Aren considered his options. Fighting in the open didn’t seem like an option. This exposed, he would be surrounded in no time. He partly regretted not bringing a weapon with him from the ones that were looted from the orcs, but it wouldn’t have served him well. Perhaps he could pull off a few techniques before such an expensive item was reduced to nothing but molten slag. No, fighting was not an option. But apparently, escape was not an option after all. It was as if the world was mocking him.

The thread of fate glimmered in his vision, iridescent but different from the usual death line. There was no other way.

He channeled his internal reservoir of Lightning Energy. A thunderclap followed and sparks of lightning were left in his trail as he became a lightning bolt and disappeared deeper into the tunnels, towards the destination that the thread of fate was leading him to.

He calmed himself. He pushed away the failure to escape from his mind. There was no victory for him if he tucked his tail between his legs and ran, anyway. There was no future. The only outcomes here were either death or whatever it was the thread of fate was leading him towards.

Fang and the others were still offline, and though he pondered hiding and waiting for them, he had a terrible feeling about such an action. He could not explain it — the dread and warning he felt when he thought about this did not originate in the part of his mind that belonged to him alone. It originated from the part that was entirely Leviathan’s. A dark, sinister feeling rose within Aren’s stomach. What did the AGMI want to show Aren, that it probably did not want the others to see? Or perhaps there was another reason why he received such an unspecific warning?

He could not [Flash] very far. Not in this darkness. Without the death line, he had to see where he was going if he wanted to [Flash] to it. It did not feel like it was a limitation of the technique, but his own body. His subconscious no doubt feared what would happen if he slammed into an obstacle when moving at those speeds. He recalled what happened to Rider, when he slammed into a stone building while using his version of [Flash].

The moment he appeared, a shadow wolf in front of him lunged. Its form was more discorporated shadow than anything cohesive; it looked like a tendril of smoke. Aren had no time to channel another [Lightning Cleaver] and instead he managed to barely side-step the creature, and strike its torso with his flattened palm — more to push it away than anything else. He did not even have the opportunity to finish it off, as there were two more shadow creatures waiting for him, their jaws dripping with a black liquid that produced smoke as it dripped on the stone floor.

The shadow wolf he struck impacted the wall and burst into smoke. Like a coalescing cloud, the wolf reformed, facing Aren, and lunged again, growling. That time, Aren had no choice but to take the blow.

[Injury sustained: Severity: Moderate wound.]

His pants were cut open, and a long gash poured with blood down the side of his thigh. He only barely managed to avoid taking the full brunt of the blow, but it was not enough; the claws took away one of the few advantages he had in combat.

A [Surge] of electricity created a cloak around him that repelled and shocked the creatures, buying him the space he needed to channel another [Flash]. He could not afford to fight in the open. If there was no option other than to fight, then he had to find some other place. A dead end, or a narrow chamber where he could sacrifice his mobility advantage — which he no longer had — so long as he could force the creatures to come at him one by one.

That was the only way.

He couldn’t use [Lightning Divider] without a weapon, and he did not have throwing knives for [Lightning Driver]. His Lightning Blade techniques were largely useless without a weapon, and even then, their usefulness was limited without at least a shadowblade. At the very least, he could use [Flash]; that was the only saving grace in this situation. But for how much longer?

Again, he appeared in a shower of electrical sparks, and this time, thankfully, the creatures were far behind him, but he could sense something ahead of him. It wasn’t right in front of him, or even close, but it was there somewhere. This feeling was unlike anything he had ever experienced before, and it felt as if he was drawn to it. His mouth felt dry. His throat was parched. He could almost taste its death.

It was a Calamity, Aren realized. Or perhaps whatever the system of Singularity defined as a Local Threat. Aren simply knew; perhaps as part of his unlocked Calamity powers. He simply knew.

It took him several crucial moments to suppress the desire to go towards where he felt this creature to be and to instead focus on the thread of fate. It led in a different direction. Aren peered down the hallway, but could not see very far. With the shadow creatures hot on his tail, he used another [Flash].

The wound on his left leg was getting worse, and although he didn’t use his legs to move when he used [Flash], the stress of moving at such high speeds was causing the wound debuff to get worse and worse.

Even though he was calm, and his morale was high, he knew that he was running out of rope to hang himself with. In the worst case scenario, Aren considered how he might circle back to the exit, but he had no idea what precisely “while enemies are present” meant. He hoped it was a proximity thing.

But more than anything, as foolish as it may sound, Aren believed. Was it possible for AGMI to be cruel and to toy with humans? Maybe. Highly unlikely, but still maybe. AGMI were calculating entities. The only reason there was no war in the age of AGMI was because there would be no winners — only losers. They would never pick a fight they couldn’t win. Aren hoped they would also never send a human into a situation that had no positive outcome.

Coming out of the [Flash] Aren stumbled. His left leg reached its tolerance limit and could support his weight no longer. He spun around and then he caught a glimpse of the ceiling as he crashed onto the floor, further aggravating his existing injuries. It hurt. Luckily, it didn’t feel as if he had twisted his ankle, but that was the extent of all the luck he would have.

As Aren scrambled up, at least into a sitting position, a pair of red eyes lunged out from the darkness, straight at him. Massive, shadow-formed jaws clamped around his defensively raised right arm, and his own blood splashed onto his face. Aren screamed.

[Injury sustained. Severity: Moderate wound.]

The pain was surreal. Why would anyone create a world like this? What kind of masochist played this kind of game?

The shadow-wolf shook its head, throwing Aren to the ground as if he was but a little ragdoll filled with cotton. All Aren could do was scream helplessly as the creature tried to tear his arm off.

Dragged on the floor, Aren caught a glimpse of what was further ahead in the tunnel. A stone door with an intricate design on its surface. Next to the door stood a golden suit of armor. He didn’t know why it caught his eye, but Aren reached out to it, as if regretting how close he came to his destination.

He was so close. Just a bit more.

His mind rebounded from the possibility of failure and his buffer went into recovery mode as he created one more [Lightning Cleaver] — as if it was one final act of defiance. He plunged his lightning-shrouded hand into the neck of the monster, piercing all the way through to the center of its chest. The tips of his fingers brushed against the vestige core within the monster’s center, and then his fingers closed around it. In a spray of blood, he ripped out the core and the monster burst into smoke.

Using the wall, he managed to bring himself to a stand, and then, dragging himself against the wall, he slowly advanced. He reached with his hand towards the door. It was the only thing that mattered now. The howls and growls became louder and closer behind him. They were almost upon him now, a pack of monsters that would tear him to shreds within moments.

Aren understood now why the frontier was so difficult to push back; if it was filled with monsters like these, who would be mad enough to challenge their domain? Foolishly, Aren thought that intelligent creatures — like orcs and adventurers — were his predator. How wrong he was. Oh how he had underestimated the simplest creations of nature’s brutality. They didn’t fear death or injury — they couldn’t even be killed through normal means. After just a few encounters, Aren had so many wounds that even if his buffer was in a usable state, there was probably nothing else he could do.

This was the end of the road, figuratively and literally. There was but a door before him — a dead-end like he had wished for — and a pack of ravenous monstrosities behind him.

A door? Didn’t Fang mention a door? Could it be?

“Don’t do this, honored one,” a hollow voice came from the suit of armor as Aren reached for the door. “This door must never be opened.”

Aren’s eyes were half-lidded. He felt so tired and weak. Considering the amount of blood he had lost so far, surely, he was reaching the critical point at which death was possible by means other than a fatal strike. He didn’t even look at the suit of armor. All he saw was the door.

“On the orders of my master, I have guarded this door for years without number,” the suit of armor said, but made no move to interfere with Aren. It also made no move to interfere with the monsters behind Aren. “I throw away my Knight’s pride and honor, and beg you, honored one: Do not open this door.”

Aren fell to his knees, and from there, he slid against the wall until even the strength in his thighs evaporated. He just couldn’t move, whether he wanted to or not. Even under the influence of his buffer, all he could think about was taking a rest. Just one moment with closed eyes.

His consciousness began to fade. Darkness encroached.

On the fraying edge of his perception, he heard a low impact and then a sharp yell. Almost against his will, he cracked an eye open and saw a barrier of blood materialize in front of him. A mist — scarlet red — poured in from the cracks in the door, forming the barrier that protected him. Then the barrier burst and launched like shrapnel into the darkness of the tunnels, and Aren heard countless yelps and snarls.

Tendrils of flowing blood snaked from underneath the door and entwined Aren’s limbs, dragging him towards the door which slowly began to open. Aren stared at the door, where his bloody handprint was still visible.

When did he…?

The shadow-like creatures lunged after Aren, no doubt trying to grab him before he crossed that threshold. But the creature closest to Aren was suddenly shrouded in black, surreal flames that held within them glittering points like all the stars in the night sky. The flames dissolved the shadow-creature, until nothing but its vestige core remained.

Perhaps sensing a greater threat — an apex predator — the shadow-creatures retreated into the darkness that gave them life.

“I see,” the suit of armor spoke in its hollow, metallic tone. “If this is what you truly wished for, then, in accordance with the Gestalt Mandate, I won’t stop you, Code.”

The suit of armor began to discorporate into threads of golden light, but even so, it turned towards Aren, as he was dragged over the threshold.

“But remember this; even though in life I was a Knight and aspired to become a Code, sworn to protect my people, I still watched, for eons, the decline of civilization. My duty was greater than my oath to humanity. I even disobeyed the covenant of the Gods,” the suit of armor said, its voice growing fainter and more distant. “If you truly care about this world — and not just this world — you will abandon your goals and remain trapped within forever.”

The door slowly began to close behind Aren, as the last remnants of the guardian began to disappear.

“Wait…” Aren whispered. He felt so weak, but with the last shred of willpower he possessed, he willed himself to speak. He had to know.

Code. Gestalt Mandate. He had heard those words before. Could it be? That was simply unthinkable.

“Who… are… you?” Aren asked, as the darkness swallowed his consciousness.

In the darkness, he could hear the faint echo of the guardian’s words.

“In life I was given the name Deucalion. Now my watch comes to an end, and I return to the stream of consciousness that gave me life. I was born nameless and unknown, and I shall disappear, nameless and forgotten.” The voice became but a hushed whisper on the limits of Aren’s perception, and to Aren, it sounded as if it was full of sorrow and perhaps regret.

And then, somehow, Aren replied. And not just reply, but his voice was clear and steady, devoid of any fatigue or weakness. He spoke surely and confidently:

“You will not be forgotten, Deucalion. Know this: I have witnessed the final moments of the great hero of Eos, who despite being born into poverty and violence, rose to the challenges of his times; who, despite his heroic desires, took on a thankless duty to guard the future eras of Man, and performed this duty until his very end. I promise you this: I will restore your homeland and raise a monument to you, so that your fable may live on forever — in this world, and the other. One day, you will be born again, to obtain the future you could never have in this life.”

Those words certainly came from Aren, but not from his mind. Those words were Leviathan’s.

[Your reputation with Deucalion has improved to Friendship.]

There was silence, and then a faint rustle.

“Thank you.”