Everett's eyes widened as the logic clicked into place. "That means... we're inside an Artifact."
...
"An artifact?" Lucian questioned, his voice echoing in the dark.
"Yes. A tool made to aid the daily lives of humanity, especially mages," Everett explained. "Think of a staff. A staff is just a tool for a mage to sharpen their control over mana and spells. But let's not waste breath on that. If we are truly inside an artifact, there has to be an activation mechanism. Let's find it."
Lucian nodded, and they immediately began their search.
But an hour bled away into the dark, and they found nothing. The hallway remained an endless, mocking loop. Afraid of the artifact's reactive nature, they chose not to wander too far from each other.
"We can't find it," Lucian panted, leaning heavily against his knees. Then, a sudden spark of realization struck him. If we can't find a physical switch... then it must be verbal or non-verbal.
He vividly remembered March standing on the ledge before their descent. March hadn't cast a long, intricate spell. He had simply snapped his fingers, and the ground had dissolved beneath them.
A sudden, sharp laugh burst from Lucian's throat, loud enough to reach Everett a few meters away. "So that's why I didn't see you fall, huh?"
Hearing the laugh, Everett quickly strode toward him. But before he could bridge the distance, Lucian raised his hand.
SNAP.
Time seemed to grind to a sickening halt. Everett froze mid-step. Lucian stood entirely still. For a fraction of a second, they simply looked at each other eye to eye.
Then, the dark obsidian walls violently fractured. Blinding lines of raw, incandescent light bled through the fissures. As the cracks shattered the ceiling, the floor, and the very air around them, the light rushed inward, devouring them entirely. They couldn't even react; the event happened too fast.
...
Meanwhile, in the deep, subterranean passage where only March's flame offered illumination, the two conspirators were walking back to the site of the trap.
"It's already been an hour. I'm disappointed," March muttered, his brow furrowed. "After we finish here, we need to gather more stones quickly. That is his demand, after all."
"Well, it can't be helped," General Roland slugged, his posture lazy. "We desire something from him. In exchange, we must do what he desires."
"Yes," March praised, eyes gleaming. "It is for the greater good!"
Then, in a single, silent millisecond, a torrential wave of pure white light descended from the ceiling, swallowing both of them whole.
...
When the blinding glare finally faded, Lucian forced his eyes open.
An endless, blinding white desert stretched out before him. The sand glared aggressively under a harsh, relentless sun. Heat pressed down on his chest, thick and suffocating, warping the horizon into shimmering, wavering lines. Each breath felt like swallowing dry glass, scraping his throat.
What is this? A teleportation spell?
As an ice mage, the oppressive environment felt like an immediate, physical assault. But resisting the urge to panic, Lucian acted on instinct. He blew gently into his hands, sending a flurry of light-blue mana particles swirling around his body. The cooling barrier immediately insulated him, offering temporary relief from the blistering ambient heat.
He spun around, scanning the endless horizon of white sand for Everett. There was nothing. Just empty, burning space. Trusting his gut, he picked a direction—North, directly against the hot, heavy wind—and began to walk.
...
At that exact moment, Everett opened his eyes to a completely different hell.
A suffocating maze of deep, pale stone ravines stretched before him. Sheer cliffs rose like prison walls on either side, narrowing the passage into a claustrophobic trench. Gale-force winds tore through the gaps, howling and screaming as they forced their way through the stone channels.
Sand and dust whipped through the air, stinging his exposed skin and blurring his vision. The ground beneath his heavy boots shifted between loose, biting grit and hardened ridges carved by centuries of relentless erosion.
Another teleportation? Or are we in an illusion now? Where is Lucian?
Everett looked left and right, but saw only endless stone and screaming wind. With only two choices, he braced his greatsword against his shoulder and forged ahead.
...
Back in the burning white waste, Lucian was losing ground.
He was walking directly into the blistering wind. Even with his cooling magic shielding him, the environment was pushing him to his absolute limits. His physical body was inherently weaker than his mental fortitude or his mana reserves; even the grueling endurance training he had forced himself through wasn't enough to withstand a magical desert.
Body enhancement won't save me here, he thought bitterly. It only boosts raw muscle, not stamina, and it will burn through my remaining mana too fast.
Exposed to the cruel rays, his pale skin was slowly turning a painful, sunburned red. The world really isn't in my favor today, huh?
But as he trudged forward, the clear, oppressive sky began to shift. The blinding white light gradually darkened into a bruised, heavy twilight. Lucian looked up, his analytical mind fighting through the exhaustion. Based on his studies, thick clouds in a desert meant a massive drop in temperature. But it also meant something far more dangerous.
A sandstorm was coming.
The wind began to roar, whipping up blinding sheets of white grit. Lucian prepared to construct a thick, magical igloo to act as a temporary bunker, but a silhouette caught his eye a few hundred steps away.
Peeking through the shifting horizon of sand was a small, heavily dilapidated wooden house.
A surge of adrenaline hit him. Without a second thought, Lucian broke into a run, sprinting toward the shelter just as the storm reached its violent peak.
He burst through the door, slamming it against the howling gale. The structure was heavily torn, riddled with large holes that whistled in the wind, but it was solid enough to anchor him. Inside sat a lonely wooden table and a few scattered stools—completely ordinary for an abandoned desert outpost.
Exhausted, Lucian collapsed onto one of the stools. The deafening howl of the sandstorm outside strangely brought a heavy, insulative silence to the interior of the shack. Resting his arms on the wooden table, his eyelids grew heavy. Within moments, he fell into a deep, defensive sleep.
...
Tap... tap...
The subtle, distinct sound of boots hitting the wooden floorboards cut through the roaring storm.
Lucian's eyes snapped open instantly, his senses on high alert.
Standing in the center of the ruined room was a man wearing a long tunic of dark, practical fabric, cinched tightly at the waist by a heavy leather belt. Fitted trousers disappeared into sturdy, weathered travel boots.
A wide-brimmed traveler's hat cast a deep shadow over the top half of his face, leaving only a sharp, arrogant mouth visible. The man's lips were curved into a familiar, infuriating smirk.
Lucian's flawless memory flashed back to the ledge above the obsidian hallway. His chest tightened.
"March," Lucian breathed, his voice laced with sudden peril.
March tilted his head, his cheeky, casual tone cutting through the tension like a blade. "May I join you?"