The Mistplanes had consumed entire expeditions before. Not in the way a battlefield did, leaving behind corpses and wreckage, but in a way that erased all evidence of existence itself. There were no ruins, no remnants, only fragmented records annd survivor recounts—of armies and scholars venturing into the mist and never returning—according to Osric.

  There were no ruins, no remnants, no recovered bodies. No one had ever returned with a full map of what lay beyond the mist. The only knowledge that existed came from reports—notes left behind before entire groups vanished, vague descriptions from those who had made it only a few hours inside before retreating and very few who navigated its depths and survived. Stories of a man who knew a man, who knew another man that had spent hours in the plains and survived.

  Liora had put it simply: “People don’t die here. They stop existing.”

  Alex had learned quickly that this world did not function like his last. Power belonged to those who took it, but even power had limits. The Mistplanes were one of those limits. Even the noble Houses—rulers of Serra, manipulators of war, wielders of relics that reshaped nations—treated this place as something beyond their control.

  The mist itself was thick with mana so dense it could be felt against skin, clinging to armor, filling the lungs like something more than air. The ground beneath them was stable, but not solid—not in the way it should be. It was old, shifting beneath an unseen weight, reacting to their presence—it held their weight, but something in the way it settled felt wrong. Not like stone. Not like earth. It was something different, pulling at perception like an unseen tide.

  According to Osric, this place is more than a geographic anomaly, he thought—It was a boundary. A scar left behind after the gods disappeared.

  Alex stood still, absorbing his surroundings. The space wasn’t stable, and the mist wasn’t mist. And if it didn’t want them to leave, it wouldn’t let them. The space reacted to them. It shifted, tracked, kept its distance and pulled close. It was watching their every move. It was a structured system. And systems, no matter how ancient, had rules.

  Osric exhaled, flexing his fingers as if testing the air. “Alright. We need to move. Now.”

  Liora turned slightly, her gaze sharp. “Because?”

  “Because we’re not supposed to be here,” Osric muttered, adjusting the strap of his bow. “And this place knows it.”

  Liora’s grip on her halberd shifted. “I’m going to assume there’s more to that.”

  Osric let out a breath, shaking mist from his sleeves. “You ever heard of anyone making it out of here?”

  Liora frowned. “Plenty of people claim they have.”

  Osric gave her a look. “And have you ever met one?”

  She didn’t answer.

  Alex tilted his head slightly. “That bad?”

  Osric let out a dry laugh. “The noble Houses fund entire armies out here.” He gestured vaguely at the mist. “And the Mistplanes still exist, unbanished. Ask yourself why.”

  Alex didn’t need to. The answer was obvious.

  “They can’t destroy it,” he said.

  Osric snapped his fingers. “Bingo.”

  Liora exhaled slowly. “Great. Love that. Fantastic.”

  Alex scanned the terrain, tracking what changed, what stayed the same, and what shouldn’t be here at all.

  The mist stirred. Not randomly—in response. The mistplanes isnt just grew thick, obscuring their vision beyond 5 metres.

  Liora exhaled sharply, her grip tightening around her halberd. “I hate this place.”

  Osric scoffed, scanning the fog. “Yeah, well, the feeling’s probably mutual.”

  Alex tracked the shifting mist, noting the subtle movements of mana. It wasn’t just a weather phenomenon—it was structured. The air itself pulled at the edges of reality, folding inward at points before spreading outward again, like an unseen narrator dictated its flow.

  “How long does it take to get out?” Alex asked.

  Osric flexed his fingers, testing the air. “If I force a breach, I can hold it for thirty seconds. After that, either we’re through, or the Mistplanes corrects the mistake and snaps it shut.”

  Liora frowned. “And if we’re halfway through when it closes?”

  Osric gave her a look.

  Liora sighed. “Right. Don’t let that happen.”

  They walked further, until Osric pulled back his sleeve, pressing his hand against the mist itself, feeling for the pull. A moment later, he jerked his hand back, wiping it against his armor like he’d touched something alive.

  “There,” he said, nodding forward. “Mana flow’s stronger in that direction. That’s where the breach has to be.”

  Alex had already marked it. The mist was denser there, its weight pressing against his senses, pulling at the space around it.

  Liora’s grip on her halberd tightened. “And let me guess. That means we’re heading straight into something worse?”

  Osric turned to look at her. “It’s never empty.”

  That was expected.

  Alex moved first.

  Toward the exit. According to the legends the two recounted, the Mistplanes had rules, and that was what made it so dangerous. One of the rules was that nothing left without a price.

  The mist shifted as they advanced, but not away from them—toward them. Slow at first. Then faster.

  Liora frowned. “That’s not good.”

  Osric swore under his breath. “Somethings coming.”

  “Then we don’t stop,” Alex said.

  Osric rolled his shoulders, tension in his movements. “If we slow down, we get pulled into low-mana zones.”

  Liora shot him a look. “And that’s worse?”

  Osric let out a short, dry laugh. “You want to be hunted for eternity?”

  She sighed. “Right.”

  Apex predators followed strength. If the highest concentration of mana marked an exit, it also meant something powerful had claimed it as its den.

  That was inevitable.

  Alex didn’t turn, but he could feel the shift. The air behind them was thinning—mana rising, space stretching. The mist was growing denser. The pull was heavier. The flow of mana was moving inward, not outward. Alex turned his head slightly, tracking the shift. They kept moving.

  A low vibration pulsed through the mist. Not a sound—a presence.

  The eruption came exactly when expected.

  High-mana zones meant Apex hunting grounds. Fewer predators. Less hunting, but stronger packs. The creatures weren’t coming. They were already there.

  Liora exhaled sharply. “It’s worse behind us, isn’t it?”

  Osric didn’t answer immediately. He was still facing forward. Not looking back. Liora clicked her tongue. “I don’t like that silence.”

  Osric summoned the strap of his siege-bow. “That’s because it’s not silence. It’s implied.”

  She muttered under her breath. “Everything in this stupid place is implied.”

  Alex sensed what they both anticipated.

  The mist ahead shifted, stretching unnaturally, warping into something that bent perception itself. Shapes moved within it—not fully formed, not yet real—but already watching. The density of mana pulled forward like an unseen current, guiding them toward what Osric had already identified as an exit.

  Alex adjusted his pace slightly, matching the way the mist pulsed in response to them, tracking them even as it reshaped itself.

  Shapes pulled from the fog, first liquid, then solid—bone-white talons extending from shifting vapor, taking form even as they lunged. Dozens emerged, first liquid, then solid—jagged talons extending outward before the limbs that carried them fully coalesced. The mist did not shift erratically nor swirl in chaotic patterns. It moved with purpose, condensing into distinct shapes, as if responding to unseen orders that dictated its structure. Each form pulled from liquid mana, hardening in fragments—first the skeletal framework, then the jagged talons, then the faceless, towering silhouettes of creatures that had never been human. Their bodies lacked full solidity, existing between the tangible and the conceptual, as if the idea of them had been forced into material form without ever fully belonging to it.

  The first of them fully emerged, taller than any man, limbs elongated past normal proportions, a torso stretched thin by the unnatural arrangement of its form. Its arms hung long, joints extending further than they should, bone-like protrusions jutting at uneven angles where mist had hardened mid-formation. The others followed in a procession of similar distortions—some massive, others hunched, their forms never fully stable, shifting between sharp clarity and partial dissolution. No eyes. No faces. Only mouthes and intent.

  They were surrounded.

  Liora exhaled through her nose. “So that’s what a Mistborn looks like.”

  They moved.

  Not rushed, not reacting—just forward, toward the exit. The creatures would attack. That was certain. But certainty made them predictable.

  One lunged.

  Alex caught it mid-motion, fingers closing around something that was both solid and not, his grip ignoring the inconsistency. It did not matter what the creature was. It had mass.

  He crushed its head.

  Liora spun her halberd in a downward arc, the blade biting through a talon before it had fully solidified. The impact disrupted its shape, forced it to reassemble mid-motion.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  “Good news,” she muttered, stepping back. “We can cut them.”

  Osric drew another arrow, shifting his stance. “Bad news—there’s a lot of them.”

  Alex didn’t stop moving. He moved through them without breaking pace, cutting, stepping, deleting. One tried to lash out—he didn’t block, didn’t parry, didn’t even change his stance. He reached out, took its limb, and it ceased to exist like it had been a mistake in reality. Another formed mid-air, lunging before it had even finished stabilizing. He let it land. It fell apart anyway.

  Liora shot him a sharp look, somehow managing to yell and whisper at the same time. “At least pretend to give me more good news before the bad.”

  Alex moved without urgency, stepping through them like they were little more than misplaced obstacles. They lunged, they vanished. One reached for him, talons stretching—he caught its wrist, and the entire structure collapsed like a poorly built foundation. Another twisted its limbs mid-motion, adjusting for a better strike—his blade passed through it without pause, and the creature simply ceased to exist.

  Osric exhaled, watching a few of the creatures hesitate before lunging—not because they had developed intelligence, but because their shapes hadn’t fully solidified before attacking.

  Liora swung her halberd, separating a Mistborn’s head from its body. It didn’t get back up. She exhaled, adjusting her grip. “They really don’t think. They just keep coming.”

  Osric fired another arrow, watching as the moment it made impact, the creature folded inward like someone had removed the concept of structure from its being. He let out a breath. “Yeah, well. Turns out that doesn’t work when you’re fighting him.”

  Another wave of them rushed forward, more out of momentum than strategy. Alex didn’t slow down. He reached forward and closed his hand around the air, and three fell apart before they got within striking distance.

  By now, the fight wasn’t even a fight. It was logistical cleanup. The creatures weren’t adapting, weren’t learning. They just kept trying the same thing, and Alex kept deleting them.

  One lunged. It never landed. His sword passed through it once, and there was nothing left but dispersing mist. Another tried to flank him. It collapsed before finishing the attempt. One got close enough that its claws nearly brushed his armor—he turned his head slightly, and it lost cohesion on impact.

  Liora exhaled, halberd held steady. "This is ridiculous."

  Osric fired another arrow, watching the creature fall apart mid-motion. "Yeah, I'm starting to feel bad for them."

  Liora turned slightly. "Really?"

  Osric pulled another arrow from his quiver. "Not really."

  The last few stragglers lunged all at once.

  Alex didn't stop moving. He didn't need to.

  A shift of weight, a step forward, and the battle ended.

  There was no grand display, no climactic clash. Just motion and absence—like the creatures had never been there in the first place.

  Osric lowered his bow slightly. "You done?"

  Liora scanned the mist, adjusting her grip. "Not yet."

  The air changed.

  The mist didn't just move—it pulled inward, condensed, thickened. The mana itself grew heavier, pressing against skin, dragging at breath.

  Alex felt it prickle against him. Liora wheezed. Osric wiped sweat from his temple, adjusting his stance.

  A new presence formed within the mist, its sheer weight sending another ripple through the air.

  Liora inhaled sharply, eyes narrowing at the shifting silhouette. "That one's different."

  Osric let out a slow breath. "Yeah. I noticed."

  The strongest Mistborn had arrived.

  And it was looking at Alex.

  Liora planted her boot against the neck of a half-formed Mist creature, driving her weight down as her halberd twisted in its skull. The body twitched once before dissolving into mist, failing to reform. She let out a slow breath and pulled her weapon free, scanning the battlefield.

  Osric had already finished off his half, moving methodically, an arrow piercing through another creature’s still-hardening chest before its body collapsed back into vapor. He barely looked up, rolling his shoulders as he spoke. "They’re getting slower."

  Liora frowned. "Or we’re getting faster."

  She turned her gaze to Alex.

  He stood alone against the Mistborn—the Apex.

  It was taller than any of the others, humanoid in shape but shifting constantly, its body forming from liquid mana before hardening into jagged, bone-like talons. Its form was part mist, part flesh—more a concept than a body. But none of that mattered. It had mass, and mass could be cut.

  The creature lunged.

  Liora barely registered the movement before Alex wasn’t there anymore. The Mistborn’s strike hit empty space, a crater forming where he’d been standing. A second later, Alex was behind it.

  Liora blinked. "Did he just—?"

  Osric exhaled, bowstring still half-drawn. "I… don’t know. It looks like he moved, but I didn’t see it happen."

  The Mistborn twisted sharply, shifting its form as bladed mist appendages erupted outward, piercing the space around it like spears. Alex didn’t dodge. He didn’t need to. His sword moved once—an untraceable flicker of motion—and suddenly, the creature’s own attack collapsed, its limbs shearing off at the base.

  Liora felt her fingers tighten on her halberd. "I hate that. I hate that I can’t tell what he did."

  Osric let out a quiet scoff. "Join the club."

  The Mistborn recoiled, reforming, but Alex didn’t give it the chance. He closed the space between them instantly, moving faster than sight, and drove his fist into its torso. The impact wasn’t just a strike—it was a forced collapse of form, the mist detonating outward like shattered glass before reconstituting.

  Liora felt her stomach twist at the sheer disregard for physical limitations. She’d fought apex-tier creatures before. She knew what it was supposed to take to kill them. That wasn’t this.

  The Mistborn reformed, but it was slower now, its mass struggling to hold shape. Alex tilted his head slightly, like he was testing something, then moved again. This time, he didn’t use his blade. He caught one of its jagged arms mid-strike—caught it—and crushed it between his fingers.

  Liora watched, disbelieving, as the Mistborn’s limb didn’t reform. It didn’t dissolve and reset. It just—stayed broken.

  Alex stepped forward, grabbing the creature by the throat with a single hand.

  Then he squeezed.

  The mist itself seemed to writhe in resistance, the creature thrashing violently, but it couldn’t escape. Its form buckled, condensed, and then—collapsed entirely.

  Silence followed.

  Osric let out a long breath. "Alright. I’ll admit it. That was new."

  Liora forced herself to exhale, feeling the weight leave her chest. "I don’t even want to know how that works."

  Alex turned back to them, his expression unreadable. "We should keep moving."

  Osric snorted. "Yeah. Before you decide to test what else you can break."

  Liora muttered under her breath. "Gods above. He’s not even tired."

  And as they stepped over the remnants of the creatures that had once ruled the Mistplanes, she realized something else.

  Neither of them had actually seen him draw his sword.

  ***

  Osric crouched, brushing his fingers against the damp earth. His expression didn’t shift, but Alex caught the faint tension in his jaw.

  “We should’ve found it by now,” Osric muttered.

  Liora frowned, adjusting her grip on her halberd. “But we haven’t. What’s wrong with it?”

  Osric exhaled slowly. “It’s too saturated.” His fingers curled slightly, digging into the dirt before pulling back. “Too much mana. Whatever’s down there is either buried deep or it’s been interfered with.”

  Alex watched as Osric pushed himself up, shaking excess mana from his hands like water. The hunter’s gaze flicked toward the mist ahead, his brows drawing together in thought.

  “This place has always been unnatural,” Osric said, voice even. “But this much saturation? It’s rare.” He let out a dry chuckle. “Figures we’d get dropped right on top of something broken.”

  Alex exhaled, shifting his stance slightly as he scanned the mist-drenched world around them. The leyline pulsed beneath the layers of mana, its rhythm distinct from the chaotic currents suffocating the landscape. To Osric and Liora, it was unseen—to Alex, it might as well have been carved into reality itself. His Qi flowed in response, subtly shaping his perception, letting him trace the line where energy coiled and space bent.

  He raised a hand.

  “There.”

  Osric squinted at the empty air. “Where—”

  Alex didn’t answer. His fingers barely moved, a minute shift of Qi application, and the energy around him reacted. The mist pulled, stretched, and for an instant, folded inward like an unseen hand had gathered it all in a grip.

  Osric sighed, rubbing his temples. “I hate it when you do that.”

  Alex tilted his head. “Do what?”

  Liora let out a sharp breath. “Be you.”

  Osric stepped forward, activating his own skill. The mist buckled. Mana writhed, separating like liquid forced through an unseen sieve. Space tore open. Reality did not resist—it obeyed.

  The rift widened, revealing a blood-red marsh. The stagnant water pulsed with mana so dense the air itself vibrated, mist clinging to the surface in twisting, arterial strands.

  Osric exhaled. “Well. That’s worse.”

  Liora barely spared the landscape a glance. Her focus remained on Alex. “You realize House Dreymoore will never let this go.”

  Osric nodded, not looking away from the rift. “Faelir and Vaylen both saw you threaten them.” His tone was casual, but the weight behind his words was not. “They don’t forget things like that. They don’t let things like that live.”

  Vaylen Dreymoore. Faelir Arlen.

  The weight of those names settled in the air—not from the sound alone, but from the stories they carried. Alex caught fragments as he walked, piecing them together from the quiet conversations of nearby hunters.

  Vaylen was the first son of House Dreymoore, a name that carried both prestige and menace. Stories of his exploits during the House Wars rippled through the crowd, detailing battles where he had led his forces to crush rival Sanguine houses. They said he fought with a skill that bordered on cruelty, his swordsmanship honed over centuries. In one campaign, he had single-handedly slain an Elder Ogre that had terrorized the Dreymoore lands for decades, its colossal remains still displayed in the family’s ancestral hall.

  Someone mentioned his rise within the Sanguine hierarchy, whispered as though speaking too loudly might draw his attention. A rising star, they said, unmatched in both ambition and potential. Alex didn’t need to hear the reverence in their tones to understand what that meant: Vaylen wasn’t just dangerous—he was inevitable.

  And then there was Faelir.

  The older hunters spoke his name differently, with a mix of awe and unease. Rumors surrounded him like a storm. Some claimed he wasn’t born Sanguine at all, that his transformation had been the result of dark rituals carried out by House Dreymoore’s elders. Others said he was older than any record, a relic from before the Age of Blood. Over two thousand years old, some claimed, though few believed it. Most mortal races couldn’t dream of reaching that level, let alone surviving the time it took.

  But Faelir wasn’t just a relic. His name was woven into the history of the House Wars, where he had turned the tide in battles that should have been unwinnable. The stories were almost too grand to believe—how he had ended the wars nearly single-handedly, his blade cutting through armies like a scythe through dry grass. Some called him a patron saint of House Dreymoore, though Alex doubted the man cared for titles.

  “The younger one, the first son Vaylen’s power is growing,” Osric muttered.

  “He looks like an idiot,” Liora replied. “But every move he makes pushes their rivals further back. It’s like he’s two steps ahead of everyone else.”

  “And Faelir? The older one?”

  The reply came slower, almost hesitant. “He doesn’t need to lead.”

  A long pause followed, filled with the sound of boots crunching against strange ground.

  “Faelir Arlen, Patron saint of House Dreymoore,” Osric said, his voice equal parts reverent and incredulous.

  “Saint,” Liora scoffed. “He’s a relic, not a saint. Over two thousand years old, if you believe the stories.”

  She continued, uncertain. “But no one lives that long. Even the Sanguine don’t, not unless they’ve stopped leveling altogether.”

  “That’s the thing, isn’t it?” The Osric’s voice dropped an octave, conspiratorial and entertained like an old woman gossiping with neighbours. “They say he wasn’t always Sanguine. That he started as something else. Human, maybe. But House Dreymoore changed him. Some dark ritual, something only they’d dare try.”

  “And now he’s untouchable.” Another voice, older and quieter, cut through the exchange. “He ended the House Wars almost single-handedly. One campaign, one move after another, until every rival house either fell in line or ceased to exist.”

  Alex processed the words, noting the reverence mingled with suspicion. A ritual to change one’s race? It wasn’t impossible, though the price would have been steep. The mention of Faelir’s age caught his attention as well. Two millennia. A timespan that defied natural order, even among the Sanguine.

  “The longer they live, the stronger they get,” someone murmured. “That’s why they push us into the Frontier. To gain experience without waging war. Leveling slows for them, sure, but it doesn’t stop. Not unless they want it to.”

  The implications settled over the group, heavy and unspoken.

  Liora adjusted the angle of her weapon, eyeing the mist then turning to Alex. “If you were anyone else, the two of them would have killed you on the spot.”

  Alex met her gaze, his expression unreadable. “They can try.”

  Osric let out a short laugh. “Oh, they will. And so will the Crown’s new Assessors.” His boots shifted slightly against the ground as he prepared to step through the rift. “They’ll want to replace the one you killed.”

  Liora exhaled, muttering under her breath. “The berserker. The giant.”

  Osric nodded. “Yeah. And they won’t send just anyone next time.” He turned back to Alex. “You know that, right?”

  Alex said nothing. He stepped forward, passing Osric as the mist curled behind him. The rift would hold for less than thirty seconds. They didn’t need more than five.

  Osric grinned, following. “Right. Forgot who I was talking to.”

  Liora didn’t hesitate. She moved after them, sparing one last glance at the dissolving mist behind them. The Mistplanes had let them leave.

  Most places here wouldn’t.

  ***

  Osric adjusted his fingers unsommoning the wide bow in his grip, his focus on the marsh stretching ahead. The thickened mana pressed into them, sinking into their breath, their skin, warping the air into something heavier, something alive. Liora ran a hand along her halberd, fingers brushing the condensation clinging to the metal, then rolled the tension from her shoulders. There was an unspoken understanding between them—the Mistplanes had been an entry test, nothing more. They had crossed into a land where the past weighed heavier than the present, a place where history buried itself in the bones of those who thought themselves prepared.

  Their formation set itself—Alex at the front, curious, Osric to his range, Liora guarding the flank. No words needed to be spoken. They were not the first to come here. But if they failed, they would be just another set of names lost to the region. The challenges ahead were immense:

  Unclaimed depths of temples, relics and remnants left by vanished gods, predators thriving in mana-dense zones, House Dreymoore’s relentless enmity, and the looming threat of the summoned heroes, ruthless instruments of power in each world they came from. It would consume almost anyone.

  But Alex’s lifetimes of mastery and a relentless drive to push beyond every conceivable limit was slowly transforming him into a force no obstacle could contain.

  He would throw himself against each of them and see which broke first.

  The is up and running. So if you like, you can read ahead there!