The first step didn't hurt.
It didn't tug at his soul or snap his bones or burn through his skin like the stories said. The system didn't scream. The sky didn't fracture. The world didn't notice.
It was just a step.
Like crossing into another room. One where the air pressed a little too close to your skin.
Kaito took another.
Behind him, the rift sealed with a sound like cloth being pulled through water.
He blinked.
The world had changed.
Not dramatically. Not all at once. But it was… wrong.
The sky—if it was a sky—looked like dark glass, dimly lit from somewhere behind. The trees weren't trees anymore. Just shapes—tall, crooked silhouettes made of something between ash and wood, their branches twitching gently even though there was no wind.
The ground crunched underfoot like old salt. A soft, dry texture that left no footprints.
Kaito tightened his grip on the strap of his bag.
He walked.
No system notification came.
No dungeon map.
No timer.
No tier classification.
Just the faint, pulsing whisper of the HUD at the edge of his vision:
[ SYSTEM THREADSYNC: ACTIVE ][ CORE CALIBRATION: 12% ]
[ YOU ARE ALONE HERE. ]
There were no monsters.
Not yet.
No loot crystals. No numbered gates. No reward terminal. It didn't feel like a dungeon.
It felt like a forgotten place.
Like walking through the inside of someone else's memory.
An hour passed. Maybe more.
Kaito followed the silver threads—they drifted like spider silk between the shapes of ruined houses and crumbling temple gates, flickering in and out of view. They didn't lead in a straight line. Sometimes they circled back. Sometimes they passed through walls.
He kept following.
Then, at a crooked crossroads where five roads met without logic, he stopped.
Something was watching.
Not from the trees.
From below.
The threads pulsed, then sank.
He dropped his pack slowly.
The dirt here—if it could be called that—rippled faintly, like cloth being touched from underneath. He crouched. Touched the ground with one hand.
Nothing.
Then, without warning, the threads spiked.
The ground cracked.
And something pulled him under.
There was no fall.
Just a shift.
One second, he was crouching. The next, he was standing—dry, intact—on a narrow walkway of floating stone, suspended in endless black.
Above him: nothing.
Below him: miles of cold, unmoving space.
And around him—
Reflections.
Dozens.
Each one a pane of faint glass hanging in midair, showing blurred images: a hospital bed, a girl with braided hair, a small apartment window. His mother's tired eyes.
Aiko holding a bag of groceries.
His own face—blank, not smiling.
Then another version of his face.
Smiling.
Confident.
Older.
Colder.
The reflections shuddered.
[ THREADSENSE WARNING: OVERLOAD ]
[ CORE SIGNATURE DETECTED: MATCHED SOURCE—RESTRICTED ]
Kaito stumbled backward.
The reflections cracked.
All but one.
One remained clear.
In it, a boy stood at the edge of a crater, his hands soaked in something dark, his eyes glowing faint blue.
He turned.
He looked directly at Kaito.
Then he smiled.
And spoke without sound.
Just one word:
"Empty."
Kaito gasped and fell.
Not through the air. Just out.
He landed hard, coughing, face-down in the salt-dust ground outside the crossroads.
The system buzzed violently:
[ SYSTEM INTERRUPTION: STABILIZING ][ THREAD ECHO DETECTED—HOSTILE MATCH ]
[ WARNING: ENTITY LINKED TO ORIGIN SIGNATURE. ]
Kaito pushed himself upright.
His fingers were shaking.
He didn't understand what he saw. What it meant. What he was.
But something inside the dungeon recognized him.
And it wasn't friendly.
He didn't leave.
He got up. Brushed the dirt from his jacket. Retrieved his bag.
And he walked on.
Because whatever this place was—whatever made him—it hadn't broken him yet.
And something here still felt like home.
Even if it was the wrong kind.