The lift rattled as it ascended, creaking and groaning like an old beast burdened by the weight of years. Oliver's hands tightened around the railings, his knuckles turning white as the platform wobbled with every jerk of its rusty mechanisms. Beneath him, the soft glow of the world he knew was slowly swallowed by the shadows of an enormous chasm.
"So this is it," Oliver muttered to himself, glancing upward. Somewhere above, faint light seeped through the cracks of a large iron hatch. "The world beyond the beginner's field."
In Eldrin's Legacy, this lift had been nothing more than a loading screen, a momentary pause before entering the sprawling industrial zone known as Ironclad District. But now, standing here with the groaning gears and faint echoes around him, the reality of it all was overwhelming. This wasn't a game anymore.
The platform suddenly lurched to a halt, throwing him off balance. He stumbled but managed to steady himself, his heart pounding. The air grew thick with an acrid metallic tang. Something was wrong. The lift wasn't supposed to stop here. He craned his neck, peering into the darkness above, but there was nothing but shadow.
A sharp screech pierced the silence, followed by the sound of grinding metal. The hatch above swung open, flooding the shaft with harsh, artificial light. Oliver shielded his eyes, blinking against the sudden brightness. And then he saw them.
Men—or what could barely be called men—peeked over the edge, their faces covered with soot and grime, eyes wide with fear. Behind them, shouts echoed, frantic and desperate.
"Run!" one of them screamed, his voice cracking with terror. "They're coming!"
Before Oliver could process what was happening, a deafening explosion shook the entire structure. Fire and smoke erupted from the hatch, and the lift jerked violently. The chains holding it snapped with a sickening clang, sending the platform plummeting downward. Oliver's stomach lurched as he gripped the railings with all his strength.
"No, no, no—!"
The lift slammed into the ground with a bone-rattling crash, the impact throwing Oliver off his feet. For a moment, all he could hear was the ringing in his ears. Pain shot through his body as he tried to move, groaning. But there was no time to rest. Above him, the hatch had become a gaping maw of chaos.
Climbing to his feet, he staggered out of the wreckage and into… a battlefield.
The industrial zone he remembered from the game was now a scene of utter devastation. Flames roared, casting shadows across the towering smokestacks and crumbling buildings. Bodies lay scattered among the rubble, and the air was thick with smoke and the stench of burning oil. Amid the chaos, figures darted in and out of the shadows, their movements erratic and frantic.
Oliver's eyes were drawn to a group of people cowering behind a collapsed wall. Their tattered clothes and hollow expressions marked them as workers, likely from the factories that dominated this district. But their fear wasn't directed at the fire or the destruction.
It was directed at the armed men advancing toward them.
These weren't the knights or bandits he remembered from the game. Clad in mismatched armor and wielding rifles, the gang bore a mix of modern and medieval weaponry. Their leader, a hulking man with a scarred face and a machine gun slung over his shoulder, barked orders.
"No survivors! Burn it all down!"
Oliver's blood ran cold. The workers cried out, scrambling to escape, but the gang had them surrounded. Gunfire erupted, the sharp cracks echoing through the ruins. One by one, the workers fell, their screams drowned out by the chaos.
Something snapped inside Oliver.
"Enough."
He stepped forward, his hands trembling. The weight of his sword hung heavy at his side, a constant reminder of the power he now wielded. But could he use it? Did he have the right?
A bullet whizzed past his ear, snapping him out of his hesitation. The gang had noticed him. One of them shouted, leveling his rifle. Instinct took over. Oliver's hand shot to his sword, drawing it in one fluid motion. The blade gleamed even in the dim light, a whisper of steel slicing through the air.
The first shot came straight for him. Without thinking, he swung his sword. Time seemed to slow as the blade connected with the bullet, deflecting it with a sharp clang. The gang stared in stunned silence, their weapons momentarily forgotten.
Oliver didn't give them a chance to recover. He charged, closing the distance in an instant. His sword cut through the air with a precision that felt almost unnatural. One by one, the gang members fell, their weapons clattering to the ground. The leader roared, raising his machine gun, but Oliver was faster. With a single, powerful strike, he disarmed the man and sent him sprawling.
The fight was over as quickly as it had begun. The workers stared at Oliver, their faces a mix of awe and fear. He sheathed his sword, the adrenaline still coursing through his veins.
"Go," he said, his voice firm but gentle. "Find somewhere safe."
They hesitated for a moment before nodding, hurrying away into the shadows. Oliver watched them go, his mind racing. This world was not what he had expected. The beauty he had admired in the game was gone, replaced by cruelty and despair.
But one thing was clear: he couldn't stand by and watch it burn.
With a determined expression, he turned toward the heart of the district. Whatever was happening here, he would find the truth—and put an end to it.