The chamber’s atmosphere was thick—oppressive, even. It smelled of damp stone, old parchment, and something more sinister. Something unnatural. The torches along the walls flickered weakly, as if unwilling to fully illuminate the room’s secrets.

  At the far end of the chamber, a lone figure stood with his back turned to them. His presence was suffocating, even in stillness. Shadows clung unnaturally to his frame, shifting like living things, responding to his unspoken will.

  Thorne, Caelum, and Aelith halted their approach. Their instincts screamed that something was wrong.

  Then, the figure spoke.

  "Another seeker of power?"

  The voice was hollow—distorted, almost layered with echoes that didn’t belong. It sent an involuntary chill down Aelith’s spine. Her fingers curled slightly, magic gathering at her fingertips.

  The figure turned.

  But there was no face.

  Where there should have been eyes, a nose, lips—there was only torn flesh, raw and exposed, as if something had been violently ripped away. Yet despite the grotesque sight, they could feel his gaze on them.

  Thorne’s grip on his weapon tightened. His vast battle experience told him one thing—this was no ordinary mage.

  Caelum’s brows furrowed. “Who are you?”

  Silence.

  Frid—or what remained of him—tilted his head. The movement was almost curious, but wrong. Off. Like he was still adjusting to his own body. His presence twisted the space around him, illusions bleeding into reality with an eerie fluidity.

  Then, he stepped forward.

  It was only a single step, but the air cracked under the weight of his presence. The chamber walls warped, as though reacting to his sheer existence. Aelith’s pulse quickened.

  She flicked her wrist. Symbols glowed faintly in the air, and her grimoire—ethereal, a construct of light—briefly manifested before fading again. She didn’t need to display it. The magic was already in motion.

  Thorne spoke first. “This chamber is filled with remnants of the past. If you intend to fight, take it elsewhere.”

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  A low chuckle escaped Frid’s lips—dry, brittle, almost amused. “Fight?” His fingers twitched. “I wonder… which of us would shatter first?”

  The moment the words left his mouth, the chamber shuddered. The very walls seemed to breathe. The torches dimmed to dying embers.

  Caelum acted first.

  A surge of pure energy crackled around him, forming an intricate spell circle beneath his feet. The air pulsed as a sphere of compressed force shot toward Frid, its trajectory swift and precise.

  Frid didn’t move.

  The moment the attack neared him, it simply—vanished.

  No sound. No impact. It was as if the spell had never existed.

  Caelum’s eyes narrowed. “That was a Master-tier spell.”

  Aelith exhaled sharply. “That wasn’t an illusion,” she murmured. “That was erasure.”

  Thorne reacted instinctively, dashing forward with a speed that defied normal human limits. A high mage he may have been, but he knew how to strike when an enemy was still assessing their own power. His blade, coated in layered enchantments, cut through the air with lethal precision.

  Then—

  It stopped.

  Not because Frid blocked it.

  Not because he dodged.

  It just… stopped.

  Thorne’s own arms trembled, his muscles resisting an unseen force. It was like trying to cut through nothingness itself.

  Aelith’s voice rang out. “Fall back!”

  Thorne wrenched himself free and leapt backward, just as the very space where he had been standing twisted into something unrecognizable. His instincts screamed that if he had lingered for even a second longer, he wouldn’t exist anymore.

  Frid let out a slow, rattling breath. His hands flexed, and for a moment, he almost looked… uncertain. Like he was still getting used to his newfound abilities.

  Aelith’s mind raced. They had power—substantial power. But Frid was something else. He was standing on the boundary between High Adept and Master Mage, yet his abilities—they were unnatural. If they continued, they might be able to overwhelm him, but—

  Her gaze flicked to the chamber around them. The murals. The ancient relics embedded in the stone.

  If they fought recklessly, they wouldn’t just destroy the chamber. They would erase everything within it.

  She stepped forward. “Enough.”

  Caelum frowned, but didn’t argue. Thorne exhaled sharply, lowering his stance, though his grip on his weapon remained firm.

  Frid didn’t react.

  Aelith chose her next words carefully. “You’re not our target,” she said. “And if you had wanted to kill us, you would have tried already.”

  Silence.

  Then, slowly—Frid tilted his head once more.

  Aelith continued, voice unwavering. “This place is older than all of us. If we destroy it, we may lose things that can never be replaced. Let’s not be fools who break history for the sake of a moment’s pride.”

  For a long moment, no one moved.

  Then—Frid laughed.

  It was quiet. Hollow. But not mocking.

  “…You speak like someone who knows loss,” he murmured.

  Aelith didn’t flinch. “Loss is the price of seeking power. We all know that.”

  Another pause.

  Then, finally—Frid took a step back.

  The tension in the air lessened.

  Aelith turned to the others. “We explore the chamber. Carefully. If we fight, we all lose.”

  Caelum exhaled through his nose but nodded. Thorne sheathed his weapon with a dissatisfied grunt.

  Frid simply watched them.

  No one dared to turn their back on him.

  And so, with wariness in their steps, they moved deeper into the chamber—four seekers of power, bound by unease, curiosity… and something far more dangerous.