Clive walks down the stairs slowly, his footsteps echoing softly against the stone.

  The tunnel is narrow and dim, lit by faint, sand-colored lamps set into the walls at regular intervals.

  The light is weak, but steady, casting long shadows that stretch and shrink as people pass him from the opposite direction.

  He keeps his shoulders tight, moving carefully so as not to collide with anyone in the confined space.

  The air is cool and dry, carrying a faint mineral scent that reminds him of old libraries and sealed rooms.

  With each step downward, anticipation gathers in his chest.

  At the end of the stairway, the tunnel opens into a corridor.

  There is light ahead.

  Not the artificial glow of lamps, but something warmer, fuller.

  Sunlight.

  Clive slows.

  He walks forward, heart beating faster, aware that with each step he is crossing a boundary that most people never even know exists.

  He has never been blind to this other side of the world.

  He has seen knights on battlefields, heard stories whispered in taverns and classrooms.

  But those stories always ended the same way.

  Knighthood belonged to noble blood.

  From his father’s words, from school lectures, from casual remarks by teachers and peers, he learned early that without aristocratic lineage, the path of a knight was closed.

  As for alchemists, those who existed only in books.

  Legends.

  Fairy tales written in dusty volumes.

  Only a week ago did that illusion shatter.

  Only a week ago did he see true alchemy with his own eyes.

  The Sand Temple alchemist, Kaelan, descended like a force of nature.

  Lightning.

  Judgment.

  Charlie was erased from existence.

  Before leaving, Kaelan had looked at him—not like a detective, not like a commoner—but like a seed yet to sprout.

  “You have talent,” Kaelan had said.

  Talent.

  And then the words that brought him here.

  Hidden Sand Market.

  After the crown rewarded him for solving the case, after the city returned to its uneasy peace, Clive waited a week.

  Now he is here.

  He steps out of the corridor and into the light.

  Warm sunlight washes over him.

  He gasps.

  Above him is not a stone.

  Not concrete.

  But sky.

  A clear morning sky stretches overhead, pale blue with drifting clouds.

  The space opens into what looks like an underground city turned inside out—buildings arranged around a vast open plaza, sunlight pouring down from somewhere impossible.

  He stares upward, momentarily frozen.

  “This shouldn’t be possible,” he murmurs.

  “You’re in the way.”

  The annoyed voice snaps him back.

  Clive startles and steps aside quickly.

  “Sorry,” he says to the man brushing past him.

  The man snorts and continues walking without another word.

  Clive exhales and looks around.

  People move everywhere—men and women dressed far better than the lower districts, some in robes, some in tailored coats, some with subtle glows about them that make his instincts prickle.

  Stalls line the paths.

  Shops rise several stories high.

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  The ground ahead splits into a wide V-shaped path, each side bustling with activity.

  He hesitates, unsure which direction to take.

  “Hello, friend.”

  Clive turns.

  A man with blue eyes and red hair stands before him, about his age, wearing a relaxed smile and lifting a hand in greeting.

  “Hello,” Clive replies.

  “I’m Angus,” the man says cheerfully.

  “I’m Clive.”

  Angus tilts his head slightly, studying him. “First time here?”

  Clive raises an eyebrow. “What makes you think that?”

  Angus chuckles. “Because I looked exactly like that the first time I came here.”

  Clive glances up again at the sky. “How is this possible?”

  “I don’t know how,” Angus admits easily, “but it’s done by the Sand Temple.”

  Clive nods slowly, then looks back at him. “So why did you approach me?”

  Angus smiles wider. “For ten gold pounds, I’ll be your guide for the day.”

  A week ago, Clive would have laughed and refused.

  Now, with the crown’s reward safely in his hand, ten gold pounds feels almost trivial.

  He nods. “Alright.”

  “Good choice,” Angus says, already turning. “Follow me.”

  Clive falls in behind him as they merge into the crowd.

  “So,” Angus asks casually, weaving around passersby, “where do you want to go first?”

  “Potions,” Clive answers. “Something to help with meditation.”

  Angus nods. “Beginner potions.”

  “Yes.”

  “Generic or custom-made?”

  Clive frowns slightly. “What’s the difference?”

  Angus doesn’t slow. “Generic potions are suitable for everyone. No special advantage, very low side effects, extremely safe.”

  Clive nods.

  “Custom-made,” Angus continues, “are improved versions made by specific alchemists. Stronger effects, tailored results, but riskier.”

  “For now,” Clive says, “generic is fine.”

  Angus nods approvingly. “Smart.”

  They walk with purpose now, slipping between people and stalls.

  Clive glances around, taking everything in.

  “And this market,” he asks, “is it controlled by the Sand Temple?”

  “Yes,” Angus replies without hesitation. “They founded it. They control it.”

  “The kingdom allows that?” Clive asks.

  Angus laughs. “It’s the Sand Temple. What do you think the kingdom can do?”

  Clive’s brows knit together in disbelief.

  Angus glances back at him. “You’ve stepped into the other side of the world. In time, you’ll understand the role of the Sand Temple.”

  They stop before a shop with polished stone walls and a subtle golden emblem above the door.

  Angus gestures toward the entrance. “We’re here.”

  Clive takes a breath.

  Clive steps inside.

  The door closes softly behind him, muting the noise of the market outside.

  The store feels old in a comforting way.

  Dark wooden panels cover the floor, polished smooth by decades—perhaps centuries—of footsteps.

  The walls are lined with the same dark wood, giving the space a warm, enclosed feeling, as if the outside world has been carefully shut away.

  A U-shaped counter occupies three sides of the room, its surface scarred with faint burn marks, knife scratches, and symbols carved so shallow they are almost invisible.

  Above the counter, shelves climb up the walls, packed with bottles, boxes, sealed scrolls, and crystal vials that catch the light in subtle ways.

  Some liquids glow faintly.

  Others absorb light instead of reflecting it.

  Behind the counter stands an old man.

  His back is slightly bent, his hair thin and white, his face lined deeply—but his eyes are sharp, alert, and far too clear for someone his age.

  Angus grins and raises a hand.

  “Old Ben, look, I brought you a customer.”

  Old Ben glances up, his gaze sliding over Clive in a single, practised motion.

  Not judging.

  Measuring.

  “What can I do for you?” Old Ben asks calmly.

  Clive steps forward to the counter.

  “I’m looking for potions to help with meditation,” he says. “Beginner level. Generic ones.”

  Old Ben nods once, already turning slightly as if the decision has been made.

  “How much do you want?”

  Clive hesitates.

  His mind drifts—not to money, but to time.

  How often will he meditate?

  How long does he plan to persist?

  How serious is he about this path?

  After a moment, he says, “Enough for a week.”

  Old Ben pauses, then nods again.

  “A spirit potion costs fifteen gold pounds,” he says. “For proper effect, you’ll need two per day.”

  Clive does the calculation mentally.

  “For seven days, that’s fourteen spirit potions,” Old Ben continues. “Two hundred and ten gold pounds.”

  He looks at Clive for a long second.

  “I’ll give you a discount,” he adds. “Two hundred.”

  Clive nods without hesitation.

  He opens his purse and counts out the coins carefully, setting them on the counter.

  Old Ben sweeps the gold away, then turns and retrieves a small wooden box from beneath the counter.

  He opens it, checks the contents, then begins placing slim crystal vials inside, padding them with cloth.

  Each vial contains a clear liquid with a faint pearlescent sheen.

  When he finishes, Old Ben closes the box and slides it across the counter.

  “Don’t take more than recommended,” he says. “And don’t meditate immediately after physical exertion.”

  “I understand,” Clive replies.

  He takes the box, feeling its reassuring weight.

  Angus claps his hands once. “Pleasure as always, Old Ben.”

  Old Ben grunts softly, already turning back to his shelves.

  Clive and Angus step back out into the market.

  The sunlight greets them again, warm and unreal.

  Angus glances sideways. “Where to next?”

  Clive hums thoughtfully.

  “Is there a library here?” he asks.

  Angus smiles. “Of course. Follow me.”

  They walk, weaving through the crowd once more.

  After several minutes, they stop before a building that makes Clive pause.

  It is small.

  A single-story structure built from black stone, its surface smooth and unadorned.

  “It's small,” Clive notes.

  Angus chuckles. “The important parts are underground.”

  They climb a short flight of steps and enter.

  Inside, the library is quiet.

  Rows of shelves stretch out, filled with books bound in leather, cloth, metal, and stranger materials Clive can’t identify.

  The air smells faintly of dust and ink.

  Clive stands still, overwhelmed by choice.

  “What should I read?” he murmurs.

  Angus leans closer. “You don’t really know about the transcend world, right?”

  Clive shakes his head.

  “Then this is the best place to start.”

  Angus leads him to a section near the back and pulls out a thick tome.

  He hands it to Clive.

  The cover reads: *The World of Transcend.*

  Clive takes the book, feeling its weight.

  “And you?” he asks.

  Angus shrugs, pulling another book from the shelf. “I’ll read. My service is yours for the whole day.”

  Clive nods in gratitude.

  They sit at a wooden table, opposite each other, and begin reading.

  ---

  The first chapter opens with a map.

  Clive studies it carefully.

  The world is divided into three great continents and a chain of islands.

  At the centre lies the Holy Continent.

  His home.

  The Ang Isles, where Olden City stands, are part of it.

  The Holy Continent is described as the heart of civilisation—politically, culturally, and spiritually.

  To the southeast lies the Sand Continent, separated by the Arum Ocean.

  A vast land of deserts, ancient ruins, and old traditions.

  Clive’s eyes linger there.

  This is where the Sand Temple originated.

  North-east of the Holy Continent, beyond the White Ocean, lies a chain of islands.

  Scattered, harsh, and cold.

  Few details are given—only that they are isolated and dangerous.

  To the west lies the New Continent, separated by the Storm Ocean.

  A land discovered only recently, plagued by violent weather and unstable ley currents.

  Clive frowns as he reads about expeditions that vanished without a trace.

  Then the book shifts tone.

  The next section speaks of the Inner World.

  Not a place on the map.

  But layered atop reality.

  A realm accessible only through specific means—rituals, tunnels, and divine intervention.

  Within it lies the Blood Abyss Tunnel.