The Smoldering Mark
Rudra stood by the cracked window of his dimly lit room, the distant sirens of the city humming like a funeral dirge. He stared intensely at his left wrist. The Murderous Ruin Stone—the cold, obsidian artifact that had pulsed with malice just hours ago—was gone. In its place, a terrifying tattoo had seared itself into his flesh.
It wasn't merely ink; it was alive. A swirling vortex of deep purple and blood-red flames danced beneath his skin, flickering and smoldering as if a demonic fire were trapped within his veins. This was the Band—the unbreakable covenant between the Stone and the man who would sacrifice everything for his brother.
Rudra's gaze shifted to the ICU glass, where Aryan lay motionless. His voice was a cold, jagged whisper. "To save you, Aryan... I will do whatever it takes. This power... it's a curse I will gladly wear."
The Hacked Summons
Suddenly, the screen of his worn-out mobile flickered with static. A glitchy notification forced its way through the interface, the text vibrating as if the device itself were in pain:
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION]
Location: Sector 7 - Taloja Industrial Zone (Mumbai, India)
Objective: Entry Support for Newly Opened Rift.
Current Rank: Sub C-Rank Hell Gate (Evolved).
Warning: High Miasma saturation detected. System power low... unable to scan interior.
Rudra pulled on his faded black hoodie, the fabric hiding the smoldering flames on his wrist. He stepped out into the night, his heart beating in sync with the purple-red pulse of the tattoo.
The Breath of Hell
When Rudra arrived at Sector 7, the atmosphere was suffocating. A massive rift had torn through the space-time fabric above an abandoned warehouse—a Hell Gate. From its jagged edges, a thick, violet mist began to pour out: the Miasma.
The Miasma was a lethal cocktail of concentrated mana and the rot of the dungeon. To a normal human, breathing it meant certain death—lungs turning to ash within minutes, followed by horrific hallucinations. Even low-level dungers needed expensive mana-filters to survive. But as Rudra stepped into the fog, his tattoo flared with heat. An invisible barrier formed around him, filtering the poison before it could touch his skin. He was the only one breathing freely in this toxic graveyard.
The Chaos of Greed
The staging area was a whirlwind of noise and desperation. NDA trucks were unloading crates of Magitech Weapons—swords and spears etched with glowing blue circuitry designed to channel human mana.
Hundreds of E-Rank dungers scrambled for the gear, their eyes wide with a mixture of terror and avarice. They were "fodder," the frontline meant to die so the elites could follow. Yet, they cheered, blinded by the promise of C-Rank credits, unaware that the Miasma was already dulling their reflexes and clouding their minds.
On a raised metal platform, Mr. Dixit, a seasoned B-Rank Appraiser, wiped sweat from his brow. He pulled off his high-tech goggles and shouted into the microphone, his voice trembling:
"Listen up! This is no ordinary portal! This is a Hell Gate! The mana levels have spiked to 15,000 MP! It has evolved into a Sub C-Rank threat! If you value your lives, back away now!"
No one moved. The lure of the loot was stronger than the fear of the unknown.
Rudra watched from the shadows of a nearby alley. He didn't want the Magitech weapons, nor did he want the company of the shouting crowd. His tattoo grew scorching hot, the red and purple flames swirling in a violent frenzy. It was hungry.
Without a word, Rudra bypassed the main gate entrance. He slipped through a side maintenance door, stepping into the swallowing darkness of the Hell Gate alone.