Eryndor zoomed in, the projection bending under his command.
The air flickered, showing two faint silhouettes moving at impossible speed toward Pungence’s side.
His eyes widened.
He slowed time even more. The figures became clearer—two men, their forms distorted by speed.
One of the two men held something in his hand. Eryndor’s eyes narrowed as he turned—just in time to see another figure speeding toward Valerius on the balcony. The man slammed into Valerius, and both of them crash through the balcony. They vanished the moment they crossed the twenty-meter edge of the spell’s range.
Eryndor clenched his fist. “If I can invoke it,” he muttered, “then I can amplify it.”
He spread his hands and chanted sharply, “Uthcritis!”
The field flared brighter and expanded outward—its radius widening to a full kilometer, swallowing the ruins in light. Eryndor lifted into the air and followed the trail, but as soon as Valerius and the stranger moved farther, their images blinked out again.
He exhaled through his nose. “Fine then… Shoop-en critis.”
The field pulsed, then shifted—its core locking onto Eryndor’s position. The memory sphere now moved wherever he went.
He soared higher, following Valerius’s path. The world around him rewound and replayed as he passed through layers of illusion—each moment unfolding in perfect sequence. He saw the two men stop at the edge of the shattered city. One transformed—a Lycan, massive and snarling. Valerius summoned a spirit in response, his aura splitting the clouds. Eryndor followed, observing every motion.
He watched Valerius save the civilians with his ability, the shimmering barriers blooming like stars. He saw him face Richard—saw the battle that followed, the loss, the collapse. Then came Eliana’s Guardians, storming Richard with relentless fury. But Eliana herself was nowhere to be seen.
Eryndor flew higher, tracing the chaos into the sky. Richard was evading the Guardians’ strikes while carrying Valerius —until a portal tore open behind him. Eryndor saw him vanish inside.
“I see,” he murmured.
Moments later, Eliana burst from the head of one of her Guardians and dove into the portal after them. Eryndor rubbed his chin, brow furrowed. “That was exceedingly reckless, Eliana. You possessed no comprehension of where that portal would lead.”
He looked through the fading rift—catching a glimpse of an elf and several others on the other side—before undoing the spell. The golden field dissolved, and the world returned to normal.
A thunderous crash followed.
Ziraiah fell from the sky, slamming into the ground hard enough to crater it. She staggered upright, swaying like a drunkard, her hair sticking to her face. “What spell was that? It felt like… three days ago all over again. You’ve been gone thirty minutes, so I thought I’d come find you.”
She stumbled forward, laughing weakly.
Eryndor raised an eyebrow. “Are you inebriated, Ziraiah?”
She shook her head, waving a broken bottle. “Nah. Turns out I can’t get drunk. I drank all of Pungence’s wine—you know, that strong one—but nothing.”
The bottle shattered in her hand.
Eryndor’s tone went flat. “You have lost command of your own strength. You are inebriated.”
“I said I’m not drunk,” she insisted. “There’s this spell—it makes the pain go away.”
Eryndor stretched out a hand. Ziraiah was yanked toward him as if pulled by invisible threads. He caught her arm, closing his eyes as a faint green light pulsed through his palm.
After a moment, he said quietly, “It would seem veracity favours your tongue.”
She pulled her arm free. “Don’t just yank people like that.”
“I am cognizant of your affliction,” Eryndor said, his voice subdued yet resonant. “But you must not perpetuate this self-inflicted torment.”
He exhaled slowly, the sound steeped in restrained melancholy.
“Nullify whatever enchantment you have imposed upon yourself, and you shall accompany me henceforth in the endeavour to locate Valerius.”
Ziraiah’s expression shifted. She sighed, touched the side of her neck, and whispered a reversal. A shimmer rippled through her body—then her eyes went wide. “All the pain just came flooding back,” she muttered, wiping her face.
“Commendable,” Eryndor said evenly. “Pain is an intrinsic facet of existence; one must possess the fortitude to endure it when it manifests.”
They rose together into the air, the wind pulling at their hair as they flew through the rain.
On the way, Ziraiah glanced at him. “Where did you learn a spell like that?”
“Grimoires,” Eryndor replied.
“I’ve read a lot of books,” she said, “but I’ve never seen anything like that before.”
Eryndor’s eyes stayed on the horizon.
“That is because I reside within the tertiary division,” he said evenly. “I possess access to tomes whose existence lies beyond your awareness.”
---
Three days ago.
Somewhere deep within the ocean — a wound gaped open in the sea.
A perfect pentagon carved into the world itself.
They called it Pentagon’s Hole.
Eighteen kilometers across — wide enough to swallow a city whole, or birth one turned inside out.
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Its black waters circled endlessly around the rim, as if the ocean itself tried to bury what man had built.
From above, it looked less like a prison and more like a scar — a wound that refused to heal.
No one truly knew when it was built, or by whom.
Only that those thrown inside… never saw sunlight again, until they joined the Orken Unbound.
---
The Structure
The hole descended nine kilometers straight into the sea— so deep that its end was hidden in mist.
Its walls were carved from Hecko Stone — a mineral that absorbed not only shock, but Vitalis itself.
At the rim, the walls were eight hundred meters thick, narrowing gradually toward the bottom.
And there, nearly eight kilometers below the surface, hung the Core Platform — a pentagonal slab five hundred meters wide, suspended by five colossal chains anchored into the walls.
It swayed slightly in the mist, its edges vanishing into shadow.
If the chains were ever to break, the platform would fall… into the Dimensional Rift beneath it — an endless fissure that erased everything it touched.
---
The Prison
Cells were built into the inner walls, spiraling downward in concentric rings, one after another, all facing the abyss.
Each ring marked a level of sin, each depth a new circle of punishment.
Those who inhabited these depths were the condemned:
Unbounds, captured Binding Hand officers, Bravo users, and Seed bearers who had survived their own madness.
All of them — stripped of their power, robbed of magic, Bravo, and Seed alike.
Such was the effect of Calethrin — a compound that disrupted all forms of vitalis.
The deeper one went, the heavier the air became.
By the time one reached the bottom, gravity pressed down fivefold.
Without access to vitalis, even breathing felt like kneeling before the earth.
Condensation from the upper walls dripped endlessly, the droplets echoing through the shaft like the heartbeat of the abyss.
Artificial lightning pulsed along the walls, powered by vast Vitalis conduits that drew energy from the surface. The flickering light never ceased — a storm without end.
Temperatures shifted wildly: freezing at the upper rings, blistering near the base.
And every thirty minutes, vents hissed softly, releasing thin clouds of Calethrin gas into each cell.
A reminder that no one — not even air — could be trusted here.
---
The Descent
Prisoners were delivered through a sealed pentagonal lift chamber, a colossal elevator that descended for hours before reaching its assigned level.
The sound of the chains groaning accompanied every journey downward — a low, metallic cry that echoed through the shaft like a song of despair.
On one such descent, the silence broke.
A portal tore open mid-air. From it stepped two Dragoons, armor glinting faintly in the artificial glow.
Each carried someone slung over their shoulder — Valerius on one side, Eliana on the other.
One Dragoon exhaled and muttered, “This thing takes hours to reach the bottom.”
The other leaned over the rail, peering into the abyss. “Then we jump.”
The first raised a brow behind his visor. “You’re serious?”
“Deadly,” said the second. “We’ll land faster.”
The first Dragoon shifted Valerius’s limp form over his shoulder and shrugged. “Fine.
Cell 137552, right?”
“Yeah,” said the other, tightening his grip on Eliana. “That’s the one.”
He frowned. “Wait — isn’t that in the Earther Section? Why the hell are they putting them there?”
“I don’t know,” the other said. “Guess the others are full.”
Without further words, both Dragoons stepped off the platform.
They fell — straight into the void.
Wind tore past them as the walls rushed upward in blurs of flickering light, numbers flashing by like falling stars.
328900… 297467… 177378…
They plummeted for what felt like eternity —
past the humming conduits, the endless rows of barred doors, the layers of stone and metal.
---
The Sections of the Hole
Pentagon’s Hole was divided into five great sections, combined they contained three hundred levels in total, spiraling around the abyss like the ribs of a great beast.
Section V (Levels 150–299) — the General Ring.
Here, 2,200 cells per level housed Earths, their purpose was to be used in experiments.
Section IV (Levels 40–149) — the Enhanced Tier.
800 cells per level housed mercenaries, bounty hunters who thought they could challenge the Orken Unbound. The weaker members of The Binding Hand who were captured were also imprisoned here.
Section III (Levels 10–39) — the Isolation Ring.
120 cells per level. This section was ment for the strong. High level mages and Bravo users. Those with power rivaling The likes of Richard.
Section II (Levels 2–9) — the Null-Class Depths.
20 cells per level. The air was thin, the cold unbearable, the walls alive with Calethrin frost. No footsteps echoed there; the guards never came. The people here had power that puts them in the World Rankings.
Section I (Level 1) — The Core Platform.
Five cells.
In here are five being, with power bordering on the title Kottor.
---
To Be Continued...
