There was no sound when Kent hit the ground. Just the thud of his knees striking cold dirt and the sharp gasp that tore from his throat. It hurt like hell.
One look around and he could tell it wasn't another illusion
This place was real: he could feel the wind scraping his skin raw, smell the iron and ash thick in the air. A wasteland stretched out around him, muted gray and lifeless. Dead trees clawed at a bruised sky. The ground beneath him cracked like dried bone.
He sat there for a moment, stunned, chest rising and falling like he'd just surfaced from drowning. His mind raced, searching for familiar system cues, trying to anchor himself—but nothing came.
No screen. No stat window in mandarin.
Then, without warning, a sound cut through the silence.
Ding.
A translucent screen blinked into view in front of him—unmistakably a system prompt. But what stopped him cold wasn't the fact that it had returned.
It was the language.
"System Alert: External Intervention Detected."
"Language settings overridden. Reversion protocol unlocked."
Kent's eyes widened. "English?"
It kept going.
"Welcome, Kent. You are currently in a transitional dimension. Your system interface has been partially restored."
"Would you like to initiate Language Reversion Protocol?"
[YES] — [NO]
His hands trembled as he tapped YES. The screen flickered, glitched once, then steadied.
For the first time since this nightmare began, Kent could finally read what the system was trying to tell him. Real information. Real control.
A second window unfurled, this one longer. It included a set of nested commands, a breakdown of past tier logs, and at the bottom… a message.
"If you're reading this, it means you're alive. That's good.
The system has recognized you. Learn quickly. Your survival is not guaranteed."
There was no signature. No sender.
Kent swallowed hard. "What?" His mind felt like it was breaking into a million pieces. It was all too much to take in.
The answer arrived in the form of cold wind curling around him—like fingers brushing the back of his neck. He turned fast, fists raised.
Something stood at the edge of the wasteland. A figure draped in tattered robes, tall and like a statue. Smoke clung to their body like armor, and long chains slithered around their feet as though alive. Their face was concealed by a deer skull, its antlers cracked and stained dark.
Kent held his breath, awaiting his fate. They didn't speak.
Instead, they lifted one arm—and the shadows responded. Coalescing around their palm was a pulse of energy, green-black and twitching like it had veins.
Kent stepped back. "Who are you?"
The figure tilted its head. This gesture held no mockery. Just assessment.
Then, finally, it spoke. A low, hollow voice, as though echoing from beneath the ground.
"I am the one sent to collect you."
Kent's brows drew together. "By who?"
No answer.
Instead, the figure stepped forward and the earth beneath them died. The grass curled inwards. Stones cracked open. The chains slithered like serpents, tasting the air.
"Who are you?"
No answer.
"Stop! I'll kill you," Kent threatened. From his haphazard assessment he could tell the mage was a combat type. He could take him.
"No," the necromancer said. "An ally sent me."
Kent narrowed his eyes. "The witch? You with her?"
That earned a pause—and a sound that might've been a chuckle, muffled by the skull mask.
"If I served her, you'd already be dust."
Kent bristled, unsure whether to take that as reassurance or threat. He opened his interface again, fingers flicking through menus. Everything felt… loose. Like the system itself was breathing for the first time.
"What is this place?"
"A failsafe," the necromancer said. "Buried between corrupted planes. Only those marked may pass through it."
Kent glanced up. "Marked?"
The necromancer's shoulders lifted slightly. "You wouldn't remember."
Kent clenched his jaw. "You talk like you know me."
"I knew your scent before your shadow fell," the necromancer said, voice turning solemn. "I knew your name before you were born."
The hairs on Kent's arms stood on end. "What do you want from me?"
"I want you to live," the figure said.
And for the first time, the smoke around him receded just a little. Enough for Kent to see runes branded along the necromancer's collarbone, glowing faintly beneath the robes. They pulsed in sync with the chains—binding him to something deeper.
Something ancient.
Kent hesitated. "Why?"
The necromancer didn't answer. He turned and began to walk away, his chains trailing through the dust like anchors. After a few steps, he glanced back.
"Well?"
Kent didn't move.
The necromancer pointed to the ground behind Kent.
Kent turned—and blinked.
There, in the dirt where he had landed, was a spreading stain of rot. Not blood. Not oil. Something darker, hungrier. It hissed as it spread, whispering in a language Kent didn't recognize.
"Corruption," the necromancer said. "From her realm. You weren't supposed to escape."
Kent stared at it—at the way it crawled after him like it knew his name.