There was no sky—only a canvas of cracked shadow stretching into a ceilingless void. The ground breathed underfoot, not with warmth, but with an aching cold that pulsed faintly, as if some sleeping god's heartbeat echoed through the stone. Code Seven stood still, breathing the air of the Infinite Planes quietly for the first time.
It tasted wrong.
Metallic, sharp, like iron dust carried by invisible currents.
His breath fogged. Not from cold. From pressure. The kind that pressed against skin and soul alike. There were no welcome signs. No guides. No second chances.
This was the Infinite Planes.
And he was utterly alone.
He scanned his surroundings. The land stretched in all directions, carved into jagged ridges and unnatural valleys, like something alive had clawed its way across the surface in a frenzy. There was no vegetation—only stalks of black crystal rising at uneven angles, pulsing faintly with red light from deep within. They made no sound. Yet when he passed near one, he could feel it watching him.
Seven kept walking.
The mark on his soul still burned faintly from when it was branded—when the Infinite Planes had accepted his presence. He didn't know what it meant. Only that from the moment it happened, the world had changed around him. The lab, the guards, the chase—it had all become a blur once he stepped through.
He moved with caution. Every muscle primed. He had no weapons save for a jagged scalpel from the lab and the instincts drilled into his body from birth. The white facility coat he still wore now bore streaks of dried blood—scientists, guards, even one unlucky Striker who tried to stop him. It was a miracle he'd survived the escape.
But here, miracles didn't matter.
Only survival did.
The silence was unnatural. Not peaceful. Ominous. Even the sound of his own footsteps faded quickly, swallowed by the vastness. There was no wind. No birds. No sun.
Just the slow, distant thrum of something massive... somewhere.
He kept his pace slow, eyes constantly scanning. He knew better than to rest. The Striker conditioning made sure of that—rest was earned, not taken. His heart rate stayed level. Muscles relaxed, yet ready to coil at a moment's notice.
Then he saw it.
His first real test.
A ridge of jagged obsidian arced upward like a crescent moon shattered into stone. At its peak, something moved—a beast, tall and spindly, its body an emaciated coil of limbs and bone. Skin stretched too tightly. No eyes. Just a slit of a mouth that opened slightly as it turned toward him.
Seven stopped.
The creature cocked its head. Then it leapt.
It cleared twenty meters in a single bound, hurling itself down the slope, claws dragging sparks along the crystalized stone. Its mouth opened wide—far wider than its skull should allow.
Seven didn't hesitate.
He blinked.
[VOIDSTEPS ACTIVATED]
A flash of black. Space twisted.
Seven reappeared ten paces to the side, letting the creature crash into where he had stood. It skidded, twisted mid-air, and turned back with a screech like metal grating against bone.
Seven didn't waste the momentum. He rushed in—low, knife ready.
He wasn't a warrior.
He was a weapon.
The scalpel wasn't much, but he didn't aim to kill with the blade. He aimed to cripple. A slash across the knee-joint. A jab under the rib. The creature howled, swiping wildly.
Seven ducked, slid beneath its arm, and rammed the scalpel into the soft membrane beneath its jaw.
It spasmed.
Twitched.
Then collapsed.
Seven stepped back, blood steaming on his hands.
He waited.
Thirty seconds.
No movement.
He exhaled slowly.
Still alive.
Still ash.
---
The creature lay still, but Code Seven did not relax. His muscles stayed tense, ready for anything. The blood on his hands was cold and sticky, smeared across his coat. The strange land stretched endlessly in every direction, filled with black crystals that caught the faint, scattered light from some hidden source. The silence pressed down on him. Here, quiet was never safe.
He needed to keep moving.
His stomach growled low, but he ignored it. Hunger was a danger, but not the one that would kill him today.
Carefully, he stepped over broken shards and uneven ground, wary of every sound. The earth sometimes seemed alive beneath his feet, as if it watched him.
After many hours, Seven came across a low stone wall covered with strange, glowing symbols. They shimmered softly, their meaning lost to him. But something inside whispered that they mattered.
He reached out and touched the cold surface. The symbols pulsed faintly under his fingers, warmth creeping into his chest.
It was small—just a quiet energy that slipped inside him. Nothing to shout about, but enough to remind him he was alive in this vast place.
He pulled back and kept walking.
The dark sky deepened as time passed, though there was no sun or moon to mark it. The crystals around him glowed gently, casting pale light across the sharp landscape.
Seven found shelter beneath a twisted crystal tree. It was cold and hard, but safer than open ground. He curled into himself, trying to push away the hunger and fear.
Sleep did not come easy.
The silence stretched on until a voice shattered it—loud and clear across the endless planes.
[UNIVERSAL ANNOUNCEMENT: "OBSIDIAN RANKER 'IRON TALON' HAS CLEARED THE WARDEN'S LABYRINTH."]
Seven's eyes snapped open.
The voice echoed everywhere at once, reaching every corner.
He did not know Iron Talon, but the message was a reminder: powerful beings hunted here, far beyond his reach.
He pressed his back against the cold roots and stayed still.
He was nothing but ash.
The night passed slowly. When dawn's strange light filtered through the crystal branches, Seven stood again. His limbs ached from hunger and exhaustion, but he forced himself onward.
He spotted ruins ahead — a broken tower wrapped in glowing veins of frozen energy.
At the base, a faint sigil shimmered in the stone, but it did not respond to his touch.
It was a warning. This place belonged to someone, or something, far beyond his strength.
He moved on.
Days stretched into weeks. Seven learned to move silently, to watch and listen without being seen. He hunted small creatures, his kills desperate fights for survival.
The hunger never left him.
One night, in the weak light of crystal stars, Seven found a small cave. Inside were broken relics, their power faded with time.
He touched one relic and felt a faint pulse of energy—not enough to call power, but enough to spark hope.
He kept the relic with him.
He began practicing small rituals, simple ones he found in scattered texts and scraps. They took time and materials—precious resources here—and their effects were weak, but they helped him survive.
He kept his original sigil close, using it only when necessary.
Every step was slow and careful.
Seven understood he was far from any great power.
But even ash could burn.