The world had a way of breaking itself.

  Ascheritt had learned that quickly, standing at the edge of the ruins, where broken fragments of reality seemed to dissolve into the air itself. Time, like the land around him, had forgotten its purpose here. He could feel the weight of every broken promise, every fractured timeline pressing down on him.

  And he was just one more shard in this endless chaos.

  He had learned one thing since his arrival: this world didn't care for him. Not in the way a person might—no warmth, no protection. It was indifferent. Like a place where the past had died, and the future never had a chance to arrive. The present was all that remained, frozen in perpetual disarray.

  But then—there was the pulse.

  A strange thrum in the air, the kind of sensation you feel before the storm breaks. It was a force that vibrated through his chest, sending a cold shiver down his spine.

  He turned toward the source.

  Far ahead, through the broken skyline and over the jagged mountains of shattered stone, a flicker of light cut through the gloom. It was not the steady glow of a distant sun, but something erratic—something that bled into the space around it, a contradiction that didn’t belong in the fragile fabric of reality.

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  The pulse was coming from there.

  And for reasons he couldn’t explain, Ascheritt felt drawn to it, as if something within him was calling it to him. His instincts screamed at him to move, so he did.

  His steps were slow at first, as though he was testing the air, checking the ground for signs of resistance. But nothing. The world around him seemed to breathe in rhythm with his every movement, like it was paying attention to him now. He wasn’t just walking through empty space—he was being watched.

  As he drew closer to the light, the air grew colder, thicker, as if the pulse was drawing all the warmth from the surroundings. The closer he got, the more real the world seemed to become. The ethereal, shattered place he'd wandered through was losing its form. Things began to take shape, like the flicker of a light revealing hidden corners of a dark room.

  And then, he saw it.

  A door.

  It was old, ancient even, standing in the middle of nowhere. It looked out of place—a portal in the wasteland, but not just any door. This one hummed with energy. Symbols were etched into its surface—lines and shapes that seemed to shift when you tried to focus on them. They were… alive.

  Ascheritt hesitated. His instincts screamed again, but this time, it wasn’t fear. It was curiosity. The kind of curiosity that made him feel like a moth drawn to a flame.

  He reached out to touch it.

  And the moment his fingers brushed against the cold, weathered wood, the world shifted.

  Time seemed to bend. The air cracked like glass, and the ground beneath him split open. Reality flickered, like a broken screen trying to load. The door… it wasn’t just a door anymore. It was a tear in the fabric of everything.

  A vortex of light, sound, and shadow erupted, pulling him in.

  And as he was dragged through the doorway, he heard the voice again—the one that had spoken to him before.

  —“Welcome to the place where the forgotten co

  me to die.”

  He fell through the darkness.