Tom swam further, the black waters pulling at his arms and legs like endless cloth. The great shapes behind him.
The creatures too massive to count still followed at a distance, watching, waiting. They didn't attack. They didn't even breathe. They only moved when he moved, as though he had become their silent command.
Ahead, something loomed. At first it looked like a cliff. Then the outline sharpened. A gate.
It was enormous, stretching higher than his eyes could measure. Old iron bars, covered in rust, were locked tight as if the Ocean itself had wanted to hide what lay beyond. Tom floated there for a moment, feeling his chest tighten.
He didn't know if he had the right to open it. He didn't even know if he could.
"...Do it," he whispered under his breath.
His eyes moved toward the largest of the creatures—a leviathan, scales black as coal, eyes burning like blue glass. Its body stretched so long that Tom couldn't see its tail. The creature lingered, silent. Tom raised his hand, unsure if it understood.
"Break it," he said, his voice shaking.
The leviathan's head lowered. With a slow, terrible grace, it rammed its horned skull into the gate. Metal shrieked. The entire Ocean seemed to rumble.
Once more, the beast slammed forward, and with a final crack, the iron gave way. The gate swung wide open.
Tom braced himself for a rush of water—but none came. The other side was… empty. No water. Just air. The black sea didn't spill through, as though some unseen force held it back.
He floated in place, staring in disbelief. How?
Behind him, the creatures stopped. Not one followed. Not even the leviathan. They hovered like sentinels, their gazes fixed but their bodies unwilling to pass.
Tom tightened his grip on the glowing Soul Mantis Flower. Its light flickered like a heartbeat. He didn't know if it would work past this threshold. Carefully, he slid it into his pocket, pressing it close to his chest.
His body trembled as he stepped forward, crossing the invisible line. His feet touched solid ground. He looked back once at the gate, the black waters, the army of silent monsters.
Tom's boots landed softly on stone that was colder than the Ocean itself. For the first time in hours, he felt dry air touch his skin. He steadied his breath, listening to the silence.
It wasn't complete silence, though. Something faint resounded, like a step, fading in the distance.
He lowered himself, brushing the ground with his hand. There it was some prints. Human footsteps.
Fresh. Not his own. His throat tightened. So, I'm not the first one here…
The thought burned in him. If other players had already reached this place, then the chance to claim the "Face" or whatever reward lay hidden might already be slipping away. He pushed himself upright, forcing his legs to move faster. Each step clicked softly in the strange hall.
Ahead, his eyes widened. Pillars rose massive composite columns, carved with designs he didn't understand. Some stood tall, their weight carrying the endless black roof above.
Others lay broken, snapped in half like bones, scattered across the stone floor. It looked like a hall of gods long dead.
Tom walked under them, the vast roof above pressing a strange heaviness on his shoulders. For a moment he imagined it collapsing, burying him forever, yet something about it felt… timeless. As if no matter what he did, these ruins would remain.
The walls caught his attention. They weren't plain. Across their length stretched countless marks, swirls and shapes etched deep into the stone. Ancient script lines he couldn't read.
Each mark seemed alive, pulsing faintly in the dim light. Tom tilted his head, tracing them with his eyes.
"Words… no, warnings," he muttered. He couldn't be sure. His fingers itched to touch one of the carvings, but instinct held him back.
He remembered what the System said before that sometimes touching what you didn't understand was enough to kill you.
He pulled back and went onward, footsteps resounds between the ruined pillars. His chest pounded, not only from fear but from urgency. Tom quickened his pace.
Tom slowed as the space opened into a wide hall. At its heart stood an altar—raised stone, black as ink, carved with strange spirals that seemed to drink the light. His chest tightened; every step toward it felt heavier, as though the room itself was watching him.
He reached halfway when a sharp crack rang out. The air split near his head, stone chipping off the pillar beside him. A bullet. Tom dropped low, instincts screaming. He rolled once, then crouched, eyes darting toward the shadows.
Boots clicked. Slow, confident.
From the darkness at the edge of the hall, a figure emerged broad-shouldered, weathered face, gray streaks across his beard.
He wore a long coat, dusty at the hem, and his hand rested lazily on a revolver that gleamed faintly in the dim. His hat tilted forward, shadowing his eyes, but Tom caught the glint of an old man's grin.
"Well," the stranger drawled, voice rough but steady, "looks like I ain't the only one who found their way to this place. You here for the Event, boy?"
Tom didn't answer at once. He steadied his breathing, eyes fixed on the revolver. "…Of course I am. Why else would I be here?"
The old cowboy chuckled, stepping closer, his spurs faintly clinking on the stone. He carried himself with an ease that only long years could shape. "Good. Saves me the trouble of wonderin'. Then you already know why we're standin' here."
Tom lifted his hands slightly, palms open. "Listen. I don't want any trouble. Whatever this is, we can find a way without killing each other."
The cowboy's grin widened, but it didn't reach his eyes. He tapped the side of his revolver, casual as if talking about the weather. "See, that's where you're wrong. Trouble's already here. You just walked into it."
Tom's muscles pumped up, ready to move.
"Hand it over," the cowboy said, voice lowering. "The Face. Give it to me clean, and you walk outta here still breathin'. Don't…" His thumb brushed the hammer of the gun. "…and I'll take it myself."
The altar pulsed faintly behind Tom, as though waiting.
Tom stayed still, one hand hovering near his dagger slot, though he knew it wouldn't match the man's gun.
The old cowboy tipped his hat back slightly, revealing sharp blue eyes that carried no mercy.
"Boy," he said, voice slow, almost teasing, "you look like a deer that wandered onto the wrong road. All wide-eyed, shakin', thinkin' maybe the wolf's just gonna pass him by." He chuckled low, the sound echoing against the stone walls. "But wolves don't pass nothin' by. They take. That's what we do."
Tom's jaw clenched. "If you're really after this Face, you'll have to earn it yourself. Not steal it from others."
The cowboy gave a bark of laughter, raising his revolver and spinning it once with casual flair before letting it rest again at his side. "Earn it? Son, I been earnin' my place in this cursed game longer than you've been breathin' clean air in it. You think it's about 'earnin''? No. It's about who's left standin' when the dust clears."
Then, his voice dropped lower, colder, steel beneath the mocking tone. "And I don't mind standin' on your grave to prove it."
Tom's heart thudded. The air felt charged, like two storms about to collide.
The cowboy tilted his head, almost kindly. "But I'm a fair man. Last chance. Lay down, hand me what I came for, and I'll even let you crawl outta here alive. Otherwise…" He lifted the revolver, aiming dead at Tom's chest, finger brushing the trigger. "…your story ends here, before it even started."