The universe does not crave order or chaos, nor right or wrong.
It craves balance.
That balance is what keeps reality turning.
Deep within a dark cave, humans mined rare metals under the command of Warlord Shinji—one of many tyrants ruling over the Broken Plains. In a shadowed corner, a teenage boy named Suren, with dirty, unkempt hair and dressed in torn rags, etched a crude drawing on the cave wall. His emerald eyes focused on the task at hand.
Snap.
"Ahh!" Suren cried out as a supervisor's whip slashed across his back, leaving a fresh red welt on his light brown skin.
"Back to work, you worthless scum. These metals won't mine themselves," the supervisor barked.
Suren scrambled to grab his pickaxe, abandoning his sketch of a towering spire. He returned to the mining line, joining a group of teenagers who sneered and laughed at his pain.
"Told you, you should just mine like the rest of us, Suren," said Rickon—a slightly larger boy with shoulder-length, knotted hair, blue eyes, and olive skin. His voice wavered with fear.
Suren didn't look at him. "Rickon, I have to draw it. If I don't, I'll forget it. That tower—it's one of the only things my parents left me."
He fell into rhythm with the others, his pickaxe striking stone in sync with their desperate beat.
"Just you watch," Suren continued, eyes burning with quiet resolve. "I'm going to awaken my Mark, become a Professional—maybe even a magic knight. I'll start my own order and leave this godforsaken pit."
Snap.
"Shut your mouth, you ungrateful wretch!" the supervisor snapped as he overheard their conversation. "A Professional? Don't make me laugh. You lot should be thanking Lord Shinji for the honor of food and shelter. All you have to do is work."
He stepped closer, his gaze cold. "Keep dreaming, and I'll throw you into the Dark Mines."
Suren's eyes widened. "No… I can't go down there! I'll die. Only those with a Mark can survive that place!"
The supervisor smiled—a cruel, satisfied thing—and snapped his fingers. Two armored guards stepped forward.
"Good," he said. "Then maybe we'll see what you're really made of."
As Suren struggled, the guards grabbed him by the arms, dragging him toward the deeper shaft—where the stone seemed to breathe and dark whispers slithered up from below.
Rickon stepped forward shakily, picking up a rectangular wooden box.
"Sir… I'll go with him," he said quietly, but with conviction.
The other teens stepped back, as if afraid that simply being near Rickon would curse them too.
"Oh? Look what we have here—a brave one," the supervisor sneered. "Well then, down you go too."
Suren and Rickon were forced onto the rusted lift. It groaned as it descended into the darkness. The teens above watched with pale faces as the two vanished. The supervisor crossed his arms and grinned as the shaft swallowed them whole.
Below, the world shifted. The deeper they went, the more warped everything became. Their ears rang with alien whispers—words they couldn't understand but somehow felt. The rock walls shimmered with dancing lights and shifting shadows. Fleeting visions appeared: creatures of divine beauty and monstrous horror, flickering in and out of existence.
"You shouldn't have come, Rickon," Suren whispered. "It was my mouth that got me here. But… thank you—for bringing my box."
He took the wooden container from Rickon, strapping it to his back. His hands trembled around his pickaxe. His body swayed, pale and faint from fear.
Rickon gave a shaky smile and placed a hand on Suren's shoulder.
"Of course I came," he said. "The old man… before he died… he told me to follow you. So here I am."
His knees shook, but he didn't step back.
The lift shuddered to a halt.
They were greeted by the flickering glow of strange mineral lanterns and the echo of pickaxes. Miners moved in the gloom—divided.
One group was shackled, their limbs bound, their faces hollow with fear. They chipped away at stone in silence, glancing around constantly.
The others wore reinforced leathers and metals, baskets full of gleaming ore strapped to their backs. Professionals.
Before they could react, a figure darted up. In a flash, iron shackles locked around Suren and Rickon's necks.
They spun around—but saw nothing.
"Down here, idiots," came a high-pitched voice.
They looked down to see a wiry figure with earth-toned skin, bright blue eyes, and soot-stained goggles perched on a mess of wild hair.
"Hello, newcomers! Welcome to the Dark Mine. I'm Tinkwick Mechanin," he said with a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"A… gnome?" Suren asked, tugging at the collar.
"Yes, a gnome. Problem?" Tinkwick snapped. "We're the best inventors in the Empire."
"Okay, okay—gnomes are great," Suren said. "But why the shackles?"
Tinkwick shrugged. "You're not Professionals. Shackles are… insurance. Easier to manage—or use as bait."
The boys fell silent, the weight of the mine pressing in.
"Your job down here is simple. Just mine—and survive," Tinkwick said, turning away.
"That doesn't sound so bad," Rickon said, patting the wall.
Suddenly, the stone moved.
A jagged mouth opened where his hand rested. It snapped forward, aiming for his arm—only to be shattered by a precise strike from a pickaxe.
The rock reformed, lifeless once more.
Tinkwick chuckled. "Heh. It's not so simple. This place's been partially transformed by the Abyss. Thanks to Lord Shinji, it hasn't fully converted, but the imbalance still seeps through."
Rickon hid behind Suren.
"Why are you even down here? There aren't any guards. Why not just seal this place off?" Suren asked.
"That's what the Professional Miners are for," Tinkwick said. "We mine Abyss metals and fend off corrupted creatures. When an area's been touched by the Abyss, it's not just demons that cross over. Plants, animals—even the minerals themselves—mutate. You just saw one. And the deeper you go, the worse it gets."
He grinned. "Some minerals are worth a fortune—especially ones that don't exist naturally in the material realm. Like Stones of Balance. Or, as some call them… Awakening Stones."
A nearby Professional scoffed as he walked past. "You sure love the sound of your own voice, chatty gnome. Try keeping some miners alive for once, or maybe the overseer will shackle you next."
Laughter echoed down the tunnel.
Tinkwick stomped his foot and marched up to the man, taking a few steps back to look him in the eye.
"Just you wait! I'm going to find a motherlode, get promoted, and live in a castle—maids and all!" he snapped.
More laughter erupted.
Tinkwick spun around and stormed off, leading Suren and Rickon deeper into the mine as laughter trailed behind them.
They arrived at a quieter tunnel, where fewer miners worked.
"Here we are," Tinkwick said. "You two start mining here. If anything Abyss-touched shows up… I'll deal with it—if I get there in time."
With that, he sat on a boulder, pulled a chunk of ore from his basket, and examined it. A glowing Mark—shaped like a hooked chain—shimmered faintly behind his ear as he manipulated the metal with practiced hands.
As Suren and Rickon dug into the warped, shifting stone, the whispers deepened—low, inhuman murmurs that slithered through their skulls. At first, they were like background static. But with every strike of their pickaxes, the voices grew bolder, closer.
Rickon dropped his tool with a clatter. He turned and bolted blindly toward the tunnels, eyes wide with panic.
Tinkerwick didn't even flinch. He gave a casual tug on the chain connected to Rickon's neck shackle. The boy yelped as he was yanked backward like a hooked fish, collapsing in the dust.
"Get up, boy," Tinkerwick muttered, not looking. "This mine chews cowards faster than demons do."
Rickon groaned, barely able to crawl back to the wall. His body trembled as he forced himself to resume swinging the pickaxe. Minutes later, he fell again—convulsing, mouth foaming. Black lines snaked across his arms like living veins, pulsing and writhing beneath his skin.
Suren was not faring much better. The pounding in his skull had grown unbearable. Each swing of his tool reverberated like thunder in his mind. The whispers became words. Then voices.
"Burn with them… dance in the ash…"
His vision blurred. A burning couple—familiar?—twisted in his mind, their silhouettes consumed by flame as imps cavorted in the inferno. Shadows warped and lengthened on the cave walls, taking on grotesque forms.
He squeezed his eyes shut, but the images followed.
Pain lanced behind his eyes—searing, electric—and then… a glint.
A soft metallic shimmer. It broke the rhythm of the nightmare.
He focused on it, desperate for something real. The shimmer resolved into a shape—Tinkerwick's glowing Mark, etched faintly behind his ear, pulsing as the gnome continued mining like nothing was wrong.
The burning pain eased. The voices softened.
Suren gasped, sweat pouring down his back. He looked at his own hands—black veins had spread along his fingers. His reflection in a shard of ore showed matching streaks crawling beneath his eyes.
He turned, crawling to Rickon's side.
"Rickon!" he rasped. "Look… the mark. His mark. Stare at it! It helps!"
With shaking hands, Suren forced Rickon's head up and pointed. The boy's glazed eyes slowly focused on the Mark's glow. His trembling eased. He locked eyes on it as if it were air itself—breathing hard, but alive.
Tinkerwick blinked, finally noticing the pair. "Oh. Almost forgot."
He reached into his pack and pulled out a squat brass lamp. Symbols danced around its side—crude, glowing glyphs etched in concentric rings. With a flick, the lamp ignited.
A soft silver-blue light spilled out.
The whispers halted.
In the lamp's radius, the oppressive pressure thinned. The air no longer hissed. The shadows no longer moved.
"You should've said something," Tinkerwick said casually, setting the lamp beside them. "Glyphlight dampens abyssal bleed. Would've given it to you earlier, but… watching your first time's kinda funny."
He winked, then returned to his ore.