CHAPTER 123: HOLLOW REALITIES

"Is this just me or the Curios spawn in this new area are rather low?"

"We’re in the territory of the Yevdat Kingdom, who knows what kind of sorcery that the Umbra King placed in order to make sure that his land is free of infidels."

"Can I get a second mug of beer?"

"You’re already on your twentieth beer."

The dimly lit bar in the heart of Salissic Vein bastion hummed with the low murmur of conversation, the clink of mugs, and the occasional burst of laughter from weary patrons seeking respite from the day’s patrols, and daredevil activities.

Flickering lanterns cast long shadows across the wooden tables, their flames dancing in the draft from the cracked stone walls.

The air was thick with the scent of spiced ale and roasted meats, a comforting haze that masked the underlying tension of a bastion on the edge of uncertainty.

Void Hunters—battle-hardened wanderers clad in mismatched armor and Curio Items etched with personalized touch—clustered around the bar, their capes and cloaks draped over stools like forgotten banners.

At one corner table, a pair of Hunters leaned in close, their voices hushed but animated.

The first, a burly man with a scarred face and a cloak pinned with Voidling fangs, nursed a foaming tankard. "You hear the whispers? This place—as in the whole Salissic Vein—is about to become a battlefield."

"You sure are quick to jest, heh."

"I got it from a reliable scout, the Umbra King’s thralls are mobilizing. That relocation curse dumped us right in Yevdat territory, and they ain’t happy about it."

"I think whoever told you that information had practically just scammed you." His companion, a wiry woman with short-cropped hair and a bandolier of enchanted daggers, scoffed, swirling her drink. "You got the expired version of the intel, because just three days ago, a Salissic’s representative struck a peaceful deal with the Umbra King. No clashes, no blood. We’re safe, at least for now... The kingdom’s got bigger fish to fry than some misplaced bastion."

"Wait, so no war is coming?" the Void Hunter sighed. "And here I thought that I could join the bastion force for some extra pay..."

"I don’t think that any pay are worth the danger of going to war with anyone."

Before the man could retort, a third voice cut in from the shadows—a smooth, melodic tone laced with smug confidence. "You’re both mistaken."

The speaker stepped into the lantern light: an elven-like Void Hunter with pointed ears, flowing golden hair tied back in a warrior’s braid, and attire that revealed toned arms and midriff, accented by a flowing cape embroidered with starry patterns.

She slid onto a stool between them, her green eyes sparkling with knowing amusement.

The burly Hunter raised an eyebrow. "You saying the peaceful treaty’s bogus?"

The woman leaned forward. "Or the war rumor’s true?"

Burren smirked, signaling the bartender for a drink. "Oh, the war already happened, like, days ago!"

The bar erupted in laughter, patrons slapping tables and shaking their heads.

Even the bartender, a grizzled old man with a mechanical arm whirring as he poured, grinned widely. "Burren, you gotta lay off the strong stuff. You’re seeing shadows where there ain’t none!"

Burren maintained her bitter smile, swirling the ale that landed before her. "I’m serious. The war already happened... but not against the Yevdat Kingdom."

The laughter died down, replaced by curious murmurs, but before anyone could press her, the scene fractured like glass under a hammer.

Burren slumped against the shattered remnants of the bar’s counter, her cape torn and soaked in blood—her own and others’.

The once-cozy space was a ruin: tables splintered, walls cratered from eldritch blasts, the air thick with the acrid smoke of charred wood and the metallic tang of spilled life.

Bodies lay scattered—friends, strangers, fellow Hunters—twisted in final agony, their eyes vacant stares that accused the silence.

Her gilded hair matted with grime, Burren clutched her side where a jagged wound wept crimson, each breath a ragged gasp that sent fresh agony ripping through her.

The elven grace that defined her was broken, her pointed ears twitching at phantom sounds of screams long faded.

"Haah, just when things are going comfortably, I got brought back to the cruel and sad reality..."

Tears welled in her green eyes, tracing clean paths down her blood-streaked face.

She had fought—oh, how she had fought—her blade a blur of silver against the tide of horrors.

But it wasn’t enough. The memories flooded her, the burly Hunter’s booming laugh turning to a gurgle as a tentacled abomination impaled him, the wiry woman’s daggers flashing defiantly before she was dragged into the depths, the bartender’s mechanical arm sparking as he shielded other, only to be crushed under a falling beam.

They were gone—all of them—snuffed out in a frenzy of madness and violence.

"Why...?" Burren whispered, her voice cracking as she slumped further, the cold stone floor leaching her warmth. "How did it go so wrong? We were just... talking, laughing...

"The past... can I ever claim it back?" Her mind replayed the peaceful moments, shared stories over ale, the camaraderie of survivors in a harsh world. Now, it was ash. "I’d rather live in an illusion... where everyone’s still alive, and the laughter echoes... instead of this god-forsaken reality..."

A low rumble built outside, the ground trembling. Burren’s bitter smile twisted into a sob.

She had no strength left to stand, no will to fight the inevitable.

The eldritch energy surged—a blinding wave of corruptive force that obliterated what was leftover of the bar in a cataclysmic blast, erasing Burren and her final plea in a storm of void-tainted fury.

The missing roof of the dilapidated bar revealed the vast devastation of Salissic Vein bastion.

Once a thriving stronghold of towering walls and bustling markets, it now lay in smoldering ruins, craters pockmarking the ground where buildings had stood.

Swarms of deadly sea creatures rampaged through the wreckage, humanoid figures with scaled skin and webbed limbs, their eyes glowing with feral hunger—monstrous behemoths resembling twisted krakens, tentacles lashing out to crush fleeing survivors; eel-like horrors slithering through the debris, their jaws unhinging to devour the fallen.

At the heart of the horde loomed a colossal abyssal monster, skyscraper-sized, its body a writhing mass of sucker-teeth-lined maws and countless maddening eyes that pulsed with hypnotic malice.

The Hollow Aequor had descended in full force, their oceanic wrath flooding the land like a tidal apocalypse.

The horde surged toward the second massive wall—a fortified barrier of Eulanite allot and magical wards, the last defense shielding the evacuated survivors huddled within.

Atop the wall, diviners in flowing robes chanted incantations, their hands weaving spells that shimmered like barriers of liquid light.

Among them stood a tall man in a skull mask, his cloak billowing in the wind, and a woman with elegant antlers crowning her head, her armor adorned with nature motifs.

"Can we hold?" the woman asked, her voice strained as she channeled a vine-like spell to reinforce the wall. "The reinforcement from Karasu—will it arrive in time?"

The masked man gripped the parapet, his eyes scanning the oncoming tide through the slits of his mask. "It doesn’t matter."

"Why?" she pressed, antlers glowing as her magic surged.

His voice was calm, almost resigned. "This is all an active illusion, cast by the Hollow Aequor and amplified by the psychic quakes...

"They’re trying to break us before the real assault hits—make us fall to despair from within."

The woman’s eyes widened, vines faltering for a moment. "Then the suffering... the deaths... are they real?"

Morgina turned to her, his skull mask impassive. "They’re real... but this truth isn’t reality. Far from it, the illusion feeds on doubt of your actual perception of reality."

The scene shimmered, fracturing like a dream on the verge of waking.

The masked man blinked, and the devastated landscape reformed as if the reality changed entirely,

The Salissic Vein bastion stood intact, its walls humming with wards and spell formation.

Void Hunters and military forces scrambling to fortify positions. Diviners chanted atop the battlements, weaving barriers of light, while soldiers equipped with long-ranged Curio Items of all kinds and sizes were stationed ready.

The air crackled with tension, the distant rumble of the approaching Hollow Aequor a thunderous promise of doom.

The masked man remained atop the second inner wall, overseeing the organized chaos.

He’d felt this before—the creeping dread of the depths’ illusions, twisting minds into weapons against themselves. "I’ve danced with the dreaming creatures of the deep," he muttered, his voice low under the mask. "Their whispers... they cut deeper than blades."

Beside him, where the antlered woman had stood in the illusion, now lurked a cloaked figure in blue, octopus tendrils spilling from the hem like living shadows.

Its voice slithered, oily and invasive.

"Have you ever felt true pain, Morgina? Helplessness that devours the soul?"

Morgina sighed, his hand twitching. "Dumb question, abyssal wretch."

In a flash, a spike of blood erupted from the ground, impaling the figure.

It spiraled upward, branching into a grotesque tree of crimson thorns that shredded the illusionary intruder to pieces, its tendrils dissolving into wisps of dark mist.

He exhaled, the mask hiding his weary expression.

One day left until the Karasu Association’s reinforcements arrived.

If they could hold that long, Salissic Vein might survive.

But the psychic quakes raged on, blurring lines between nightmare and now.

Morgina gripped his staff, blood runes glowing along its length.

The real war was coming—and illusions or not, the depths would claim their due.

Meanwhile, somewhere within Vaingall.

"... What if we try to replicate what’s happened yesterday, developing a device that can transfer otherworlder into Fathomi in a controlled manner?" Oizys said right in front of the finalized schematic of the second version of the Dark Matter Reactor.

"I don’t think that will bode us well," Karen said, wearing a lab coat that was specifically designed for her. "What if, instead of you accidentally summoning another innocent person who don’t even care about the transfer, you got a whiny modern teenager who wanted to go back at all cost, or even worse, a toddler."

"Hmm, appointing you as the research assistant of the Head Researcher of the New Vaingall Consortium is nothing sort of a remarkable move if I said so myself," Kivas nodded twice with a smile of self-glazing.

"Even though half of the crazy ideas are coming from you specifically, and not me?" Oizys complained.

"That’s the difference, though," Samal said. "It is coming from Kivas, so it is more morally acceptable."

"I don’t think that kind of mindset is even remotely acceptable in any criteria of morality..." Karen muttered.