Deep within the Dark Mine, at its deepest vein, a massive chamber had collapsed into madness.
At its center swirled a vortex of black, tar-like substance—its surface rippling with shadows and secrets. From this abyssal whirlpool, demons poured forth in an unending tide. Whispers—sharp, constant, unbearable—echoed off the stone, clawing into minds. The very stone walls groaned as they twisted into something other—no longer part of the mine, but of something darker.
An Abyssal Bridge was forming.
Before the swirling void stood a lone figure—a muscular man, long hair braided down his back, though the braid's tip was burnt and frayed. His body was scorched and scarred, smoke rising faintly from his charred skin. He wore leather armor reinforced with metal plates, both etched with glyphs that shimmered faintly. A glyph shaped like a flame burned brightly in his right eye.
This was Shinji Warlord of the South.
Across from him stood a towering demon—equally broad, equally powerful. It wore no armor, its purple skin bared and taut, every inch of its muscular arms carved with writhing abyssal runes. Dark flames licked across its hands, forming and reforming.
The demon grinned.
"Come now, brother Shinji," it hissed, voice oily with mockery. "Why resist? You've reached the end of your road. Accept it. Let us find balance."
Without waiting for a reply, it snapped its arm forward. The dark flames coiled into a whip and lashed out, screaming through the air.
Shinji moved without hesitation.
His broadsword ignited, flame surging across its glyph-marked blade. With a roar, he met the attack—steel and flame colliding with Abyss-born fire. The force of their clash sent shockwaves through the chamber, killing a score of lesser demons and imps in an instant. Their bodies were reduced to mist and ash.
They fought with vigour as the demon slowly overpowered Shinji.
Elsewhere in the tunnels, demons rampaged freely. Miners screamed. Supervisors tried in vain to hold lines that no longer existed. Glyphlights shattered. Protective wards failed.
The walls twisted—some becoming jagged and grotesque, as if bone and sinew had been pulled through the stone. Others transformed into black gothic arches, adorned with demonic statues that wept ichor. Pools of black tar bubbled up from the ground, birthing new horrors with each passing second.
The mine was no longer a mine.
And in the heart of it stood Shinji—flames burning from one eye, sword clashing again and again with the creature who called him brother.
Back at the Stronghold, the air had changed.
Sunlight twisted into heavy, suffocating darkness. Whispers clawed at the edges of thought—no longer background noise, but voices, commands. The Abyss was no longer contained.
Suren and Rickon stumbled out of the Overseer's office into a courtyard now transformed into a battlefield.
The Overseer, unconcerned with them, carved through demons with wild, blood-drunk laughter. His axe roared through flesh and bone, spraying gore in wide arcs. For a moment, Suren thought to follow—until he saw the man grab the elf maid and hurl her into the path of a lunging horror, using her body as a shield.
His stomach turned.
"Run!" barked Tinkwick, throwing metallic dust at the nearest demon, which screeched as it ignited. "We need to get away from the hill—now!"
Suren tried—but the heavy shackles still linked him and Rickon to Tinkwick. The chain yanked them mid-stride, nearly pulling Suren to the ground and making him fumble the Awakening Stone cradled in his arms.
"Tinkwick, the key!" he shouted.
Rickon didn't hesitate. He scooped Suren over one shoulder and bolted after the gnome, taking huge strides down the slope.
The hill below, once a gentle plain of yellow grass and quiet breezes, had become a vision of ruin. Veins of black tar burst from beneath the surface like roots, twisting the land. Workers fled from shattered tunnels, blinking at the sunlight they hadn't seen in years—only to be met by crawling demons. Imps. Spider-limbed horrors. Patchwork humanoids whose skin sagged and tore with every movement.
Rickon was crying, face streaked with ash and tears. "Where-where do we go now?"
"I don't know!" Suren yelled. "Just—run!"
"Tinkwick! The key—now!"
The gnome patted down his vest and belts, eyes wide. "It's gone! I—godsdammit, it's gone!"
The stronghold behind them groaned.
Its walls blackened, rippling like wax under heat. Towers flared with black fire. Arches reshaped into fanged maws. Doors writhed, howling with alien music. The transformation of the stronghold had begun.
They sprinted downhill, Tinkwick somehow keeping pace despite his size, muttering glyphs under his breath while crushing metals into powders he tossed behind them. Each burst bought precious seconds as demons shrieked and fell back, blinded or burned.
Then the mountain screamed.
The earth cracked open. A geyser of tar fountained skyward—hissing, steaming—and from it stepped a figure dragging another behind him.
It was the demon.
And it dragged Shinji—burned, broken, barely alive.
Dark flames slithered from Shinji's wounds into the demon's flesh. His form changed—his body lengthening, his features refining. Black leather armor formed around him. He grew long and dark red hair. Glyphs of flame burned into his irises.
His features changed becoming similar to Shinji's.
The battlefield paused—just for a moment—as the implications struck everyone. The Warlord of the South had fallen.
Rickon stumbled, mouth open in horror. Suren turned to look ahead—and dropped the Awakening Stone.
It hit the ground with a quiet thud.
The swirling mist inside it surged, reaching up—into him. It flowed into his body, burning across his veins and nerves. His vision whited out. For a second, everything stopped. Sound. Time.
His left hand pulsed. Blackness from across his skin flooded toward it, converging into a single shape—a long, elegant quill pen formed from white lines atop his skin.
Then came the words. Foreign to him, yet he understood them. Not spoken aloud, but etched into the core of his being:
Awakening achieved.
Strive for balance, or sink into the Abyss.
Profession gained: Designer.
More words poured into Suren's mind—symbols, meanings, strange knowledge—but he paid them no heed. He and Rickon stared at each other, then at the mark glowing on Suren's hand… then at the now-clear Awakening Stone lying in the dirt.
A sudden yank on their chains snapped them out of it.
"What are you two waiting for, your chance on the cutting board?" Tinkwick barked, hurling a raw ore chunk at a demon and splattering its head in an explosion of black gore. "Run, damn it!"
Rickon grabbed the clear stone as he sprinted forward, catching up to the gnome. Suren followed, his heart pounding, legs burning.
They fled deeper into the plains. Neither dared look back—until Suren did.
He turned.
On the hill, amidst black fire and chaos, he saw it—the demon. Towering, calm. It held the Overseer like a child's doll, lifting him by the neck. Then, with its free hand, it began to carve—symbols glowing with twisted meaning etched into living flesh. The Overseer screamed, but the demon only smiled… and tossed him to the waiting swarm.
The smaller demons tore him apart, feasting.
Suren's face went pale. He turned away, bile rising in his throat.
They kept running. The whispers faded as they put distance between themselves and the hill. The landscape began to return to normal—the tar receded, the ground softened, the plains resumed their golden hue. But they didn't stop. Not until they could no longer tell which hill had once held the mine. Not until the nightmare behind them became lost in the sameness of the horizon.
They finally stopped beneath a gnarled tree, collapsing into the shade. All three were drenched in sweat, panting heavily. Tinkwick, now able to breathe, glanced at Suren's hands—and noticed the Awakening Stone.
"Let me see that," he said, snatching it from Suren's palm.
He held it up to the sunlight, turning it slowly between his fingers. It was clear now—translucent as clean glass—save for a single jagged crack marring one side.
"What profession did you get? What skills?" Tinkwick demanded, eyes suddenly sharp with hope as he grabbed Suren's wrist and examined the Mark etched into his skin.
"I… got the profession Designer. But I don't know how to check for skills," Suren admitted.
Tinkwick groaned. "Idiot. Just focus on your Mark. It holds all the information passed to you. Think of it, like knocking on a locked door." He jabbed Suren in the chest with a stubby finger. "Go on!"
"Okay, okay! Stop poking me," Suren said, brushing his hand away. He closed his eyes and concentrated, trying to sense the strange presence beneath his skin.
It took effort—but eventually, something responded. A soft flicker of awareness in his mind.
Congratulations. You have gained the following skills:
Architectural Design: Allows you to draw design plans for buildings with special characteristics.
Design Synchronization: Each rank allows you to synchronize with one of your constructed designs, gaining abilities based on its traits.
Name: Suren
Title: —
Rank: Initiate
Profession: Designer
Skills: Architectural Design, Design Synchronization
He blinked, surprised at how clearly the information had appeared once he'd focused.
"I can draw buildings with special effects… and later I can, like, sync with them to gain powers based on the design," Suren explained aloud.
Tinkwick's expression turned grim. The hopeful spark in his eyes flickered and died.
"We're screwed," he muttered.
"What? What's wrong with it?" Suren asked. He tried to hide his own disappointment—he'd secretly hoped for something like Magic Knight, something with weapons, power… something useful.
Tinkwick didn't answer right away. Instead, he kicked a loose stone and dropped heavily onto the grass, grumbling.
"If you'd awakened a combat profession," he said bitterly, "we could've gone straight to a city. You'd be a high-ranking citizen. Respected. Safe."
He hurled a small rock into the bushes. "But no… You had to get a non-combat profession. Useful in theory, sure, but the world doesn't care about theory when demons are eating people. You'll be seen as dead weight at best—or a resource to be owned at worst."
He looked up at the sky, defeated. "We'll be lucky if we're not captured and sold to some slaver-lord to design fortresses in the middle of nowhere."
Then, quieter: "My castle… my maids…"