[Now please choose a name for your guild]
"A name!?" Casper's eyes gleamed as if he'd just been handed the keys to a candy shop. His grin widened as he began pacing in a small circle, fingers dancing in the air like a maestro conjuring words. "Oh, oh—Legendary Victors! No, wait—Killing Vandals! Or how about... The Mighty Troops!" He waved his arms for dramatic flair. "Carnage Bringers! The Sudden Destroyers! Or—wait—Bloodstorm Battalion!"
The rest of the group stared at him, expressionless.
Adam leaned toward Fray, deadpan. "Kid, you seriously want this nutjob with us?"
Casper, still unfazed, continued mumbling, "Maybe Grim Reapers. Yeah, that's got bite. People would shiver hearing that, right?"
Fray didn't flinch. "Casper." His voice cut through the air like a blade. "We don't need a name to sound powerful. We need a name that sends a message: don't mess with us."
Casper halted mid-step, deflating slightly. "Alright, alright... got it, boss."
Elisa, leaning casually against a boulder with arms crossed, offered in her calm, cool tone, "What about... The Merciless Clan?"
Fray turned his head slightly, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "It's blunt. Cold. Makes a point." He looked between the others. "What do you think?"
Adam shrugged with a yawn. "Honestly? I don't care. As long as we're not called the Flying Ponies."
"It's not bad," Casper said, though his tone betrayed disappointment. "Bit basic... but it works."
[Congratulations, the Merciless Clan has been created]
Fray stepped forward, holding the stamper like a sacred relic. His voice was low, almost reverent. "Then it's time."
He glanced at Casper. "Give me your hand."
Casper, more curious than cautious, extended it. Fray pressed the stamper against his palm and whispered a word in the ancient tongue: "Rinalyo."
Dark smoke burst from the stamp and coiled around Casper's body, swirling like a storm in a bottle. The others instinctively took a step back. The smoke thickened, hardening into jagged, obsidian armor that locked into place with loud metallic snaps. When it cleared, Casper stood taller, his entire form encased in a spooky, sharp-edged suit of black steel.
Casper looked at himself in stunned awe. "Holy crap... this is so cool."
Adam narrowed his eyes, visibly impressed. 'So this is what the stamper can do...'
Next came Elisa. Fray repeated the ritual with equal precision. Her armor unfolded like petals of a dark flower, forming a lithe, elegant design. The polished black steel shimmered with intricate white etchings along her pauldrons and breastplate. Her helmet—angular and mysterious—slid into place, leaving her presence regal and terrifying.
Adam stepped up next. The dark mist swirled slower this time, coalescing into a long, flowing robe. It was almost ethereal, like moving smoke stitched with fine blue veins. His hood formed last, casting his face into shadows, lending him the air of a ghostly scholar.
Finally, Fray placed the stamper on his own chest. Unlike the others, the transformation was violent—his armor burst into place with thunderous force. Towering shoulder plates and thick gauntlets locked into place. His gladiator-like helmet snapped down over his face, and for a moment, he looked less like a man—and more like a walking executioner.
The four stood silently, armored and unified. The air vibrated around them, thick with anticipation.
Fray lifted his head to the sky, eyes narrowing at the fracture in space—the highest one.
"The seven portals each lead to a different path," he said. "The one I've studied most is the top one."
Casper squinted. "That one? It's so far... shouldn't we take the ocean portal? Looks way closer."
Fray shook his head. "That's an illusion. They're all in the same dimensional pocket. Their placement is symbolic, not spatial."
Adam raised an eyebrow. "Cool. So, how exactly do we fly?"
Fray's answer came in the form of shadow. His armor flared, and two massive, smoky wings burst from his back, spreading wide like a fallen angel.
The others gasped as their own wings emerged in a flash of dark energy, responding to Fray's activation.
Without another word, the four ascended into the sky. The wind howled around them as they rose, cutting through clouds under the pale moonlight, their forms growing smaller from the world below.
As they neared it, a digital window flickered to life before them:
[The Merciless Clan has entered the Old Continent]
Edoria City – The Throne Room
The royal chamber buzzed with tension. Beneath the towering marble pillars and crimson banners, a group of advisors whispered urgently, casting uneasy glances at the massive stained-glass window framing the fractured sky.
"Any word on what's happening up there?" one of them asked, voice low but urgent.
"Scouts failed obtaining any useful Information," another responded, shaking his head. "Pegasus riders failed to reach the fractures. They seem close, but... they're impossibly high. It's like the sky itself is warped."
A heavy silence followed.
"Even the ancient families haven't made any progress yet," someone added, grimly.
Amid the growing panic, the man on the throne remained unmoved.
He sat slouched, his cheek resting lazily on a gloved fist. Draped in dark royal garb, his expression was unreadable—half bored, half contemplative. Yet his eyes never strayed from the sky beyond the stained glass. They burned with distant awareness.
Then—without warning—a shimmering digital window flared to life above the throne, its glow casting long shadows across the floor.
[The Merciless Clan has entered the Old Continent]
The chamber fell still.
A chill crept through the air as every advisor froze in place. Murmurs turned into frantic whispers, some laced with disbelief, others with fear.
But the man on the throne... smiled.
A slow, knowing grin.
"So," he muttered, almost to himself, "the prophecy was true. Finally it's time to restore what ours."
...
Guardians' Headquarters – Strategy Hall
In a grand chamber lit by enchanted crystals, ten warriors gathered around a long obsidian table. The air was heavy with anticipation, all eyes fixed on a young woman with fiery red hair and piercing green eyes. Her beauty was undeniable, but the tension in her expression betrayed the weight of her words.
"Years ago, during a research expedition in the ancient ruins," she began, her voice steady but urgent, "I came across references to an old land—one hidden from our world. According to those texts, it offers incredible rewards for those who succeed… but devastation for those who fail. I can't confirm if this is that continent, but if it is, the potential inside is too significant to ignore."
Silence followed. Minds turned.
Then Luke Moonlight stood. His golden hair caught the chamber's glow, a slim but lethal sword resting at his hip. His gaze locked onto the leader at the head of the table.
"I'm prepared to enter the Old Continent," Luke said. "We need to explore it—to understand what's really going on."
A woman across from him—dark-haired, flawless skin, voice like silk—raised her concern. "But it could be incredibly dangerous. We need to weigh the risks carefully before throwing ourselves into something this… unknown."
At the head of the table sat the leader: a broad-shouldered man, a long scar slashing across his face, a greatsword leaning against his chair. His voice cut through the tension like steel.
"It is dangerous," he said. "But we can't afford to stand still while others move. We must enter—before the tides shift too far."
The red-haired woman frowned. "Even if we wanted to, it'll take days—maybe weeks—to develop a method to reach the height of the portals. Even the ancient families can't get there yet…"
Before she could finish, a luminous digital window shimmered into existence above the table. Everyone's heads snapped upward, eyes wide with disbelief as glowing words materialized:
[The Merciless Clan has entered The Old Continent]
Gasps echoed through the hall.
Luke's voice broke the silence, low and stunned. "The Merciless Clan…?"
...
Unknown Mountain Peak
Five cloaked figures stood at the summit of a wind-lashed mountain, their robes billowing like tattered banners against the biting cold. Shadows danced across their obscured faces as they stared up at the fractured sky.
"It begins," one murmured, their voice swallowed by the wind.
"Is it the ancient families?" asked another, eyes narrowing beneath their hood.
"No," a female voice replied, her voice sharp and cold as ice. "They aren't ready yet."
A third leaned forward, intrigued. "Then... who is this Merciless Clan?"
Silence followed.
The sky above churned—stars flickering like scattered embers, the fractures pulsing faintly with otherworldly light.