The 9th Domain didn't inspire songs or legends. It coughed up ash, bred orphans, and buried hunters who'd overestimated themselves.
Marcel Jekz had no illusions about where he stood. Not a chosen one. Not a hero. Just another name in a village too small to be mapped. But unlike the others, he knew how to listen—especially when the world whispered things it wasn't supposed to.
Today, it whispered from the hills.
"You're late," Tarin said as Marcel approached the treeline. The boy's voice cracked, either from cold or fear.
Marcel's younger brother always tried to sound brave. Lira, on the other hand, didn't bother. She just gripped Marcel's arm, her small hands trembling.
"You were supposed to be back before dusk," she said. "The ash started falling early."
Marcel crouched down, brushing soot from her hair. "It's thicker than usual. That means something's stirred. I need to see it for myself."
"Don't," Tarin said. "The guild sent scouts last week. They didn't come back."
Marcel looked past them, toward the jagged hills. He'd overheard the tavern talk—of old runes unearthed by a quake, of something ancient humming beneath the ash. The village elders dismissed it. The local guild ignored it. But Marcel had seen the signs: animals migrating, iron tools rusting overnight, and the dreams—
Blood, fire, a door.
"I won't go far," he lied.
Neither child believed him.
Still, they let him go.
---
The climb wasn't long, but the air changed the higher he went—thinner, charged. Static clung to his skin. Birds didn't sing here. Even insects stayed away.
He found the entrance half-buried in scorched roots. The ground was fractured, like something had clawed its way out rather than in. He traced a line of runes along the stone—none matched any known guild records. Not Abyssal. Not Primal. Something older.
When he pressed his palm to the center, the stone groaned.
And the world broke.
---
He woke on cold obsidian, the wind replaced by silence. A system prompt appeared in his vision—clear, crisp, and nothing like the crude hunter interfaces used across the domains.
> [System Sync Initiated…]
[No Hunter Rank Detected. Anomaly Registered.]
[Compatibility: 0.3%]
[Fragment Override in Progress…]
[Warning: Neural Strain Exceeding Tolerance Levels.]
Pain tore through his spine—burning, twisting. Marcel bit down on his sleeve to keep from screaming.
> [Fragment of Origin Bound.]
[System: Primordial Version Activated.]
Then silence.
Until the statue moved.
Seven feet tall. Bronze-plated armor, cracked down the middle. Its weapon was no ceremonial blade—it was rusted, jagged, and real. The kind of tool made to kill without flair.
It lunged.
Marcel rolled, barely dodging the downward strike. The floor cracked where he'd been. He scrambled for his sword—useless iron, dulled from years of disuse. He raised it anyway.
Another swing. He blocked.
The impact shattered his stance and sent him skidding across the chamber.
> [System Trigger: Survival Protocol Enabled.]
[Skill Unlocked: Adaptive Reflex | Rank: Unknown]
[Note: Artifact Guardian Combat Trial — Commenced]
He didn't have time to wonder what that meant. The statue came again.
This time, Marcel met the blade with his own—not to win, but to buy seconds. He slid under the guardian's reach, slashed at the exposed joints. Sparks. A grunt. It turned.
They fought like that for minutes that felt like hours. Not elegant. Not epic. Just brutal. Survival stripped combat of beauty.
By the time the statue finally collapsed, Marcel was soaked in blood—not all of it his.
> [Trial Complete.]
[System Stabilized.]
[New Objective: Seek the Origin Vault | Status: Unknown]
He collapsed to one knee, lungs burning. His body shook from the strain, but his mind stayed sharp.
This wasn't a random dungeon.
This was something buried for a reason—hidden from guilds, kings, and Ancient Ones alike.
And whatever he'd awakened… it had already changed him.