It resembles a far-off clash, something like metal against stone, followed by a dull, hollow reverberation that dies before it fully reaches us. Then silence again, heavier than before.
Moe’s hand tightens around mine.
“What… is this?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
I wish I could comfort her somehow, but even I am having trouble understanding where we are.
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“It’s harder to breathe,” she murmurs. She places her hand on her throat as she pointedly inhales and exhales. Her cheeks are flushed, and red veins color the whites of her eyes.
“Yes.” I can feel that the quality of the air is different. My lungs struggle to accommodate with the sudden change.
Another distant sound reaches us, sharper this time, followed by a cry of pain.
Moe flinches.
My jaw tightens as I fix my gaze on the horizon, on the places where the ruins are shielded by the shadows.
Something dangerous is lurking in those shadows. Could it be that we might have been caught by the male from Utopiya and he teleported to this strange place.
I’ve heard of prison realms before. Just like how Utopiya can create a multitude of proto-realms, there are individuals out there who can create larger one, whole worlds onto themselves.
I tighten my grip on her hand.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her.
This is all my damn fault. I brought her into this mess. And my greatest fear is that I won’t be able to protect her.
“Stop blaming yourself,” she says through ragged breaths. Already, she’s having a hard time speaking. “We’ll…make it.”
Before I can reply, a red beam of light shoots in front of us. As the particles of light dissipate, a semi-transparent being with anthropomorphic features appears before us.
I frown. I’ve seen the likes of him before…
A wraith!They’re not sentient and usually hired to do one’s bidding.
The wraith could be that male’s servant, and this could be where he plans to kill us—and dissect me.
But then the wraith speaks.
“New entrants detected,” he says.
The voice is flat. Not cold, not harsh, just empty. Stripped of anything that might resemble emotion.
Moe grabs onto my arm, molding herself to my body.
The wraith steps forward, each movement measured with unsettling precision, as though he’s following a predetermined script.
“Type: Immortal. Level Unassigned,” he says as he scans me from head to toe. Then his gaze moves to Moe. “Type: Mortal. Level Advanced. Unauthorized.”
Both Moe and I look at each other in shock. It seems that the mythical beast parts helped her become an advanced mortal. But what does he mean by unauthorized?
“Mortals cannot survive in this realm,” he states simply. “You will die in three hours and forty-five minutes.”
“What?” We both burst out at the same time.
“What are you talking about?”
