Quentin had barely slept through the night. By dawn, he was already up, restless and eager to move. But his enthusiasm quickly waned when he found the door outside sealed shut. Resigned, he returned to the silent room, the steady hum of the cooling system his only companion as his mind churned with thoughts.
Time crawled by as he stared at the blank white walls, minutes bleeding into hours. The monotony weighed on him, but then his thoughts drifted to the mind profile—the mysterious interface he'd unlocked after his recent battles. It seemed like as good a time as any to delve deeper into its secrets.
With a thought, the profile materialised before him, its glowing text crisp and precise:
Quentin's eyes lingered on the artefact section, his curiosity piqued by the Timer of Vocaghter, which had appeared after his harrowing battle on the mountain. Willing the artefact into focus, a side note surfaced:
*"A relic of great power, doubling thy skills in battle for but ten fleeting seconds."*
Moments later, the artefact shimmered into existence in his hand. It was unassuming—a small, metallic timer with a single button on its edge. Quentin examined it briefly before pressing the button. The tiny LED screen lit up, displaying a countdown: 10:00.
Instantly, a surge of energy coursed through his body, igniting every nerve and muscle as if he were a living storm. His reflexes sharpened, his movements fluid and powerful. It was exhilarating.
"Woah," he breathed, flexing his fingers, marvelling at the precision and strength that now defined every movement. "So this is what a battle skill of 70 feels like."
But as the timer ticked down to zero, the euphoria evaporated, leaving Quentin breathless and strangely hollow. The room returned to its quiet rhythm, and with it, the familiar weight of waiting.
Willing the Timer of Vocaghter to vanish, Quentin turned his attention to the next item in his arsenal: the Centaur's Fur.
The description lingered in his mind as the fur materialised, draped across his shoulders. It was a bulky, rugged coat, its texture betraying a craftsmanship born of raw strength and ancient resilience. Yet, despite its imposing appearance, the coat felt impossibly light, almost feather-like. To his surprise, the air beneath it was noticeably cooler, the oppressive heat of the room alleviated by its presence.
Quentin couldn't help but admire the mantle's dual nature—both practical and awe-inspiring. He reached for the final item in his repertoire: the Whip of Vocaghter.
The whip materialised in his grasp, a menacing weapon of pure black. Fiery, serpentine marks glowed orange, winding along its length and radiating a warmth that promised destruction. Quentin marvelled at its lethal beauty, though he willed it to vanish quickly, concerned that its volatile energy might do more harm than good in the confined space.
Finally, the silence of the room was broken as the sealed door flew open. Gallows stepped in, his thick, fluffy hair carrying the sharp scent of shampoo. He greeted Quentin with a courteous bow—an act so unexpected that Quentin found himself momentarily at a loss for words.
Without delay, Gallows led him out. Retracing the path to the room where he had eaten the previous evening, Quentin's excitement at the possibility of food flickered briefly—only to fade when he saw the waiting figure of Lady Amira.
"Quentin, how're you feeling?" She asked, her voice calm but direct. "Your transition portal is open, so you can be on your way whenever you're ready."
His heart raced. This was it—the start of his new life. Despite the lingering horrors of the mountain battle etched in his memory, Quentin nodded resolutely. He was ready to step into the First Circle of the Inferno: LIMBO.
The trio moved into the courtyard, where the subtle heat of the early morning sun bathed Quentin's skin in a gentle warmth. They followed the now familiar path to the gigantic tree etched with carvings of the Inferno Realm. Lady Amira stepped forward, standing at the tree's base.
Raising her staff, she drove it into the earth with decisive force. The golden eagle head adorning its top glowed with an emerald green light, its jewelled eye shimmering with power.
"Stand back," Gallows warned.
Quentin obeyed, retreating a few steps as the ground beneath them trembled violently. The mighty tree groaned and shook, its branches alive with motion. Birds that had long made the tree their sanctuary erupted into the sky, their cries echoing as they fled in panicked disarray.
The earth beneath the tree cracked open, and Quentin's pulse quickened. He stood at the threshold of the unknown, the gateway to a new existence.
A fissure appeared in the tree, roughly eight feet above the ground, slicing through the wood as though it were paper. The jagged tear stretched downward, splitting bark and biting deep into the roots.
Lady Amira remained composed, unfazed by the chaos. It was clear this wasn't her first time wielding such power. The fissure widened steadily until it formed an opening large enough to accommodate a single person of Quentin's size.
The space beyond was an abyss of pure black—impenetrable, mysterious. Quentin squinted into the void, but no light or shape emerged. Yet, despite the darkness, he knew this was the gateway he was destined to cross.
His life—or whatever existence this was—had been a whirlwind since the moment of his death. Everything had moved so fast. When he first awoke in this strange realm, he felt an inexplicable comfort, the kind that dulled his need for answers. He had resisted the urge to ask questions, fearing they might shatter the delicate serenity he'd found. Little did he know, his hosts valued self-discovery over easy explanations.
All he understood was that this journey was inevitable. Still, his mind wavered. Why should I follow their plan? Why should I trust them? But reason prevailed. They posed no threat, and resistance had never served him well.
He recalled a particular incident during his infantry days—a scuffle with a superior officer over a show of respect Quentin felt bordered on servitude. His stubbornness earned him gruelling punishments that left him sore for weeks. The lesson had been clear: Stubbornness: 1, Quentin: 0.
A chill emanated from the abyss, snapping him from his thoughts. Lady Amira turned to face him, her gaze steady.
"You have all you need in your mental profile," she said calmly. "Everything you'll encounter, everything you'll need to know, can be discovered—if you truly seek it."
Before Quentin could respond, Gallows stepped forward, his eyes glistening with emotion. Without warning, he embraced Quentin in a firm hug. The gesture caught him off guard—not because it was unwelcome, but because he hadn't expected such warmth from someone he'd only met a day ago.
Gallows, whose age Quentin still couldn't pin down, radiated an odd mixture of childlike sincerity and adult wisdom. The hug comforted Quentin in ways he couldn't explain, filling an unspoken void.
Pulling back, Gallows reached into his robes and retrieved a small pouch. "You might need this at the beginning of your journey," he said, tossing it into Quentin's waiting hand.
"Coins?" Quentin asked, peering inside.
"You know what they're for, right?" Lady Amira's tone carried a faint note of amusement.
Quentin blushed faintly. "Of course I do... Thanks."
Now prepared, Quentin stood before the abyss, clad in his half-myth jumpsuit with the pouch of foreign coins securely in hand. His nerves simmered with anticipation, but he reminded himself of one thing: they wouldn't throw him into a lion's den unprepared.
At least he hoped not.
Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward. The darkness swallowed him whole, and with it, the courtyard and all its familiarity vanished into the void.
"Son of Seraph!"
"Embarking on a journey of no return."
"You shall die, and for what purpose? To what goal?"
Quentin turned sharply, but there was no one in sight—only the oppressive darkness surrounding him. Within the void, blacker swirls of apparitions drifted aimlessly, their forms fleeting yet sinister. Their taunts echoed, words spilling from them like venom, filling the air with doubt and scorn.
He watched them warily, wondering if their goal was to frighten him—or worse, to do him actual harm. The Naguals hadn't warned him of any such visitors, but then again, they had told him precious little about this journey.
The figures swirled above him, their voices relentless. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, a pathway slowly came into view. It was grim and foreboding, a shadowy walkway stretching endlessly ahead.
Quentin willed the Whip of Vocaghter into his hand, the fiery marks along its length casting a flickering light into the gloom. As he had anticipated, the apparitions recoiled at the sight of the light, scattering like shadows caught in dawn's first rays.
He continued down the path, gripping the whip tightly, his footsteps echoing faintly in the void. It wasn't long before a faint light appeared in the distance—a beacon that called to him.
"There it is," he muttered. "Not much of a portal if I have to walk all of this."
When he finally reached the light, Quentin stepped through the threshold, blinking against its brightness.
To his surprise, he didn't emerge from another tree as he had expected. Instead, he found himself standing in the middle of a bustling town.
The scene was vibrant and chaotic, with people of all shapes and forms milling about. Merchants shouted over one another, each vying for attention, their voices blending into a cacophony of sales pitches.
A group of children in tattered clothing darted past him, one nearly colliding with him before they continued their playful chase.
Quentin smiled faintly. "Oh, to be a kid running through the market without a care in the world."
He glanced back at where he had emerged—a small, nondescript building with a faded sign that read:
Half a Meat for the Price of One.
"What?" Quentin muttered, his brow furrowing. He tried the door, but it refused to budge, its secrets sealed behind sturdy wood.
With a sigh, he turned away. I should find someone who actually knows where I am.
He stepped further into the heart of the town, realising quickly that standing in front of a strange building might not have been the smartest move.
As he walked, his stomach growled loudly, an embarrassing reminder of his hunger. He sniffed the air, his senses catching the rich, savoury aroma of roasting meat. His body moved on instinct, following the tantalising scent through the maze of people and stalls.
If he hadn't been so fixated on the promise of food, he might have noticed the side glances and whispers he was drawing from the townsfolk.
Finally, he arrived at the source of the aroma: The Limbo's Meat.
It was a grand building, its architecture as chaotic as the market. Five chimneys jutted out at odd angles, each puffing out mouth-watering scents into the air. The sight—and smell—was enough to momentarily erase any lingering confusion.
Quentin approached the building, his curiosity and hunger intertwined. Whatever lay ahead, he was sure of one thing—he needed to start this journey with a full stomach.
Quentin stepped through the bead curtain that marked the entrance, its gentle clatter parting to reveal an extraordinary sight. The inn was nothing short of majestic, its centrepiece a massive chandelier that bathed the space in a warm, golden glow. The light danced off polished wooden surfaces and the gleaming trays carried by waiters who bustled about, ferrying an endless stream of sumptuous meat dishes from the kitchen to eager diners.
He froze for a moment, his senses overwhelmed.
The sheer variety of meats on display was astounding—roasted, grilled, smoked, cured—every preparation imaginable, a carnivore's paradise. The aroma was intoxicating, each savoury note a promise of bliss. The rhythmic clink of cutlery and plates provided a harmonious backdrop, while the bard's music floated through the air like a spell.
The melodies were hypnotic, filling Quentin with an unexpected sense of confidence and vigour. He allowed the atmosphere to wash over him, his tension from the day slipping away.
Spotting an empty table by the window, he made his way to it and sat down. The seat offered a perfect view of the bustling street outside, where life thrived in chaotic harmony, and the bard's lively tune continued to soothe his mind.
Quentin hadn't been seated for long when a petite waitress approached, her uniform crisp and clean. She balanced a stainless tray against her side, her cheerful expression a testament to years of hospitality.
She handed him a menu with a practiced smile. "And what will you be having today, good sir?"
Quentin caught himself staring, quickly shifting his gaze to the menu. He cleared his throat.
"So... The Limbo's Meat. Quite a bold choice for a name."
"Bold?" The waitress tilted her head, her expression curious but amused.
He stammered, "Uh, never mind. I'll, uh—I'll have one of everything, please."
Her eyebrows rose slightly, but her professional demeanour held steady. "Coming right up!" With a cheery nod, she turned and disappeared into the crowd of servers, leaving Quentin to his thoughts.
Quentin sighed, slumping slightly in his seat. "Smooth. Real smooth," he muttered.
The bard's tune shifted into a livelier melody, and Quentin chuckled to himself. It was impossible to stay down in a place like this.
He looked around again, taking in the inn's beauty—the flickering chandelier, the merry chatter, the tantalising smells that filled the air. It was a haven, a pocket of joy in an unfamiliar world.
"Sadness can wait until tomorrow," he murmured, smiling faintly as the first of many dishes began to arrive at his table. "Today, I feast."