Lexel opened his eyes.
There was no sky. There was no ground. There was only a swirling, sickening kaleidoscope of raw color—violet, crimson, and absolute black—spinning around them at speeds that defied comprehension.
He saw his two brothers, Seleron and Myda, floating ahead of him into the nothingness. They were tumbling, weightless, like leaves caught in a hurricane.
[DANGER]
All three of them received the warning in their notifications simultaneously. It flashed red, pulsing in rhythm with the chaotic heartbeat of the void.
"What in the..." Lexel gasped. The air—if it was air—tasted like ozone and burnt sugar.
He looked up. Or perhaps forward. Directions had ceased to mean anything.
A giant torrent had formed ahead of them. It was a funnel of pure, destructive force, a dimensional riptide that was dragging them deeper into its maw. This was the instability Yggdrasil had warned them about. The portal hadn't just closed; it had collapsed while they were inside the throat of the beast.
"Hold on tight!" Lexel screamed, his voice swallowed by the roaring wind.
He scrambled through the emptiness, swimming through the gravity-less void. He managed to grab a hold of Myda's left foot and Seleron's right foot.
"Grab each other!"
Seleron and Myda, realizing the danger, reached out and locked arms. They formed a desperate, human chain against the cosmic storm.
"AAAHHHHH!"
The three screamed out as they entered the torrential flux. The pressure was immense. It felt like the weight of a mountain was pressing in from all sides, trying to crush them into a single point of existence. Their clothes whipped violently, the sturdy adventurer tunics tearing at the seams.
"Myda!!! What's going on!!" Lexel shouted, his eyes squinting against the blinding lights passing them by.
"The fuck should I knowww!!" Myda shouted back, his face pale, his usually calm demeanor shattered. "I'm an Alchemist, not a fucking god! Fuck me, are we going to die?! We just survived the Black Knight!"
"You're slipping, Lexel!" Seleron shouted, looking down. His grip on Myda's arm was iron-tight, but Lexel's grip on their boots was slick with sweat and the sheer G-force of the spin.
"For the record," Lexel roared, his teeth gritted, his jaw straining, "IT'S FUCKING HARD TO GRAB A HOLD ON TO YOUR LEG IN THE MIDDLE OF A FUCKING TORNADO!!"
The torrent roared in response, drowning out their voices.
[DANGER]
"AAAAHHH!!!"
The three of them were completely at the mercy of the torrent. They twisted and spun, a chaotic tumble through the dimensional wake.
Then, the "wind" changed.
A violent gust—a rejection from the world they were trying to enter—slammed into them from the side. It was like being hit by a titan's hammer.
It separated them.
Lexel's fingers slipped. The boot leather tore from his grasp.
Time seemed to slow down. The roar of the wind faded into a dull, thrumming silence. Lexel watched, helpless, as he was thrown backward, away from his brothers.
He saw Seleron hurtling to the left. A tear in the chaos opened up—a jagged, shadowy rift that looked like the entrance to a dark abyss. Seleron vanished into it, swallowed by the darkness.
He saw Myda hurtling to the right. A swirling, green vortex, smelling faintly of ancient forests and rain, opened up to receive him. Myda flailed, reaching out, before he too was consumed.
"Brothers!" Lexel shouted.
He reached out his hand, grasping at the empty space where his family had been just seconds ago. His fingers curled around nothing but the cold, biting void.
He couldn't see the third rift opening behind him.
It was a shiny arc of light, bright and blinding. It didn't look like a portal; it looked like a crack in the ceiling of the world.
Lexel tumbled backward. The light swallowed him whole.
His consciousness faded into white.
- The Fourth World.
The plains were calm and quiet.
The contrast to the dimensional torrent was jarring. Here, the sky was an impossibly clean blue, stretched wide over rolling hills of vibrant green. The clouds were at their purest white, drifting lazily like cotton ships. A small, shallow river flowed through the grassland, its crystal-clear water bubbling over smooth stones, entertaining the small fish that breathed inside.
It was peaceful. It was idyllic.
A stone's throw away from the river sat a village. It was a classic frontier settlement, the kind found in stories. It was filled with the expected life of a fantasy world: adventurers checking their gear, farmers hauling carts of grain, a small, rundown guild hall with a peeling sign, and the Mayor's estate on the hill.
And, of course, the blacksmith's hut.
Inside the blacksmith's workshop, the air was thick with heat and the smell of hot iron. The heavy wooden doors were closed, shielding the interior from the public view. This was a private sanctuary of creation.
A woman stood by the anvil.
She was a beauty of a rugged, powerful kind. She wore a tight, soot-stained black tank top that clung to her skin, and heavy leather gloves that went up to her elbows. Her hair was the color of rich chestnuts, tied up in a messy, practical bun to keep it from the flames, though a few stray strands stuck to her damp forehead.
She had vibrant green eyes, round as plates and sharp with focus. Her brows were naturally fierce, giving her a look of constant determination. Her arms were visibly trained, the muscles defined and corded, flexing with every movement. She was not a delicate flower; she was forged from the same steel she worked.
Her bust was voluptuous, her nipples poking through the thin black fabric of her tank top, a detail that went unnoticed by no one but herself in the privacy of her forge. She had worked up quite a sweat. The heat from the furnace licked over the lid, illuminating her glistening skin in flashes of orange and red.
She was in the zone.
One hand held the heavy crafting hammer. The other held a sword—a masterpiece in progress—steady above the anvil with a pair of tongs.
Clang.
She smashed the hammer down once.
A particle of magic—a blue spark—flew from the impact. It wasn't just hitting metal; it was infusing it.
Clang.
She pounded another one. It sparked again. Like a master craftsman creating tiny, controlled fireworks with every strike. The rhythm was hypnotic. Clang. Spark. Clang. Spark.
She wiped her brow with the back of her arm, leaving a smudge of soot, and smiled.
It was finished.
She lifted the sword with the tongs. It was magnificent. The steel was mirror-like, polished to a shine that reflected her own sweating, triumphant face. It was still hot, radiating a dangerous, shimmering heat, but the shape was perfect. It was the finest blade she had crafted in months.
She held it up, admiring the edge, turning it slightly to catch the light from the furnace.
"Beautiful," she whispered.
She was completely unbeknownst to the distortion forming in the air directly above her head.
High up, near the rafters of the workshop ceiling, space began to warp. A shiny, emerald portal swirled open silently. It didn't roar like the vortex; it simply opened, like a trapdoor.
"Brother!"
A shout, filled with desperation and loss, echoed from the ceiling.
Lexel fell.
He didn't fall gracefully. He didn't land on his feet like a cat or a Cultivator. He tumbled out of the rift, gravity reasserting its hold on him with a vengeance. He was flailing, his hands still reaching out for Seleron and Myda.
He fell straight down.
Directly toward the blacksmith.
Directly toward the anvil.
Directly toward the newly crafted, razor-sharp, piping-hot sword that she was holding upright for inspection.
Time seemed to freeze. The blacksmith looked up, her green eyes widening as she saw a man—a dirty, semi-naked man in torn robes—falling from the sky inside her roof.
Lexel looked down, his eyes widening as he saw the blade.
There was no time to dodge. No time to activate a skill. No time to use [Will of Torga].
Gravity won.
SCHLICK.
"NGH?!"
The sound was wet. The sound was sharp.
Lexel's eyes bulged out of his head. His mouth opened in a silent scream that defied the capacity of human lungs.
The blade—the masterpiece, the mirror-polished steel—entered his right gluteus maximus with the ease of a hot knife through butter. It wasn't deep enough to be fatal, but it was deep enough to be the most painful thing he had ever experienced in his entire life.
Blood—bright red, arterial blood—sprayed out in a fine mist.
It coated the blacksmith's shocked face. It splattered across her black tank top. It stained the pristine, mirror-like finish of the sword she had just perfected.
"Eh?"
The blacksmith blinked, the blood warm on her cheek. The hammer slipped from her hand and fell to the floor with a dull thud.
She looked up.
She saw a man. He was dangling there, his legs twitching, effectively sitting on her sword.
Lexel trembled. His vision went white. The heat of the blade was cauterizing the wound even as it cut him. The pain was absolute. It was a pain that transcended realms.
He looked at the woman. He registered the chestnut hair. He registered the green eyes. He registered, even in his agony, the voluptuous curve of her chest in the black tank top.
Boobs... his brain fired one last, dying neuron.
Then, his eyes rolled back into his head.
Lexel slumped forward, his body going limp, impaled on the sword like a grotesque, tragic shish-kebab.
He was unconscious before he even hit the floor.