying goods, frontier refugees, and other types of cargo. Merchants, mostly, used the King’s Highway — or King’s Road as it was often called in the modern times.

The reason why it stopped being a highway in recent memory was because the world was smaller. In the golden age of Singularity, alliances pushed the borders of the unknown back. And when those alliances declined, and the sharp spike in difficulty discouraged the geniuses of that age, the borders pushed back. And then some more. It was not strange to hear news from the frontier that another town had fallen — swarmed by monsters the kind of which alliances could not easily deal with.

It was a well-known fact that alliances could deal with them. They simply chose not to. Why? Resources. Resources were money in the real world. There was no incentive to invest in a hole. They, for the most part, knew what was beyond the frontier. At least, what their predecessors found there. It simply was not worth it.

Many argued that the alliances of the past did not push hard enough, that untold riches awaited them in the frontier. But the new age alliances could not be swayed. Bring us proof, they said, or do not bother us.

And so for years now, civilization had been losing ground on the main continent, under constant invasion from dark forces. The alliances mostly focused on the few locations that generated their wealth; like the Forbidden Abyss, a rift from which demons poured out daily. All sorts of rewards awaited those that slaughtered the demons. They carried rare components for crafting, enchanted weapons, skill books; some lucky few even found unique skills and items, which was what fueled the whole gold rush. In the early days, the Forbidden Abyss was the centerpiece for continent-wide alliance wars. Each competed for exclusive rights to it. Eventually, that became too expensive. So they settled on not prohibiting each other from entering the dungeon, but rather charging unaffiliated adventurers for rights to enter. It was a hefty tax.

Now, the King’s Road still connected largely the same number of cities, but the world was smaller. Distant Pallas and Bizanth were still the same distance away, but there was less and less beyond them. Those cities and towns that were lost had access to many unique materials the likes of which have not been found since — like orichalcum, for example — and because of this, fewer merchants carried goods.

In the golden age of Singularity, the Highway was truly that; a high speed road that was so frequently traveled that it required expansion every other year. Now, it was a pale shadow of its former self.

In the distance, what was once the shining city of Rakab came into view. Its butchered, nature-reclaimed, corpse stood as another example of what once was and what could have been.

“Why are we here?” Aren asked, as he followed the death line to Rakab, but no answer came.

He approached the familiar ruins in which he nearly lost his life several times. Here, all his natural predators once came together — adventurers and goblinoids. Here, his first large-scale victory — and defeat — took place. It was a place of memories, even though they were still too fresh in his head to be nostalgic. But even now, Aren knew that Rakab was the place of his origin. This is, perhaps, where people would say Aren’s story began. And hopefully, it would always remain like that. Aren knew better though, his story began with an APV and an unlikely meeting. But Rakab was certainly the place where he rallied himself, and cast the dice of fate into the unknown. Then again, with an AGMI, it was hard to call it dice. But Aren wasn’t brave enough, yet, to say that he decided that he would win it all.

But at least he was not enough of a coward to think he had lost it all. There was a way out — there had to be — but it was exactly because he didn’t know what it was, and how impossible it seemed, which scared him in the first place.

All those popular movies — all those creative works — that depicted a life shared with an AI never went into what it was actually like to live with an unfathomable, omniscient entity. The fear and trepidation; the terror of the unknown; the loss of control. Aren was a dandelion seed blown about on the wind, and he had no idea where he was going.

Aren had already made his bed and these things did not scare him as much anymore. Maybe, he even stopped fearing them entirely, but simply wanted to fear them. Why? Because Aren did not know whether or not, one day, he might have to kill someone. He did not know whether or not, one day, he might have to ruin someone or something. He did not know if at the end of this road he would save someone, or doom everyone.

That was no longer his choice, alone, to make.

And in the frozen pit of his heart — his tortured and broken core — he was all right with this. Maybe that is what he feared the most. He was becoming like Leviathan.

“What is going to happen to us?” Aren asked, softly whispering under his breath. But again, no answer came. For once, he regretted the blessed silence in his mind. For once, when he desired to hear the entity’s voice, it was not present. Despite fearing it, he also found himself relying on it, as if it was his only support. Perhaps it was.

He followed the strange thread of fate towards Rakab’s Grand Cathedral, and walked down a passageway that was well-illuminated. A series of stairs took him deep beneath the earth and the make and decoration on the walls instantly warned Aren that these were not tunnels goblinoids once used. This was something different.

In fact, many totems and flags littered the entrance to these tunnels, but Aren felt that they were not guides, but warnings. Do not come here, is the sense Aren got from their chaotic arrangement that almost barred his path. Turn back. Escape.

Turn back. Escape. Those were but a few of many luxuries that Aren no longer had. There was no turning back, now. There was no escape.

Forward.

Come, wrack; come, ruin. Life is but a dream.

Growling reached his perception as he stepped further into the underground tunnels. Here, there were no lights. Darkness covered him, and even as his eyes adjusted, he could still see nothing.

He reached into his pouch, calmly, and retrieved the Light Stone that Cassandra gave him.

“Activate light source,” he spoke the verbal component of the activation sequence out loud. The Light Stone emitted a bright light.

Under the silver light, the shadow-shrouded wolf-like creatures became visible; more as a smoky haze than anything with physical substance. Their glimmering red eyes were so luminous that Aren wondered how he could not spot them in the dark.

They weren’t small either. The pair that stood in front of Aren were almost as tall as he was — their hazy form reaching up to his chest.

Their eyes met. Under the influence of his buffer, Aren’s gaze was stone-cold. Their gazes were ravenously hungry. Maybe not even just hungry; there was something malevolent and sinister about those red, hatred-filled gazes.

The hazy, shadow-like mist around the leading wolf dispersed into the air, and its tendril-like form lunged at Aren. Lightning illuminated the creature’s head, and the chamber at large, as Aren’s left-handed [Lightning Cleaver] carved through the corporeal form of the shadow wolf — right down the middle — without any resistance or remorse.

[Injury inflicted: Severity: Fatal.]

Aren turned away from the mist-shrouded form of the first wolf, anticipating an attack from the other wolf. His feet already carried him sideways, using the entirety of the room’s dimensions to his advantage. He was agile; he was a mobile combatant. That was his primary advantage. Unfortunately, his right arm was not only delegated to carrying the Light Stone, but it was still largely disabled.

Wounds in Singularity lowered one’s combat potential quite significantly. Trauma and damage could, after enough has accumulated, reduce a grandmaster warrior to a pitiful rookie who could barely hold up a guard. Luckily, Aren’s damage was mostly limited to only his right arm, but his movement also felt sluggish and imprecise. He also did not have the effect of Estella’s group blessing, but he did have something else. Morale. Aren had come to identify this feeling as Priscilla’s Blessing — the mood and heart stabilizing effect that he enjoyed when he walked the path that lead towards her. That is how he could be courageous even in this situation. That is how he could stave off all doubts.

He was getting closer to her. Step by step. He would reach her. He had to.

[Injury sustained. Severity: Mortal wound.]

He would reach her… in this life, or the next.

His blood painted the walls red, gushing out like a jet from his slit jugular. The vertigo induced by pending death caused him to spin and to become light-headed. He caught a glimpse of the shadow-creature that he turned his back to, standing on all fours, even though it was carved right down the middle, up to the middle of its torso. Claws on its right paw — each one a dozen centimeters long — was covered in blood.

It was not dead. But what about the fatal strike? Did Aren imagine it? No! He felt it! He had certainly killed the creature. But then, why? How?

Then the other wolf lunged and Aren, despite his confusion, reacted automatically, twisting his body, not to resist his vertigo-induced motion but the opposite, and managed to somehow move out of the way of the second creature’s lunge, while simultaneously decapitating it with another [Lightning Cleaver].

[Injury inflicted. Severity: Fatal.]

This time, the second creature discorporated, becoming black mist and leaving behind a faintly glowing crystal that bounced off the floor. A vestige core — Aren had heard of these highly desirable objects obtained by slaying monsters.

[Injury severity reduced. New severity: Moderate wound.]

Aren pressed his lightning shrouded hand against his bleeding wound and hissed in pain as he felt the cauterizing effect of such a — possibly unintended — application of his skill set. His bleeding stopped, but the blood he lost could not be recovered so easily. He stumbled, finally losing control over his spin, and he crashed against the far wall with his right shoulder, and slid down its surface.

He was surprised that without the bleeding, that wound was only moderate. It felt as if the wolf had nearly decapitated him with its long, razor-sharp claws.

Decapitation. Was that the difference?

More surprisingly, any visible damage the first creature had was not visible. It was as if it truly was made out of shadows. Even striking them did not feel as if he was striking something that had a physical form.

Slowly, he rose to his feet, back pushed against the wall. Decapitation, then. His left hand sparked with lightning, and he narrowed his eyes.

The shadow creature reared its head back, and howled. From the darkness of the many passageways that connected to this chamber, countless bestial voices answered. And this time, Aren could see their luminous eyes come into existence. Dozens of them. Too many to count.

The lightning surrounding Aren’s left hand dispersed. He realized that if he stayed there, in that room, he would get surrounded and slaughtered. Without a weapon, without his right arm, he stood no chance.

Escape, it turns out, just became an option.

Greedily, Aren glared at the vestige core that lay in the middle of the room. If only he could have that.

A pang of pain resonated in Aren’s heart. It was a rare core, as well. It’s pure, azure color corresponded to the kind of Realm, in terms of item appraisal, it would likely correspond to — promising riches the kind of which he had never seen in his entire life.

He grit his teeth together and moved backwards towards the exit. It was smarter to wait for backup. With Estella and the others, this would be a simple matter.

Then his back hit a solid wall. He looked behind himself, and though the path was clear, a notification popped into his vision.

[ Cannot exit Catacombs of Rakab while enemies are present. ]