The moment Fenrir stepped through the transport gate, a foul stench hit him.
Rot. Sweat. Metal.
His boots landed on cold stone, and before his eyes adjusted, he heard the gates behind him slam shut. No system message. No fanfare. Just the clang of steel.
"Floor 8. Smells like a prison."
He muttered.
His eyes flicked across the room — a dome-shaped chamber lit by flickering lamps, its edges lined with rusted doors and grates. No sky. No wind.
Just concrete and surveillance orbs drifting silently above.
Then they noticed him.
Dozens of eyes, huddled in corners or leaning against walls, turned his way. Ragged uniforms, collars blinking with red light, and gaunt faces hungry for meaning — or distraction.
A group broke off and approached, led by a tall man with a bald head and a mechanical eye.
"New meat. System scan."
The man grunted.
Fenrir raised a brow but said nothing. One of the men stepped forward with a small device, holding it toward him.
A flicker of blue. A soft whir.
Nothing.
The man frowned. Tapped it again.
"No rating?"
The group exchanged confused glances. The bald one stepped closer, peering at the screen.
"No rank, no system alignment, no registration. What kind of bug is this?"
"Could be an error. Or maybe—"
Another muttered.
"Enough. I’m not in the mood. Back off."
Fenrir cut in, voice flat.
The bald one smirked.
"You think you’ve got a choice, rookie? You don’t get rights until the floor evaluates you."
Fenrir cracked his neck and looked bored.
"Try and put a hand on me. See how that works out."
Two stepped forward anyway.
Bad call.
The first man’s wrist shattered with a crunch. The second got a knee to the ribs and collapsed gasping. Before anyone could react, Fenrir had the bald one by the throat, lifting him into the air with one arm.
"I warned you. This isn’t a good day."
Fenrir said, voice low.
Alarms blared.
More guards stormed in from hidden doors, armed with batons and stun spears. Fenrir dropped the coughing man and turned to face them.
"You wanna escalate this?"
He asked.
They answered with lightning strikes and suppression chains.
Fenrir sighed.
His hand slammed into the ground. The floor buckled. A ripple of earth shot outward, sending guards flying into walls. The suppression field flickered, cracked, and died.
"Last warning."
He muttered.
They didn’t listen.
So he stopped holding back.
The earth warped under his feet. Walls twisted as if melting.
The very foundation of the facility groaned — then exploded outward. Dust, smoke, and chunks of stone flew in every direction.
A massive hole tore open the northern wall, exposing a path into the deeper structure beyond.
Panic set in.
Prisoners scrambled through the breach, fleeing with everything they had.
Even the guards who could still move began retreating, dragging wounded and gear away. Fenrir watched them go, arms folded, expression unreadable.
He turned to leave.
A voice croaked behind him — familiar. The bald one, barely sitting up, blood trailing from his lip.
"You think you’re free now? You’re not. No one’s free on this floor."
He spat.
Fenrir paused.
"You can throw punches. Break walls. But it won’t matter. You’ll die on the next floor."
Fenrir glanced over his shoulder.
"I’ve heard worse threats."
The man grinned, teeth red.
"Because of you... a lot of people will die."
Fenrir’s eyes narrowed.
"That sounds like their problem."
"No. It’ll be yours. You brought chaos. You broke the cycle. Now the Annihilator will wake."
The officer rasped.
Fenrir blinked once.
Then walked away.
Behind him, the facility collapsed further, groaning under its own failure. The smoke rose in pillars. The scent of freedom — bitter, dirty, and sharp — clung to the air.
He didn’t look back.
The real test was ahead. Floor 9.
Where someone from his past was waiting.
Fenrir didn’t bother replying to the guard’s last words.
He stepped over the rubble and into the open land beyond the ruined facility.
The ground stretched flat and dry — no trees, no roads, just cracked soil and the occasional mana burn mark. A dead landscape trying to remember what life looked like.
His screen flickered. Two dots. One behind him — the facility he’d left in shambles. Another one further ahead.
He didn’t stop to wonder what they were.
The wind here didn’t howl. It buzzed. Too much leftover mana. His boots crunched brittle stone as he walked, eyes on the horizon.
Then the explosion hit.
It wasn’t loud — it was deep. The shockwave pushed air aside, sending a wall of dust and heat flying outward. Fenrir turned slightly, watching a column of blue light erupt into the sky behind him.
The ground where the facility had stood no longer existed.
Mana surged like a ruptured artery. All that stolen, compressed energy, released in one instant.
"Idiots."
Fenrir muttered.
He narrowed his eyes at the blue flames licking the sky.
"What kind of brainless lunatic stores that much raw mana in one place? Were they stockpiling it like cabbages? No stabilizers, no anchors... just praying it wouldn’t go off."
Bodies littered the land where the wave had reached — charred remains of prisoners, guards, maybe even civilians. Whatever structures existed near the edge were reduced to slag.
Fenrir shook his head.
"A total waste."
Then he felt it.
Dozens of signatures — no, hundreds — pinging the edge of his senses. Crawling, slithering, flying. Monsters. Drawn by the scent of spilled mana like sharks in blood.
"Of course they’d show up. Nothing attracts scavengers like a feeding frenzy.|"
Fenrir muttered, watching the dark shapes move across the horizon.
He didn’t stick around.
The second dot on his screen pulsed. He shifted course and began walking, ignoring the monsters gathering behind him. If they were dumb enough to follow, they’d regret it.
Eventually, the second facility came into view — and it was nothing like the first.
Sleek walls. Clean barriers. Guard towers and rune-bolted gates. Mana lights glowed in controlled patterns along its perimeter. It looked like a fortress — not a prison.
Fenrir slowed slightly, observing the design.
’Too symmetrical. Too confident.’
He reached the front gate and was greeted by a single guard. The man wore polished armor, arms crossed, a scanner strapped to his left eye.
"You lost?"
The guard asked without moving.
Fenrir didn’t answer right away. He glanced at the floating ID orb beside the gate, then looked back.
"I want to speak to whoever’s in charge."
The guard laughed through his nose.
"You got an evaluation ID?"
"No idea."
That got a scoff.
"Let me guess — no system rating, no clearance, no affiliation. You look like one of those Floor 8 failures."
Fenrir’s gaze sharpened, but the guard wasn’t paying attention.
"Listen, low-rank trash like you don’t belong here. If you want handouts or pity, try one of the charity shelters that accepts scum."
Fenrir moved.
One step.
His hand closed around the guard’s throat like a vice. The man’s scanner clattered to the ground, and he gasped, feet barely touching the floor.
"I’m really. Just starting to lose my patience with this floor."
Fenrir said quietly,
The man clawed at Fenrir’s wrist, trying to break free — but it was like grappling with a boulder. His face turned red, veins bulging in his temple.
"Keep talking. I’d love an excuse."
Fenrir said, his tone flat.
The guard’s eyes darted toward the towers. No one moved. No alarms. Whoever was watching had already realized:
’This wasn’t someone they could handle through protocol.’
Fenrir let go.
The guard dropped to the ground, coughing, trying not to make eye contact.
Fenrir dusted off his hands.
"I’m going inside. You can either announce me, or you can lie on the floor pretending to breathe while I walk past you."
He said, voice low and deliberate.
The man fumbled for his communicator and pressed a button.
"A... a visitor. Regular Status. No threat level. Sending him to the intake chamber now."
He wheezed.
Fenrir didn’t wait for permission.
He walked through the gate like it was made for him.
The wind behind him blew faint traces of scorched mana. The ground trembled slightly — maybe from the monsters still approaching the ruins. Or maybe from something else.
He didn’t care.
Whoever was in charge of this place, they’d better be smarter than the last ones.
Or they’d be next.