The Researchers are one of the factions that call the Capital their home, but they are not the only ones. Among them, the MRC reigns—the world's most feared mercenaries. men flock from around the world to the Capital in order to find jobs. If they are skilled in combat, they usually end up with MRC
Their ranks are structured by strength. The most elite, known as Killers, are worshiped as gods by the ignorant. But gods, they are not.
Each member bears a badge, though some choose to conceal it to keep the element of surprise. Their leader is known only as Boss Men, his real name is still unknown. He was a mercenary in his younger days. By some sort of deal with the council of the Capital, he got the green light for founding MRC. He is said to be the strongest among the group, but no one knows; even his face is not known, for it is hidden behind a stark white mask, its sides etched with black lines.
Travel between fractured lands is a necessity, but foot or horse travel is a death sentence. During the Great Fracture, that birthed this era bathed in misery, rifts tore through the world, weaving across dimensions. The Capital built a hub around one such rift. It is considered a masterpiece of architecture by today's standards, even though the ancients did way better. This rift is linked to the other continent in a city called Windswept. Perched on the edge of a cliff, it was made around the rift by the artisans of the Capital.
A group stood before the rift, preparing to cross. Among them, a man—short, no more than five foot two—held a crate in his hands. His face was hard, unreadable, though his grip on the cargo betrayed an unspoken tension. Six others accompanied him—two warriors, four fellow couriers. The moment arrived. One by one, they stepped through.
A flash of light.
A sensation—not quite pain, not quite pleasure—passed from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet. He grimaced. No matter how many times he did this, he could never grow used to it.
The void stretched around them. Infinite white. A soundless expanse. A place where even time seemed uncertain.
They walked. Always forward. Beneath them, a massive chain marked the path. The only guide through the nothingness. It pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat, though no one could hear it. No one could hear anything here.
Eventually, a red mark appeared on the chain. The exit.
One by one, they vanished.
The short man watched the warrior in front of him disappear into nothingness.
He took a step forward.
Then—
Nothing.
He did not emerge.
His breath caught in his throat. He turned, his pulse hammering against his ribs.
The chain—the only thing anchoring him to reality—was gone.
His crate—cleaved in two.
The others—vanished.
The void remained. Endless. Soundless. Nameless.
And he was alone.
Minutes passed in the outside world. Twenty, to be exact. But he did not know that. To him, time stretched impossibly, infinitely, mercilessly. Each moment bled into the next. Each thought expanded, split, and grew into an eternity.
Even a god's mind would shatter under such weight.
For a mortal, it was simply impossible.
To be trapped in-between—suspended between existence and oblivion—was a horror beyond comprehension. To never arrive, to never escape, to remain forever in transit.
That was his reality now.
The human mind is not built for such things. It must move, it must create. So, in the face of this endless nothingness—he did the only thing he could.
He created a universe.
A desperate attempt to fill the void.
He forged worlds, populated them, lived within them—but his body remained motionless.
He became god in these false realms. He built civilizations, then crushed them beneath his will. He waged wars. He loved and lost. He breathed, died, was reborn.
But the void remained.
And eventually, he reached the end of it all.
There was nothing left to create.
He had thought every thought.
A terrible realization settled over him—his mind was finite.
The time he would spend here, however, was not.
For the first time since he was stranded, he opened his eyes.
Nothing had changed. His body was untouched. He had not aged. He had not decayed. That was simply one of the rift's rules.
But something inside him had withered beyond repair.
There was nothing left. No movement. No thoughts. No identity.
He was a husk—both empty and impossibly full.
The white abyss had claimed him.
And he would remain here, in perfect stillness, for eternity.