The darkness around me wasn’t natural.
It wasn’t the simple absence of light, but a dense, suffocating void where even sound itself seemed swallowed whole.
Before me, dozens of luminous gates floated in the air, each one glowing like a distorted moon. No two gates were the same. Some spun like whirlpools of liquid glass. Others stretched smooth and flat, like mirrors polished to perfection. A few flickered with sparks, as though fire itself had burned holes into reality.
In the far distance, fragments of land drifted in midair, connected by makeshift bridges and fragile cables. On those shifting platforms, silhouettes moved slowly, carrying bags, tools, and devices that flashed like dying stars.
I climbed onto a massive rock drifting near me to get a better view.
The silence was overwhelming, yet I could feel a current of information moving all around — a chaotic tide of languages, voices, and rhythms, colliding and fading before they could form meaning.
In my pocket, the shard of Gió’s memory pulsed faintly. Not as violently as it had inside the loop, but enough to sense this place was alive — aware.
I whispered into the emptiness, my voice trembling:
“Where… am I?”
The answer came from right behind me.
“The Transit Station of Wanderers,” a low, tired voice said. “We call it the Ten-Gate Realm.”
I turned.
A tall, gaunt man stood there, his cloak patched and frayed, a rusted spear slung across his shoulder. His eyes glimmered with both suspicion and… pity.
“No one here belongs,” he continued softly. “We were all pulled in. Just like you.”
