Another day in the abyss. Another wave of reckless fools.
The third stratum's camp was in chaos—whispers spreading like rot through the ranks of hunters.
"The Guardian of Necranth is real."
The veterans had always known, of course. That was why the place was classified as a High-Lethality Zone—or, in official terms, "ZR-6." A death sentence for the unprepared.
But the novices never listened.
And now, another team had been wiped out.
Ysmera Varkharn stood atop a makeshift platform, her scarred hands gripping the hilt of her curved greatsword. The camp had gone silent the moment she stepped up, the weight of her glare enough to crush dissent before it began.
"Let me make one thing clear," she said, her voice like a blade dragged over stone. "The abyss does not care about your pride. It does not care about your dreams of glory. It will chew you up, spit out your bones, and not even remember your name."
She paced, her boot heels striking the packed earth like a judge's gavel.
"You think you're ready for the third stratum because you've killed a few Skavrith pups? Because you've got a shiny new rune on your sword?" A cold laugh. "You're nothing here. Worse than nothing—you're food. And every time one of you idiots marches into a ZR-6 zone without intel, without backup, without a shred of common sense, you're not just getting yourselves killed. You're making the abyss stronger."
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
"That's right," Ysmera snarled. "Your corpses feed the beasts. Your stupidity trains them. Every novice who dies screaming in Necranth is another lesson for the horrors lurking in the dark. And I am tired of cleaning up your messes."
She slammed her sword into the ground, the impact cracking the earth.
"New law. Effective immediately. No unranked hunters descend past the second stratum. No exceptions. If I catch any of you brats sneaking into a ZR-6 zone, I'll drag you back up myself—after I break both your legs."
Later, in the shadows of her tent, Ysmera let out a slow breath.
She knew the truth.
This wasn't just about reckless novices.
It was about "High City"—the surface bastion that fed the abyss with fresh meat, disguising its cruelty as necessity.
"Too many mouths to feed," they said. "A natural population control."
Bullshit.
High City was a cesspool of mismanagement, a dumping ground for the desperate. Unlike Solarium, the gleaming capital of the Aetherion Empire—where entry was guarded like sacred law—High City treated its people like expendable fuel for the abyss's hunger.
And Ysmera was sick of it.
The tent flap rustled.
"Well, well. The higher-ups won't be happy about this little speech of yours."
Claude leaned against the post, his crimson eyes glinting in the lantern light. At twenty-eight, he was young for a lieutenant, but his record spoke for itself—black hair tied back, handsome face marred only by the sharpness of his smile.
Ysmera didn't look up. "Since when do I care what those surface-dwelling leeches think?"
"Oh, I'm not disagreeing, Chief." He chuckled. "But you know how they are. They'll whine. They'll threaten. They might even send some poor bastard down here to 'correct' your leadership."
She finally met his gaze. "Let them try."
Claude's grin widened. "That's why I like you."
Ysmera did not react to Claude's words.
She never did.
Despite his talent—despite the way he moved through battle like a storm given human form—she could only ever see him as the son she never had. A sharp, dangerous boy with too much wit and not enough fear.
Claude stood there, his crimson eyes glinting with amusement, his "Dawn's Blood" sword resting lazily against his shoulder. The blade hummed faintly, its edge kissed by the Solar Breath—a divine fluid reserved only for the Church's most blessed weapons.
He was too young to wield such power.
And yet, he did.
The camp adapted to Ysmera's new decree with surprising efficiency. Fewer novices meant fewer corpses. Fewer corpses meant fewer abyssal mutations.
For a few days, there was peace.
Then—
"My Lady! We have a problem!"
A scout burst into Ysmera's tent, his face ashen.
She didn't look up from her maps. "Explain."
"It's Ashur and Naira. Of the Dawn Guard."
Ysmera's hand stilled.
Damn it.
She hadn't expected High City to retaliate so quickly.
And she certainly hadn't expected them to send those two.
They arrived like a solar flare cutting through the abyss's gloom.
Ashur, the White Fang of Dawn, moved with the inevitability of a falling star. His greatsword, "Fang of the Fallen Star," pulsed with sacred runes, its every step silencing the whispers of the abyss around him. His eyes—golden, incandescent—burned with divine mandate.
Beside him, Naira, the Dancing Flame, was a wildfire given form. Her spear, "Tear of the Dawn," left trails of ephemeral fire in its wake, its song a counterpoint to the abyss's dissonance. She smiled, but there was nothing warm in it.
The entire camp froze.
Even Claude, for once, had no quip ready.
Ysmera stood, her spine straight, her voice steady. "I don't care what those damned elders in High City—"
Ashur was in front of her before she could finish.
His whisper, soft as a funeral shroud, carried only to her ears.
"The Supreme Commander Elysia is in High City."
Ysmera's blood turned to ice.
"That's impossible," she breathed.
Naira appeared beside Ashur in a flutter of embers, her grin sharp. "Auntie Ysmera! So good to see you again."
The term was affectionate, if not entirely accurate—Naira had been her student once, long before the Dawn Guard carved her into a weapon.
"Is that old hag really here?" Ysmera muttered, her jaw tight.
Claude stepped forward, his usual bravado replaced by rare unease. "What's going on, Chief?"
"Elysia is in High City," Ysmera said flatly.
Claude paled.
When the Supreme Commander descended from Solarium, it meant one of two things:
Catastrophe.
Or execution.
Ashur and Naira moved past her without another word, their mission clearly not yet complete.
Ysmera turned to Claude, her voice low. "Kaleth has command until I return. Keep the idiots alive."
Then she was gone, striding toward the surface with the grim resolve of a woman walking to her own trial.
High City would burn with rumors by nightfall.
And the abyss?
The abyss would watch.