Everything was pitch black, but if he could see in this darkness, he would have noticed the crookedly stretching trees surrounding him, and the charming flowers with five thorny petals. Sometimes the flowers would prick his feet—not pleasant at all, since the petals were as sharp as daggers.
The grass, too, was unusually tough, and the bark of the trees almost stone-like. The reason everything here was so rigid was simple: there was no proper water source. Instead of water, there was something else—black ink.
We call it ink. Probably not. It's just that it looks so much like ink that it's called ink because it stains everything black. The humidity in the air and the puddles on the ground are all caused by this black ink.
But this wasn't why everything was so dark.
Any source of light would attract titans—or worse, dhunes. And as a child, he could only handle level 1 dhunes—the weakest. Level 2? Difficult, but survivable. Level 3? Survival was possible, but injuries were certain. Level 4? Anything beyond level 3 meant it wasn't a dhune anymore—it was a titan. And a titan... meant death.
He walked the path he took every day, the crunch of brittle grass beneath his feet marking his passage.
He kept walking, accompanied by the sound of ink dripping and grass cracking like dry twigs. Finally, he arrived.
This was his favorite place.
He stepped beyond the trees and the harsh grass, onto stone, and sat at the cliff's edge. His feet dangled over the precipice. The view was stunning—this was a transition point to the central region.
The area close to the cliff was dry and barren, more stone than soil. Beyond the cliff, vegetation lost its toughness—because there was no ink there. It was a land stripped bare by drought. The reason was visible if one simply looked to the horizon.
Far off in the distance, he saw a desert wrapped in a massive veil of mist. Through rare gaps in the fog, ruins of old buildings were barely visible—perhaps an empire once lived there. In the very center of the desert, dead center on the horizon, a bright, sun-like light shone. Though he couldn't see its source, the light was said to be the "Sun of the Undergarden."
The Sun of the Undergarden lit the whole realm as if it were a true sun. But not much light reached this place—the western region, commonly called the Inksworn Depths. It only brightened for a few hours a day.
He had never been to the desert. It was unknown territory. Still, part of him always wanted to go—just to experience what it would be like to spend a whole day in brightness.
No one really knew what the Sun of the Undergarden was, but the gigantic metallic tendrils sprouting from its center were widely known. These tendrils emitted intense heat for two hours every day. That's why the lands surrounding them were so dry. He had even used them to cook once or twice.
After scanning the endless desert, he tilted his head up and gazed at the ceiling of the Undergarden. The view wasn't as breathtaking as below, but it was fascinating in its own way.
This realm was called the Undergarden. Every three years, a portal would open between the world above and here. These portals were called Monoliths—massive stone pillars covered in arcane inscriptions, rectangular in shape. They stayed open for one month and then sealed again, not to open for another three years.
He had never seen a Monolith. Nor did he want to.
That's why there was a ceiling here—this wasn't the surface. There was no sky. In fact, he wasn't even sure what a sky really was. A world with no ceiling? A real sun? What would those things even look like?
'I bet they're beautiful.'
Here, though, there was a ceiling. The place resembled a vast cavern, and depending on the biome, the ceiling varied. The ceiling of the Inksworn Depths, for example, had special white crystals that shimmered all at once during specific hours of the day, lighting the entire western region. This light only lasted five hours.
When the light came, the monsters fled. They hated it. Dhunes and titans alike would retreat from every light source they encountered—and when they couldn't, they would cower in confusion.
Except one.
A seventh-level titan. The baron of the west. The wild hunter of the Inksworn Depths.
What little was known about this one was already more than what people knew of the others. Each region had a single seventh-level titan—a primary predator. The titan of the western region was a terrifying, motionless bird latched onto the ceiling. When the world was dark, it was invisible. But when the light returned... you couldn't understand how you ever missed it. Its size was beyond comprehension. It never touched the ground. It waited—waited for some fool to wake it. If none came, it would feast on whatever creatures the light revealed. It was insatiable.
Sometimes, it was said, it would lower one massive hand from the ceiling to snatch prey from the ground. No one ever described its appearance in detail. All anyone ever said was: it was a bird. A terrible one.
Thankfully, the western region was vast. Encounters with it were rare.
The boy raised a pale hand before his eyes.
His skin was bone-white—almost sickly—but he was still human. His hair was black, too—and so were his eyes. Well, almost. They were now the darkest brown imaginable.
In terms of physical appearance, he inherited this pale skin, black hair, and pitch-black eyes from his father, but... He didn't even want to think about it. He wanted to believe in his humanity.
He had lived in the border region between the Inksworn Depths and the central desert for as long as he could remember. Strangely, the dangerous creatures of the desert never crossed the border, just as those from the depths rarely ventured beyond. So, it was safe. Mostly.
He had just turned twelve. He lived here for a reason: he was searching for something. He hadn't found it yet, but he didn't believe he had another four years to spare—after all, he'd only been here for the last four.
Before that? He didn't want to think about it.
'Damn it, not again. I ruined the view with bad memories.'
As he tried to shake off the past and focus on the beautiful horizon, a sound came from behind—steps, splashing in ink.
The boy pressed a hand to the ground and stood quickly, drawing a dagger from his cloak. The blade was made from the tooth of a level 3 dhune. He hadn't killed it himself—it came from a corpse.
But as he turned and saw who had arrived, he relaxed—then blushed a little in embarrassment.
It was the only companion he had here. His dhune. His pet.
Standing before him was a massive wolf skull—a Soul Wolf. Where the ears should've been, skin and muscle were beginning to regrow. The body was very much alive, but the skull and legs were skeletal. Unlike a normal wolf, its feet were oversized and clawed—perfect for climbing mountains. No wonder he hadn't heard it approach.
Soul Wolves weren't common. In fact, they were rare. He had found this one as a pup, wounded and near death in a level 2 dhune's den.
He had saved it. And now, it had grown—already taller than 1.5 meters. It might even reach level 2 someday. No one really knew how these creatures leveled up. Most children shared the level of their companion. But there were cases where beasts evolved over time.
Still, all he had was outdated knowledge—four years old at best. He lived in isolation now. Maybe answers existed. But not for him.
Thanks to its noble bloodline, the Soul Wolf healed fast after eating—even from terrible wounds. Sometimes, it could ignite souls with white flame. Its head and legs had never recovered, though. The injuries were too old. Permanent. But it had grown used to it. This was normal now.
Its tail blazed with white fire—a trait of the species. Its eyes were white too. Well—not eyes. More like glowing white flames, nestled deep within the skull's sockets.
When the boy realized who it was, he hesitated, then called out, "Luo!" and jumped on the wolf.
That was its name—Luo.
He clung to the creature, and the creature licked his face in return. They kept each other alive. Luo protected him from monsters, and Yuel shared fish in return.
The boy wore a long cloak—far too large for someone his age. Its darkness seemed unnatural, thanks to an enchantment that made the inside pitch-black, even to the eye.
After a long embrace, he climbed on Luo's back. At twelve, he was still small enough to ride the giant wolf with ease. The wolf moved slowly—it knew the way. Morning had just come. He always visited the cliff first. Now, it was time to find food.
The silence was immense. The wolf's strange steps made no sound. With no other noise around, all they could hear was their own breathing. After the earlier light, his eyes had readjusted to the darkness—he could see clearly again. Four years here had sharpened his vision beyond most humans.
He didn't steer the wolf. Luo knew the way. He simply observed. Around them were crooked trees, brittle grass like wood, and puddles of ink. It wasn't boring—he never knew what might appear next.
After maybe ten or fifteen minutes, they arrived. A wide lake of ink stretched before them. He could see the opposite shore, but not the depths. This wasn't his favorite spot yet. They kept walking.
Eventually, they reached it—a massive tree, larger than the rest. The boy thought, 'Here it is,' and dismounted. He climbed the tree and crawled onto the branch that jutted out over the lake. He stopped when it grew too thin and drew a handmade fishing rod from his back.
Crafting it had been hard. He still had old failed attempts at home. But this rod had fed him well—and saved him during shortages. It was precious.
He didn't bait the hook.
Instead, he made a shallow cut on his left arm—on a patch of skin he didn't care about—and touched the blood to the hook.
'One, two, three, four, five. That should do.'
He quickly wrapped his arm in a small bandage. He always did this—meat was rare, and the beasts here would come even for the scent of blood. His own blood was easier to use—but it had to be cleaned fast. Some monsters would be drawn to it.
With everything ready, he cast the line forward with all his strength. Now, he had to wait. He was hungry. But patience was part of the game.
Luo had already wandered off. He did that sometimes. The boy would have to return home alone... but he'd save a fish for the wolf.
He was a good kid.