The King's Gift
The stone door was a monument to stillness.
It stood as tall as two men, a single, seamless slab of granite that had been pressed into the mountainside by a forgotten age. Time had worn away its edges, and a tapestry of moss grew in the cracks, but its sheer, immovable presence was absolute. The faint runes carved around its frame were so eroded they were little more than ghosts on the stone.
Brute force was out of the question. Even a C-Rank Hunter would struggle to budge this much weight. For a Mid-F Ranker like Cole, pushing against it would be like a fly trying to move a mountain.
This was not a test of power. It was a test of perception.
He ran his fingers over the eroded runes, the stone cold and rough against his skin. The original Cole's obsessive study of runic theory, a subject he'd once considered uselessly academic, now proved its worth. The symbols were from a pre-unification dialect, archaic and inefficient, but he could recognize the foundational patterns.
They weren't wards of sealing. They were components of a circuit. A lock.
He knelt, examining the base of the doorway. Just as he suspected. There, almost completely obscured by dirt and roots, was a single, fist-sized indentation in the stone threshold. A keyhole, but not for a key made of metal.
It was a mana conduit.
Cole took a deep breath, calming his mind. This was the delicate part. The lock wasn't designed to keep out the strong, but the ignorant. It likely required a very small, very precise amount of mana, channeled in a specific pattern, to activate the release mechanism. Too much power would likely overload the ancient circuit, sealing it forever.
This was a task perfectly suited for a mana geek.
He placed his palm over the indentation. He closed his eyes, focusing inward. He drew upon the tiny, thimble-sized reservoir of energy in his core. It felt pitiful, a flickering candle in the face of this ancient stone. But he didn't need a bonfire. He needed a single, controlled spark.
He let the mana flow from his palm, not in a rush, but as a delicate, hair-thin thread. He guided it into the conduit, feeling his way through the internal channels of the stone. He could sense the faint, dormant pathways of the runic circuit. It was like tracing a map in the dark with his fingertips.
He guided the thread of mana through the first channel, then the second. He followed the faded patterns of the external runes, using them as his guide. The process was slow, demanding absolute concentration. A single slip, a single moment of fluctuation, and the connection would break.
Sweat beaded on his forehead. His mana reserves, already small, began to drain at an alarming rate. This wasn't a sprint; it was a marathon of control.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, his thread of mana reached the central nexus of the circuit. He pushed the last drop of energy needed to complete the connection.
For a moment, nothing happened. A cold dread began to creep into his heart. Had he failed?
Then, he heard it. A low, grinding groan that seemed to come from the very bones of the mountain. Dust and pebbles rained down from the top of the doorway. A deep, resonant thump echoed from within the stone slab.
The lock was released.
Cole pulled his hand back, his body trembling with mana exhaustion. He was almost completely drained. He leaned against the rock wall, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
He had done it.
He placed his hands on the massive stone door and pushed. It resisted for a moment, the friction of ages holding it fast. Then, with another groan of protest, it began to move, scraping against the stone floor as it swung slowly inward.
A wave of air, cold, dry, and utterly still, washed over him. It was the smell of dust, of stone, and of time itself.
He activated a light orb, its clean, white glow cutting through the absolute darkness within.
The tomb was not a grand hall filled with treasure. It was a single, large, square chamber, surprisingly bare. The walls were smooth, unadorned stone, with no murals or carvings. In the exact center of the room, atop a simple, three-tiered stone dais, sat a throne.
And on the throne, a king.
Or what was left of him. A skeleton, perfectly preserved in the dry, still air, sat in a posture of quiet dignity. It was adorned in the remnants of what might have once been royal robes, now little more than silken tatters. A simple, unadorned bronze circlet rested on its skull. This was not a king of conquest and riches, but one of solemnity and wisdom.
In the skeleton's lap, held by two bony hands, was a set of thin, slate-gray tablets.
Cole approached slowly, his footsteps the only sound in the ancient silence. The light from his orb glinted off the bronze circlet. He felt a sense of reverence in this place. He was not a grave robber. He was a student, seeking knowledge.
He stood before the throne, looking at the stone tablets. They were covered in the same archaic script as the runes outside. There were five tablets in total, each one etched with precise, elegant lines and diagrams.
This was it. The [River Flow] mana technique.
He didn't touch them. Not yet. He took out his terminal, a sliver of modern technology in this ancient space. He activated its high-resolution scanning function. A soft blue light emanated from the device, bathing the throne in an ethereal glow.
He began the copying process. Methodically. Patiently. He scanned each tablet from multiple angles, ensuring every line, every symbol, was captured with perfect fidelity. He compiled the images, ran a diagnostic to check for data corruption, and then created two encrypted backups, saving one to the terminal's internal memory and the other to a secure cloud server linked to his Aetheric Solutions account.
The project manager in him was satisfied. The data was secure. The asset had been acquired.
He looked at the original tablets, still resting in the king's lap. It was tempting to take them. They were artifacts, valuable in their own right. But his objective was clear. He was here to gain an advantage, not to alter the course of history more than absolutely necessary.
Zane Cross was destined to find this place in a year. The discovery of this technique was a part of his story, a step on his path. Taking the tablets would create a deviation, a ripple in the plot that could have unforeseen and potentially dangerous consequences for Cole himself.
He would leave them. He would let fate, or whatever passed for it in this world, run its course.
He had what he came for.
He gave a small, respectful bow to the silent, seated king. A gesture of thanks. Then he turned and walked out of the tomb, his light orb piercing the darkness.
He placed his hands on the heavy stone door and, with a grunt of effort, pushed it shut. The tomb groaned one last time as the slab settled back into its frame, the ancient silence once again sealed within. With a small pulse of mana, he could feel the lock re-engage.
To any outside observer, it was as if it had never been opened.
He leaned against the sealed door, a wave of profound relief and triumph washing over him. The exhaustion, the fear of the Cinderfang, the tension of the past few weeks—it all seemed to melt away.
The first, and most critical, part of his plan was a success.
He did not linger. He ate a ration bar, refilled his canteen from the waterfall, and began the long journey back to Grayhaven.
The return trip felt different. The wilderness was still dangerous, but the oppressive weight of the unknown had lifted. He moved with a new sense of purpose. He was no longer just Cole Harris, the Mid-F Ranker.
He was a man with a secret. A man with a future.
Three days later, he was sitting on the mag-lev train, watching the untamed wilds give way once more to the ordered civilization of humanity. On his terminal, hidden behind layers of encryption, was a file containing knowledge that could change everything.
He had the technique.
Now, the hard work of mastering it was about to begin.