THE STORY CONTINUES.
Night in the moon world never softened—it only watched.
The abandoned storage chamber had changed. What was once a dust-choked concrete room now glowed faintly orange, light pulsing through cracks in welded scrap metal.
Armin stood shirtless before a crude furnace he had built from scavenged steel drums, broken radiators, and heat-resistant tiles stolen from the base's lower levels.
Fire roared.
Not magic.
Not mana.
Real fire. Hunger-fed. Dangerous.
The youngsters—John, George, Ethan, Marcus, Leo, Ryan, Cole, Noah, and Victor—stood at a distance, eyes reflecting flame. Their modern clothes were stained with soot and sweat. Their hands were blistered. Their breaths uneven.
This wasn't training.
This was labor.
Armin lifted a chunk of salvaged alloy—something between industrial steel and unknown composite—and dropped it into the furnace. Sparks screamed upward.
"This world doesn't allow mana," Armin said calmly, voice steady over the roar. "No qi. No spells. No blessings."
He turned to them.
"But it allows pain. Heat. Pressure. Time."
The metal began to glow.
"I can still shape things."
He pulled the molten piece out with makeshift tongs and slammed it onto an anvil—an old engine block welded upright.
CLANG.
The sound echoed through the base like a heartbeat.
"You'll use weapons suited for this world," Armin continued. "Crowbars reforged into blades. Rebar turned into spears. Tools that won't break when fear makes your hands shake."
CLANG. CLANG.
Each strike was precise. Controlled. Not angry.
"I've studied the base library," he said. "Old engineering manuals. Etching guides.
Primitive rune theory."
The boys exchanged looks.
Victor swallowed. "But… runes need magic."
Armin nodded. "Yes."
Then his eyes darkened.
"And no."
He quenched the metal in oil. Steam screamed.
"Runes are not spells," Armin said. "They are patterns. Meaning carved into matter. In Fantasia, mana activates them."
He carved a shallow symbol into the cooling blade—simple, angular.
"In this world," he continued, "you activate them."
John frowned. "How?"
Armin met his gaze.
"Blood. Will. Trauma. Focus."
Silence fell.
"That's dangerous," Marcus said quietly.
Armin didn't deny it. "So is living here unarmed."
He set the finished weapon down—a short cleaver-like blade, heavy and brutal.
"This is not for killing monsters," Armin said. "This is for surviving the moment you freeze."
He straightened.
"And speaking of survival…"
His gaze shifted toward the reinforced door leading outside the base.
"…it's time you learn how to hunt."
The hunt was not glorious.
They moved through ruined streets bathed in eternal moonlight. Buildings stood intact but hollow—cars rusted mid-road, traffic lights blinking endlessly to no one.
Armin led from the front, posture low, senses sharp.
"No shouting," he whispered. "No heroics. Observe first."
A creature crawled along the side of an apartment block—canine, elongated, too many joints. A lesser moonspawn.
Ryan trembled. "That thing killed three people last week."
Armin nodded. "Good. Then you remember why we don't hesitate."
He handed the newly forged blade to Ethan.
"You," he said. "Strike when it turns."
Ethan's hands shook violently.
The creature sniffed the air.
Turned.
Ethan screamed—and swung.
The blade bit.
Not clean.
Not perfect.
But enough.
The creature collapsed, thrashing.
Armin finished it with a steel spike through the skull.
Breathing echoed.
No cheers.
No celebration.
Just survival.
Day broke.
Which meant return.
The world twisted.
The moon bled into sunlight.
And Armin was back in Fantasia.
Morning in Fantasia smelled like earth and iron.
Armin woke on a straw mattress in the town barracks. His body ached differently here—mana channels burning, qi sluggish but present.
He rolled out of bed.
Routine.
Morning patrol with Alfred.
Weapon drills with Simon.
Repairing damaged armor.
Listening to merchants argue over losses and profits.
The town was rebuilding.
Slowly.
Armin helped where he could. He reforged tools. Reinforced gates. Studied rune manuals that now felt… incomplete.
Because his mind kept drifting back.
To moonlight.
To children holding weapons too heavy for their hands.
At night, he sat alone, carving symbols into scrap metal—not runes for mana.
Runes for endurance.
For focus.
For not breaking.
When night fell again—
The moon world reclaimed him.
And the training intensified.
Running drills through fog-choked streets.
Weapon disarms.
Pain tolerance.
Learning to move silently with fear screaming in their chests.
Night by night, they stopped being victims.
They started becoming awake.
And Armin?
He didn't feel like a savior.
He felt like a man wandering between worlds, paying a debt he didn't fully understand yet.
A debt written not in prophecy—
But in survival.
The hunt had begun.
And purpose…
was no longer a question.
It was a direction.
TO BE CONTINUED.