The atmosphere was heavy with an almost palpable weight, as if the land itself knew what was coming.
The awakeners moved as one, their synchronized footfalls creating a steady, almost rhythmic drumbeat against the cracked and uneven terrain.
Despite the moon hanging overhead, its light was muted, swallowed by a thick, gray haze that clung to the sky like an impending storm.
The wind, usually indifferent to mortal affairs, now carried with it a foreboding chill, whispering through the dead trees and scattering loose fragments of dried leaves across the desolate path.
Zhuo trailed a fair distance behind, his presence ghostly—silent, fluid, almost unnatural in how he moved without disturbing so much as a single blade of brittle grass.
The landscape bore the unmistakable scars of a world ravaged by the unnatural.
The soil was fractured, as though something deep beneath the earth had struggled violently before succumbing to stillness.
The skeletal remains of once-mighty trees stood like twisted sentinels, their blackened limbs reaching out like clawed hands, frozen mid-scream.
In the distance, jagged rock formations protruded from the ground at unnatural angles, crystalline veins of dark energy running through them—evidence of the spatial distortions brought about by the looming gate.
Every so often, flickers of unseen movement danced at the edges of vision, making the more inexperienced awakeners tense, their hands hovering cautiously over weapons or spell foci.
There was an ever-present hum in the air, a dissonant vibration at the edge of perception, like the muffled sound of something trying to break through.
And everyone marching toward the gate knew—this battle wasn't going to be like any other.
Zhuo observed them closely, his black eyes scanning the awakeners' faces with a quiet amusement.
Though they tried to keep calm, their nervous energy was undeniable.
The weaker ones, fresh recruits, had a certain rigidity in their posture—a stiffness that spoke of untested resolve.
They clutched their weapons tighter than necessary, some adjusting their grips repeatedly, their fingers twitching in unconscious anticipation.
The more experienced awakeners, however, carried themselves with measured confidence.
Their eyes remained sharp, scanning their surroundings in quick, practiced sweeps. The hum of mana ran faintly beneath their skin, power coiling, waiting to be unleashed at the first sign of battle.
And yet, even among the veterans, there was something different about this march.
The usual battle fervor, the thrill of facing an enemy head-on, was absent.
Instead, there was a shared understanding.
They weren't marching toward a battle.
They were marching toward something worse—something unpredictable.
Because gates like this... they never opened without a reason.
At the front of the formation, Seraphine walked with an unshaken presence, her posture effortlessly commanding.
The long strands of her black hair swayed with each step, catching the dim light like strands of woven moonlight.
Even amongst seasoned warriors, her aura was unmistakable—not just strength, but control.
The way she moved was deliberate, without waste.
Each time the wind picked up, the edges of her dark armor caught the faint glimmers of corrupted light from the shattered sky, emphasizing the contrast between her composed figure and the chaotic world around her.
Her right hand hovered close to the hilt of her sword, fingers flexing occasionally, as if reassuring herself of its presence.
The weapon was unlike any ordinary blade.
It bore an elegance that most weapons lacked—a slightly curved edge, etched with intricate golden runes that pulsed faintly, mirroring the steady rhythm of a heartbeat.
The deep crimson leather of the hilt was worn smooth, shaped by years of unwavering grip.
At the base of the pommel, a sapphire stone gleamed, embedded at the center like an ever-watchful eye, its radiance seeming to deepen the closer they got to the gate.
But despite her composed exterior, there was an unspoken tension in Seraphine's body.
She was anticipating something—not fear, but something else.
Something personal.
After what felt like an eternity, the group halted.
They had arrived.
Before them stood the gate—a jagged wound in reality itself, pulsating with an eerie, shifting aura of deep purple and black.
It loomed twenty meters high, its unstable edges crackling like a broken screen struggling to maintain cohesion.
The surrounding area was in ruin, the land twisted and malformed by the sheer corruption radiating from the breach.
The ground was not just cracked—it was fractured, pieces of floating debris hovering in defiance of natural law.
Dark, crystalline spires jutted out in unnatural formations, pulsating in sync with the gate's chaotic energy.
The air was thick—wrong, tainted with a metallic tang that burned at the lungs, making even the seasoned warriors instinctively breathe through clenched teeth.
And the whispers.
Soft. Insidious. Unrelenting.
They echoed from the depths of the gate, their cadence distorted, words incomprehensible yet deeply unsettling.
Some of the younger awakeners winced, gripping their weapons harder, sweat forming at their brows despite the chilling air.
A few stepped back instinctively, the primal urge to flee clashing against their duty.
But Seraphine did not move.
She stood unflinching, eyes locked onto the abyssal tear in space.
Beside her, the other legion captains gathered, their armor gleaming under the corrupted light, their expressions unreadable.
They, too, could feel it.
Something was waiting on the other side.
And it wasn't just some mindless beast.
Something with purpose.
Something with intent.
Something... watching them.
Seraphine's grip on her sword tightened.
Memories flooded her mind—memories she had long since buried.
Flashes of another battle, another gate, another night drenched in blood and screams.
She had been eight years old when she last stood before a gate like this.
The sky had cracked open that day, splitting apart as an unnatural black vortex tore through the heavens.
It was smaller than this one, yes—but its destruction had been just as absolute.
Seraphine had watched from the window of her family's home as monstrous creatures crawled out of the void, their forms grotesque, twisted, and unnatural. They were unlike anything she had ever seen—howling abominations with too many limbs, too many eyes, and mouths that should not exist.
The streets had turned red within moments.
She remembered the heat. Suffocating. Relentless.
The air had been thick with the scent of burning flesh and ozone, the sky painted in hues of orange and black as fire consumed everything.
And in the midst of it all—her parents.
They had been her world. Two towering figures of strength and power, standing between the horrors and the people.
She had watched her father's golden blade carve through the beasts, his every movement precise and devastating.
Her mother's silver spear had shone like a beacon, striking with lethal grace, as if she were a goddess of war incarnate.
But even they—even they—had not been enough.
Seraphine had been too young to fight, too weak to do anything but cling to her father's cloak as he knelt before her.
"Stay safe, Seraphine."
Her mother's lips had pressed to her forehead—a kiss that burned with finality.
"We'll come back for you."
And then they were gone.
She had waited for them.
Even after the battle ended, after the bodies were cleared from the streets, after the survivors moved on, she had waited.
But they never returned.
They didn't die. There were no bodies, no remains. It was as if the gate had simply swallowed them whole.
And Seraphine knew—knew deep within her bones—that her parents hadn't simply perished.
There was more to their disappearance.
Something had taken them.
And one day, she would find out what.
The battlefield flickered back into focus.
Seraphine exhaled sharply, gripping her sword with renewed resolve.
Now, standing before this gate, staring into the same abyss that had stolen her parents, she felt a familiar, burning emotion crawl up her throat.
Not fear.
Not grief.
But cold, unyielding rage.
"Not this time."
Her jaw clenched, her grip tightening around her weapon until her knuckles turned white.
"I won't let this gate take more lives."
Even if she had to burn it to the ground, she would not let history repeat itself.