Astra's boots hammered against the cobblestones, each strike a desperate beat in the cadence of flight. The dark alleys of the subterranean area closed around him like a throat, their crooked arches and leaning walls suffocating in the half-light. His instincts—sharp, merciless things honed by survival—shrieked at him that the hunt was not over. Shadows bent unnaturally at the edges of his vision, curling long fingers across the stones, as though the city itself conspired to deliver him into the maw of something ancient. Something vast. Something that should not have noticed him at all.
He pressed onward, weaving through the black labyrinth, hands raised as he stitched shadows around himself. The spell was quick, semi-complex, born of long practice: darkness folding into his skin, mana flowing like oil across his frame. He should have vanished from the senses of any pursuer. He should have. Yet the gaze clung to him still, weighty and unblinking, pressing through every veil as if his efforts were nothing more than a child hiding under a blanket. Meaning this stalker of his was of a much higher rank.
And then—silence.
The presence dissolved. The air, once thick and suffocating, eased. The unseen grip that had clenched his chest loosened its fingers, and Astra staggered, all strength leaving his legs. He crumpled against a wall slick with moss and grime, his breath tearing out of him in broken, ragged bursts. His heart pounded so violently it hurt, each beat a drum that rattled through his ribs, promising to betray him to ears unseen.
His muscles ached, but it was not the exhaustion of the body that crushed him—it was the memory of that look.
"What the fuck… what the fuck was that…" he rasped, the words spilling out, fragile, shaking. His thoughts scattered like startled birds, too fast, too many. Every time he reached for one, another slipped away. And beneath it all, his body trembled as though still caught in the gaze's grip.
At first, it had seemed a faint disturbance—barely a breath against his senses, a brush at the edge of his awareness. He'd almost dismissed it. But when he summoned his water barrier, the truth revealed itself. The world had constricted. His barrier hadn't met resistance—it had buckled, torn apart beneath a weight that was not mortal.
That presence had been ancient, relentless, a force beyond measure. When it fell upon him, his blood froze solid, his very soul recoiling with an instinct older than reason. That had not been a Rank Two warrior, perhaps not even a Rank Three. It was something other. Something that did not belong in the petty scuffles of alleys and streets.
"Nope…" The word escaped as a hoarse whisper, his lips curling in something between a laugh and a sob. His eyes were wide, darting, fever-bright. "Never again. I've crossed lines. I know it. Offended someone I had no right to even look at…" His voice cracked, and he pressed a hand to his mouth as if the sound itself might summon it back.
The arrogance that usually burned in him—the cold certainty that he was destined for more than these streets—faltered. For the first time in a long time, it bent under fear. And yet even now, even in his terror, a bitter ember of pride smoldered beneath the ashes: If such beings exist, then I must reach them. I cannot remain small forever.
His body shook as he reached inward, to the only thing that tethered him. Fingers trembling, he brushed the etched coin in his Mana Storage. Its cold, steady hum of power spilled into him, slow and sure, like a heartbeat that wasn't his own. He clung to it, forcing breath back into his lungs, pulling himself together in the shadows.
But no matter how deep he breathed, the memory lingered—like a brand carved into his spirit. That gaze was gone, yes. But it had seen him. And things that saw did not always forget.
"Where am I…?" Astra muttered, his voice raw as he searched for bearings within the threads of mana that shimmered at the edge of his mind. His fingers trembled, but he was grateful—grateful beyond words—for access to the network. Without it, without that invisible lattice linking thought to thought, he could not imagine how one survived in this vast, fractured world.
Through that link he brushed against the Mana Network itself, a web woven of light and will, stretching its tendrils across realms and continents. It bound cities, kingdoms, and even forgotten wastelands together, humming with the pulse of knowledge. And at the heart of that web lingered a name, an echo carved into history so deep it could never be silenced: the Seraph of Information.
A being once mortal, now immortal. A legend, a Rank Seven existence that had walked the land long ago.
The gods had died, their thrones shattered and their corpses scattered to dust, but the Seraphs remained—closest to divinity, the pinnacle of what existence could still grasp. They were more than rulers; they were powers unto themselves, each dwelling within their divine realms, each so feared and revered that temples bore their names. Some were worshipped as gods outright, others whispered of like storms: inevitable, untouchable.
There were seven Seraphs known to all, and five Sins whose names had been erased, forbidden, hidden from the tongues of mortals. Scholars whispered of others—lurking, forgotten, concealed in fractures of time—but the common folk, and Astra especially, were blind to such truths.
The Seraphs were not remembered by name but by title, the crowns they bore in the tapestry of creation:The Eternal Keeper of Knowledge.The Warfather.The Architect.The Illuminator.Mother Evergreen.Bizzaro.
Timeless. Unequaled. Each a force carved into the marrow of the realms themselves.
The youngest of them, the Eternal Keeper, had arisen in the Age of Ignorance. She had pulled mortals out of darkness, wresting them into the light of an age defined by her vision. Even in Duskfall, Astra had seen her mark. It was unavoidable.
In the realm of Sahara, her dominion was strongest. There, cathedrals of marble and glass honored Knowledge, Illumination, and Architecture, their spires reaching like quills toward the firmament. The other Seraphs had shrines as well, though smaller, quieter. Yet even there, rival faiths burned brightly.
The most dangerous of them all was not a Seraphic church at all—but the Church of Mana. Popular, defiant, adored. Born in the wake of Atlas, their messiah who had risen, guided, and fallen without spreading his gospel, the church held that mana itself was the divine—equal to all, answerable to none. They honored Seraphs and even the dead gods, but not as lords. No, they reduced them to messengers, prophets—fallible figures pointing to the greater truth of mana. For this, they were called blasphemers. And perhaps they were.
Astra, for all his arrogance, knew little of these deeper truths. He was no theologian, no scholar hunched in a candlelit library. He was a gutter-born stray with more hunger for power than faith. But even he could not help but wonder: if gods and Seraphs alike shaped the world, were they not tied? Were the dead gods merely predecessors to these luminous beings? Or were they rivals? He did not know. None of the common people truly did.
Yet he knew this: The Eternal Keeper had changed everything.
The church's records told it plainly. Five thousand years ago, when she ascended to her seat, she carved her authority into mana itself. She rewrote the weave of existence. From her miracle was born the Mana Network—the great web that bound the world together. Mage coins became more than currency; they became keys. With a coin in hand, any soul could reach into the endless flow of knowledge, the streams of news, the whispers of power.
She could have sealed it, taxed it, hoarded it for kings and tyrants. Instead, she flung the gates open. Every beggar, every merchant, every noble, every mage—the door was theirs to walk through. So the priests claimed, at least.
And the age that followed was not merely an age of information. It was an age of awakening. From the golden towers of Alfhiem to the deepest mines beneath Snaer, from the sands of Sahara to the rivers of Apu, the world thrummed with progress, with magic, with possibility. All born of the vision of one Seraph: The Eternal Keeper of Knowledge.
Her words were still whispered by her faithful:"Atlas wrote his tales to guide mortals to power without gain for himself. I shall do the same."
And whether truth or lie, Astra lived in the world she had shaped. A world where even a street rat like him could touch the edges of her miracle—though what he did with it was another matter entirely.
Astra pulled up an article—just a snippet, a flicker of data gleaned from the public channels of the Mana Network. He didn't need the knowledge immediately, not yet, but it soothed the gnawing restlessness in his chest. Every scrap mattered. Every word was a weapon. He had to be ready. In a sense he favored the Eternal Keeper and her teachings. Knowledge was power.
[The forges in the district are a fusion of magic and metallurgy, ancient craft and arcane power entwined. Each forge is an intricately designed, living entity—an engine of creation that pulses with the energy of the earth itself. The heat in these streets is suffocating, the air thick with the
scent of oil, iron, and sweat, mixing with the acrid tang of molten metal. The fires burn with an unnatural glow, some blood-red like the flames of war, others cold blue, the color of enchanted steel. Beneath it all, the air shimmers with ancient magic.]
His eyes lingered on the words, imagining the glow, the heat, the strange heartbeat of the fires.
[The workers here, dwarves of untold skill and grit, labor tirelessly. Their faces, carved with soot and sweat, reveal the years of their craft. The hammers ring out in rhythm, every strike a beat in the harsh symphony of the forge. Each creation—a sword, a shield, an artifact—is more than metal. It is a testament to the union of craft and magic, shaped in the fires of the forge, imbued with the essence of the world.]
Astra's mind absorbed it all, hungry. His attention sharpened at the mention of shadows cast by the unnatural flames—shadows that writhed, stretched, seemed to live. That was his element. Shadow magic thrived in places like this, in the flickering half-light, in the blurred edges between flame and dark. A forge district wasn't just industry—it was a battlefield designed for him.
His lips curled into a faint smile. "Perfect." I wont get arrested easily for trespassing.
In Duskfall only certain people were allowed in some districts, Ranks mattered sure. But only at the right times. Rank twos got in anywhere besides the noble quarters less they were noble themselves. Knights were denied sometimes depending on the exact area. But that was simply for ranks
Status mattered more. Nobles were allowed basically in any district, be it eastern northern southern or western, the forge district and noble quarters. Class I citizens mostly plebeians and pawns were allowed only in the southern and eastern quarters where the markets, bazaars and ghettos were, this was Astras designation, Class II were allowed in the western as well were lower to middle class citizens lived including rank twos and threes, Class III were allowed in northern where upper middle class to upper class lived, this was a place for those who were wealthy, then the center were the noble quarters were class IV and up were allowed. The forge district needed a class II citizenship but it was merely a low grade one meaning police involvement wasn't as high.
Astra sighed, He did not fully care about this matter as he felt it was simply stupid but he still wanted the status.
He scrolled, eyes catching on a different entry—this one bearing the iron-sealed insignia of a noble house. House Steel.
The Forge District is governed by Saint Inslid Ironside of House Steel under the terms of an ancient alliance pact between Steel and Dusk. House Steel is a family of legendary repute, whose artifacts and relics have shaped the fates of houses across continents. The current leader, His holiness High Duke Agnar Steel, The Angel of Craftsmanship is both divine grandmaster of the forge and an unmatched combatant. His craftsmanship is simply divine receiving commissions from even gods, his prowess in battle terrifying. His name is feared and revered throughout the realms. His skill in the forge is better to those Angels of the Holy Valhalian kingdoms of Apu and Snaer, even then everyone agrees, he is only second to the great seraph. The Architect.
Astra's breath caught. The Angel of Craftsmanship. Agnar Steel. The name was weight, legacy, inevitability. He wasn't some story whispered by drunkards in taverns—he was alive, here, at the height of his craft and power. An Angel. The kind of being who could turn mountain ranges into rubble with his thoughts alone!.
The thought sent a shiver crawling down Astra's spine. Not of reverence, but of cold, furious envy.
He read on.
Many of the most legendary artifacts throughout history bear the signature of House Steel. Relics wielded by kings, empires raised and sundered on the anvil of their forge. Their skill is said to rival even the royal forges of Apu and Snaer, realms themselves famed across the ages for their blacksmithing.
Astra narrowed his eyes. House Steel's legacy was undeniable, yet to him it was not awe that filled his chest but irritation, gnawing like acid. How convenient, he thought, that the powerful always tied their greatness to lineage, to bloodlines. Atlas did not he reputed in his mind.
As Astra continued his journey deeper into the heart of the Forge District, the sounds of the forges grew louder, more insistent.
The rhythmic clanging of metal on metal—unyielding, ceaseless—pounded through the air. It mingled with the hiss of steam, the roar of fire, the low groan of molten stone shifting beneath the city's bones. The walls themselves seemed to tremble with the power of the forges, and as Astra pressed deeper, the streets narrowed, the air thickened, heat and smoke clinging to his lungs.
It was nerve-racking, but manageable. He'd never ventured here before. Duskfall… it truly is unfathomable. A man could live a hundred lifetimes here and still not know its secrets. The thought escaped him in a weary sigh.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
His own footsteps echoed faintly, uncertain, swallowed by the symphony of fire and hammer. Shadows twisted unnaturally in the flickering light, stretching and writhing along the stone like restless spirits.
Astra's gaze swept over the endless industry of the forge district. The dwarves worked with monastic focus, hammering, sculpting, shaping molten metal in rhythms older than memory. Even when his shadow magic flared faintly at his presence, some glanced up, their eyes grazing over him with the same disinterest one spares a passing insect, then returned to their craft. He was invisible here, beneath notice. The realization both stung and awed him.
They called them dwarves, yet the name was a lie—an insult, almost. These were the descendants of giants. Even their smallest towered over him, broad and immovable as mountains. Their hammer-strikes carried the weight of history itself. The molten rivers bent to their will as though the earth itself obeyed, yet their movements were not brutish. Each swing, each measured strike, was graceful—an ancient dance, polished by millennia.
Astra's chest tightened. His heart pounded with admiration that soured quickly into envy. They carry power in their blood. Legacy. The world itself bends for them. And me? I scrape, claw, and bleed for scraps.
But he knew the truth others overlooked. Giants, once titanic in form and will, had shrunk with the ages. The beings before him were but echoes of their ancestors, diminished though still mighty. They walked in shadows cast by legends long dead. Perhaps they accepted that quietly, but Astra couldn't. The irony cut too deep.
He lingered, drinking in the sight, the cacophony, the scent of scorched iron and ancient fire. This was his first time so far inside the forges—an area meant only for mages, though the rule was flexible at best. Cloaked in shadow mana, Astra slipped through unnoticed, weaving himself into the folds of heat and smoke.
No one questioned him. Why would they? The forge district thrived on magic in all its forms. His presence was just another ember in the blaze.
And yet…
Something tugged at him. A subtle pull beneath the chaos.
It wasn't sound, or light, or even mana as he knew it. It was deeper, resonating in his chest, setting his blood to boil. His instincts sharpened, screaming that it mattered. That it was vital.
Astra's gaze narrowed, drawn toward the far side of the district. There, like a dark scar against the brilliance of fire and steel, loomed a grand estate. Its walls stood untouched by the forge's brilliance, shrouded in an aura of neglect. Isolation clung to it like mold.
But it was not empty. Not truly.
"Strange…" Astra murmured, eyes glinting with suspicion—and something darker. The estate pulled at him like gravity, as though the very stones of Duskfall whispered his name.
He could feel it—a magnetic force, a whisper from the depths of his being telling him that this estate held something of great significance. It resonated with him on a level he could not fully comprehend, but he knew it was important.
The underground estate was a marvel of ancient craftsmanship, an edifice untouched by time yet steeped in it. Hidden away in a secluded corner of the Inner Forge, it loomed like a relic of a bygone era, its dark obsidian walls glistening faintly in the dim glow of molten metal. The two towering spires that rose from its center were adorned with golden carvings—intricate, serpentine patterns that seemed to pulse with a faint, forgotten magic. The estate stood as if it had been cast from the very bones of the earth, an outpost older than even the deepest forges themselves.
Astra paused, her mind swirling with confusion. How had this place been left untouched? It seemed impossible that, this deep into the Inner Forge, such a magnificent relic had been allowed to deteriorate—ignored, or worse, forgotten.
The air was thick with the weight of its history, and yet, it felt abandoned, like a forgotten tomb beneath the hum of industry. The thought gnawed at him. What had happened here? Why had no one dared to maintain such a monumental testament to the past?
Without thinking, his feet moved, carrying him toward the estate. His heart drummed in his chest, but it wasn't fear that drove him—it was something else. Something far more compelling, far more primal. The sense of fate, of something meant to be.
The estate loomed ahead, its oppressive silhouette casting a long shadow over the cobblestone streets. Astra's breath slowed, his senses heightened. Whatever lay inside, he was certain now—it wasn't a mere curiosity. This was no coincidence.
His mage coin shimmered to life as the major quest popped out once again. Its objectives were now renewed, [Know the Night][Realize Destiny],
What is this, he had never heard of such vague and terrifying quest implications?!
Yet Instinctively deep down he knew, an opportunity was deep within this estate.
He had to know.
Clang.
Clang.
Clang.
The heavy, rhythmic strikes of hammer against anvil seemed to echo through the air, each resounding blow vibrating through Astra's very bones. The noise was a harsh contrast to the unnerving silence of the abandoned estate. It was as if the very sound of creation was following him, a constant reminder of the forging of both metal and destiny.
Astra's feet carried him forward, drawn toward the doors of the estate with an unsettling pull. There was no one here, no sign of life. The cobblestone path leading to the entrance was overgrown, and the ivy that clung to the walls whispered secrets that only the wind could decipher. Yet, despite the absence of inhabitants, there was something undeniably alive about the place.
The gates, worn by years of neglect, creaked open with the slightest touch of Astra's hand. His senses sharpened, his heart pounding with an instinctual awareness that something significant lay within.
He stepped over the threshold. The air was thick with the scent of age—of secrets buried beneath layers of stone and shadow.
And then, his gaze fell upon it.
At the entrance of the estate property , hung on an iron post beside the door, was a sign. Simple in design, but bizarre in its starkness. A weathered piece of wood, hand-painted with black letters that read: "SHOP."
A shop? Is this a joke? this giant luxurious castle like estate made out of dark enchanted obsidian is a mere shop?
The word sat there like a riddle, offering no explanation. The estate was clearly no place of commerce, not by any measure Astra could imagine. This building was far too grand, too hidden, to be simply a shop. And yet, the sign hung there in plain view, as if mocking any sense of logic.
Astra's brow furrowed as he stepped further into the gloom
There was no visible sign of any owner, no servant or merchant to greet him. Only the cold emptiness of the space, the lingering echo of hammer strikes from distant forges, and that inexplicable sign.
"Strange," Astra muttered under his breath, his voice barely a whisper
He tightened his grip on the hilt of his dagger, the familiar weight of it reassuring as he stepped forward. Whatever lay inside, it was no coincidence that he had found himself here.
Astra could feel the air growing colder, the shadows lengthening around him, wrapping the estate property in a cloak of ancient mystery as if awaiting something.
As Astra stepped into the main hall, the dim light barely touched the polished floors, yet the estate was pristine, as though untouched by time or the hands of the living. The walls were lined with relics—ancient weapons, ornate shields, and tapestries that told stories long forgotten. The grandeur of the space was overwhelming, luxurious beyond anything Astra had ever seen.
Every room exuded an elegance that felt almost regal, though Astra couldn't quite place why. Was it royal? He wouldn't sure, though his fleeting experiences with noble women sneaking him into their mansions made him think so. But even those mansions were nothing compared to this.
A sudden thought crossed his mind: Should I leave? It was a fleeting doubt, yet something deep inside urged him to keep moving. His intuition screamed that to stand still now would be a regret he'd never shake off.
Clang.
Clang.
The sound of hammer striking anvil grew louder as Astra moved deeper into the estate, his bones vibrating with the force of each strike. It was as if the very air trembled with power.
Astra made his way to what seemed to be the heart of this estate, as he walked through the halls it felt like reality was warping, the mana in the air was solemn and powerful. He saw an ancient anvil at its center, its aura heavy with the weight of magic. Astra felt tiny compared to such magic
Dark iron pillars rose around it, veins of marble pulsing with a strange light. The forge stretched far beyond his sight, and the sounds of hammering reverberated through the Underforge, echoing for miles, a haunting reminder of the forces at work within.
Astra was stunned
The forge's flames blazed bright and eternal, their heat enough to melt stone and warp metal. But it was not the common fire of the dwarven smiths that burned here. These flames were fed by a deep, magical source—a molten river of pure, untainted essence that ran beneath the city, its energy drawn from the very heart of the earth. The flames themselves were not bound by the mundane laws of nature; they flickered with colors that shifted and writhed like living things, casting eerie shadows that danced across the blackened walls.
Astra felt the shadows dance and revel in the power of this forge.
At the the heart of the forge stood the Anvil—a vast, dark slab of obsidian so ancient that it seemed on the verge of crumbling with the slightest touch. The very air around it crackled with the weight of its age.
Encircling the forge was a massive circle of Soul Stones—ancient, floating crystals, each imbued with the power of long-dead Mana Beasts of unimaginable strength. The aura they gave off made Astra's skin crawl. His voice barely escaped him: "R... Ra...nk Five?!" The words were barely a whisper, the terror settling in his chest as the stones hummed with a strange, ethereal power. They hovered above the forge, glowing with shifting lights, their faint illumination casting an eerie glow across the room. Their power was vast, yet contained, like a storm held just beneath the surface.
Around the forge, shelves of books, scrolls, and grimoires lined the walls, filled with knowledge long forgotten, secrets passed down through centuries. The very air in the room was thick with the scent of molten metal, burning incense, and the perfume of ancient magic. The subtle auras from every rank of magic collided in the space, a discordant symphony that made Astra's stomach churn.
The forge itself felt alive, as if it was not just a tool, but a force—its pulse a reminder that it had never been tamed. The estate hummed with a strange energy, as if stone and fire had fused into one eternal heartbeat. Astra could feel it deep in his bones: this was a place of endless possibilities, yet infinite dangers.
It was a forge that demanded respect.
As he stood there, overwhelmed by its power, a deep, ancient voice reverberated through the walls. "Well, hello there… strange visitor…"
A figure emerged from the shadows—a dwarf, ancient and scarred, his body a map of battles fought long ago. Shirtless, with skin dark as polished stone, his deep blue eyes were as profound as saphires and his presence was as commanding as a mountain. In his hand, he wielded a golden hammer that shone with a brilliance that reminded Astra of the sun itself.
The aura the dwarf exuded was unmistakable: this was no mortal man or even Demi-god. Standing before him the subtle aura of that dwarf was Divine., Astra felt as though he were facing the reincarnation of a vast super-volcano and one the size of an entire realm! It was unstable, primal, and utterly terrifying. It was a strange feeling, he had never thought he could even be near such a being yet here he was gazing upon divinity itself.
"Ra...ank... Six..Angel!!!." Astra barely managed to stammer, fear rooting him to the spot as he instantly hit the ground and kneeled his eyes stuck to the cold obsidian floor.
The dwarf eyed him with a knowing gaze. "Say, kid... how the hell did you get into the inner forge undetected?"
Astra swallowed hard, his voice shaking. "I… I really don't know. I'm kind of lost, your Holiness. I don't know why, but I felt like I needed to explore this estate." The dwarf's aura was so overwhelming that Astra knew he couldn't lie. The weight of the man's power was unbearable—one swing of that golden hammer, and Astra was certain this entire city could be erased from existence.
And yet, the dwarf's gaze softened, the faintest glimmer of curiosity in his eyes.
.