The Mist Palace was quiet again.
Not the watchful quiet of midday, when servants whispered and shadows loomed with noble pride—but the real kind of silence. The one that lives in old stone and empty rooms. The kind that doesn't just hush the halls, but presses into the lungs until even breathing feels like a sin.
Eris padded barefoot across the chilled stone floor, each step echoing softly through the quiet halls. His shirt hung loose and half-open, clinging damp against his skin, still soaked from the sweat of midnight training.
He let out a long breath.
"Phew..." A slight grin tugged at the corner of his lips.
"That dragon meat worked wonders..." he muttered, running a hand through his tousled hair. "Controlling both Crimson Energy and Eden Force at the same time… wasn't just difficult—it was insane. But somehow..."
He flexed his fingers, still pulsing faintly with residual power.
"Somehow, I did it. That meat didn't just increase my Mana and Aura —it even stabilized the flow of Energy within me."
He glanced out a fogged window as the cold wind brushed his face.
"Duke says to reach Grade 2 in a month?... at this rate, I could reach it in a week."
His smirk deepened. Eyes sharp with quiet fire, the weight in his chest wasn't pride—it was momentum.
Then—click.
His shoe's heel nudged against a stone slab that shifted under his weight. A faint grinding echoed through the corridor.
A hidden Passage opened in the wall. Cold air poured out like breath from a forgotten grave.
But he didn't flinch.
Because something inside him hadn't stopped stirring.
He hadn't planned to leave his room. But his body moved before reason caught up, like instinct dragging his soul forward.
The mist clung to the halls like old memories. The walls wept with condensation, yet the chill was deeper, like being watched by the past itself.
His chest pulled toward something—something ancient,unspoken, and disturbingly familiar.
Yet his steps never paused.
Because whatever called to him… it wasn't done whispering.
The torches were unlit. Even the enchanted wall sconces that usually flickered with soft blue flame were dark now, as if the palace itself had fallen asleep. But Eris could still see, not with his eyes, but something else. His senses were sharper than ever since consuming the beast. Every step on the marble felt louder, every draft colder. The Mana in his veins hummed like a tuning fork in an ancient cathedral, vibrating with things he didn't yet understand.
He reached the meditation wing.
Ten chambers, all identical—except for one.
He paused outside the seventh door.
There was no sigil on the wood. No scent of incense, no polished frame. Just old oak and dust.
He hesitated a breath, then stepped inside.
It was emptier than he expected. Not even a single candle.
Just rough stone walls, a faded rug frayed at the edges, and a patch of pale moonlight spilling in from a cracked tile above.
Eris let the silence settle.
"…Creepy," he muttered, rubbing his arms. "Feels like the kind of place where ghosts go to sulk."
Still, he walked to the center of the rug and sat cross-legged. He didn't know why. His body felt heavier standing up, as if something was pressing gently on his shoulders, urging him to listen.
He closed his eyes.
Breathed in. Out.
Slower now.
His thoughts quieted. Not silenced. Then a noise came from his Back—a flicker of breeze.
Then—
Thump.
His brow furrowed.
A heartbeat?
No… not his.
Thump… thump.
It was under him.
His eyes opened, slow and cautious.
Nothing had changed. The room was still dark. Still cold. Still empty—
Except the rug had moved.
Just a little. Barely a twitch.
He looked down.
A faint crimson glow pulsed beneath the stone, tracing old lines and forming a crest. Circular, jagged at the edges, with strange runes he couldn't read. Yet the moment he saw it, a chill rolled down his spine. Not from fear but
From recognition.
"What the hell is this…" he whispered, standing up, his instincts kicking in.
The floor responded.
A deep grinding filled the air, like old bones shifting in their grave.
The center of the room sank. The rug folded inward as the stone beneath dropped with a heavy clunk, revealing a square staircase spiraling downward into absolute darkness.
Eris didn't move for several seconds.
"Okay… This place is haunted," he muttered, flexing his fingers.
"I should Just Go Back."
Then, A flicker of Mana danced along his palm, forming a weak red flame. It illuminated his face in flickering shadows—eyes narrowed, lips drawn tight in cautious curiosity.
He approached the staircase slowly.
The air changed.
A breath of cold wind rose from below, curling around his ankles like phantom fingers. Not a violent warning, but more like a welcome.
"…Wait, I remember this Situation."
"Inst This legendary Scenario Where a reincarnated Protagonist Gets a Hidden treasure"
Is this what it's like being the main character?" he asked dryly, voice
His sarcasm died as he took the first step.
The chill deepened. The light from above dimmed, swallowed by stone.
One step.
Two.
The stairwell twisted like a corkscrew, old and uneven. Moss clung to the cracks. The air tasted of minerals, rust, and the passage of time. Yet despite the oppressive weight of the underground, he didn't feel scared.
He felt… drawn.
Like something in this place knew him.
By the tenth step, he stopped questioning why he was here. The pull in his chest had grown stronger, like gravity itself had bent to guide him. Even his Mana responded—tense, alert, awake.
Was this place… built by the Vale Clan?
That thought echoed in Eris's mind as the mist thinned, giving way to a narrow stone landing deep beneath the palace. Every brick beneath his feet felt older than memory, heavier than time.
He stepped forward.
At the end of the path stood a door—ancient, half-sunken into the earth as if the world had tried to bury it. Its surface was choked with fading runes, carved deep and glowing faintly under the breath of residual Mana. Rusted iron locks lined its edges like prison chains.
But it wasn't the door that stole his breath.
In its center—embedded like a keystone where magic and time converged—was a sword.
Not massive, yet it exuded a presence that bent the very air around it.
Its blade was black, darker than obsidian, polished to a mirror-like finish that shimmered with a subtle violet sheen when the light struck just right. It radiated stillness, silence… warning.
The hilt, in stark contrast, gleamed golden, not with polish, but with age—worn yet regal, like divine beings had blessed it.
This wasn't just a weapon.
Eris could feel it in his bones the moment he stepped forward—the sword wasn't waiting to be wielded. It was remembering. Dust clung to the hilt like ash from a funeral long forgotten, and the air was still—too still. Time didn't flow here. It lingered.
The blade stood embedded in stone like a gravestone, or perhaps an oath someone had never been able to fulfill. And now… it was staring at him.
But it wasn't alone.
Lying beside the base of the blade, half-buried in dust and partially burned at the edges, was a curled parchment. A map, Crumpled, faded, and brittle—but unmistakably deliberate.
Eris knelt beside it, carefully brushing the debris away with his fingers. The edges crackled under his touch, but the core remained intact.
He unrolled it slowly.
His eyes narrowed.
It wasn't just a map—it was a death wish.
A rough depiction of the North Region. Even the way it was drawn seemed chaotic—jagged lines, swirling ink, parts smudged as if even the paper wanted to forget. It wasn't the creation of some royal scholar. It was handmade. Sketched under duress and marked by desperation.
A single word hovered at the top in scorched ink:
Chaos Sea.
His breath caught.
"The Chaos Sea…?" he whispered aloud, frowning. "Who the hell would map that?"
The Continent of Elyngaea was vast—its four cardinal regions spread like the limbs of a slumbering titan.
East,
West
South
North
Among the four great regions of Elyngaea, none are more feared—or more forsaken—than the North.
A vast, frozen land cloaked in perpetual twilight, the Northern Region is a brutal expanse of jagged mountains, endless glaciers, and skies choked with storm and shadow.
But it's not the cold that makes it dangerous.
It's the corruption.
Monsters roam freely across its cursed plains, their bodies twisted by demonic Energy that saturates the very soil. The air itself is tainted—thick with miasma, ancient wrath, and something far older than sin. This is a land where the weak are devoured, and even the strong walk lightly.
At the center of this cursed territory, buried deeper than the mapmakers dare whisper of, lies a place known only as the Chaos Sea.
A pitch-black scar upon the world.
Always cloaked in swirling clouds, never touched by sunlight, it is a region where no light reaches, and no map exists. Not because no one has tried—
But because no one has ever returned.
Not a single soul on the continent has dared chart that abyss.
Not even the Vale Clan, whose northern border touched the edge of that accursed place, had dared to chart it.
Who's been, surpassing the Corruption of North for Centuries
Until now.
Eris stared at the old map.
Several landmarks were scribbled across it. Some were now just smudges, blurred by time or fire. But one stood out. Circled in deep red ink, with a line that pointed inward like a dagger.
No name. Just a symbol.
A spiral, coiled inward.
He didn't know what it meant—but every part of his gut told him: This is where it ends.
He carefully folded the map and tucked it into the inside of his jacket. The parchment felt heavier than it should have. Like it didn't just carry geography—it carried fate.
He stood again.
Now it was just him and the sword.
He hesitated.
"…Alright," he muttered to the silence. "You've been glaring at me long enough. Let's see what you've got."
He wrapped his fingers around the hilt.
There was no resistance.
Instead—
A scream.
Not in the air—but inside his head.
The second his skin touched the hilt, something unleashed. A roar that hadn't been heard in centuries surged through him. His legs buckled. He dropped to one knee as visions assaulted him in a storm of flame and frost.
Fire.
Everywhere. Devouring trees. Mountains are crumbling under red skies.
Snow.
Whipping through the battlefield. Cold that cut deeper than steel.
Ash.
Falling like rain over the broken landscape. And amidst it all, a warrior.
Tall. Cloaked in black and silver armor. His body burned, cracked with glowing crimson. He stood at the heart of the battlefield like a pyre—burning, bleeding, but unbowed.
The warrior raised the same blade Eris now held.
And turned.
Eris gasped.
He couldn't see the man's face—it was hidden behind a shattered helm, eyes like glowing coals beneath the visor—but he felt him.
Like staring into a mirror of destiny.
And then the voice came.
Low and Ancient. Carved in truth.
"To rise… You must break what binds you."
The vision shattered.
Eris collapsed to both knees, panting. The cold of the chamber returned, and his sweat turned icy on his back. His heart hammered in his chest like war drums.
His hands still gripped the sword.
It no longer looked the same.
The rust was gone.
The blade gleamed—not brightly, but dimly, like starlight peeking through storm clouds. Etchings appeared across the surface—names, perhaps. Or oaths. Things carved in pain and iron.
He slowly rose, knees trembling.
He ran a finger along the blade's edge. It didn't cut.
Instead, it hummed low and steady, like a heartbeat.
Not the sound of cold steel eager for war...
But of a companion.
A relic not forged for battle, but for bond.
A blood-bound heirloom, waiting in silence for someone worthy to awaken it.
Eris's gaze lingered on the emblem—the dragon and the broken crown.
He didn't know what it meant.
But something inside him did.
With slow reverence, he wrapped his fingers around the hilt.
The sword slid free from the door without resistance—no burst of light, no thunderous roar.
Just a quiet click, like the world itself acknowledging a lock had been turned.
Beside it, wrapped in brittle, ancient cloth, was a scroll.
A map, its ink still vibrant with Mana despite the centuries.
One that dared to mark paths others never returned from.
With both sword and map in hand, Eris turned from the shadows of the forgotten chamber…
…and began the long climb back to the surface.
The mist parted before him.
End of Chapter 10.