The air vibrated with chaotic energy, as palpable as a storm about to break. Shaw materialized back in the damp tunnel at the exact moment the fanatics' ritual reached its climax. Runes carved into the walls glowed with a sickly light, pulsing in sync with the frenzied rhythm of the inverted serpent symbol—a profane scar etched into the vault door. The sound of chanting was a fanatical mantra, thick with blind and dangerous faith.
Instinctively, Shaw activated his Molecular Manipulation. The light around him distorted as he became an indistinguishable specter in the gloom, his senses sharpened—every sound, every tremor in the ground amplified in his perception.
A dilemma paralyzed him for a brief moment. Intervening now would be an immense risk. Revealing his presence during the ritual's peak could alert the fanatics and even draw the attention of more powerful entities. On the other hand, standing by meant allowing the seal to be broken, with potentially catastrophic consequences.
As his eyes swept over the crowd of fervent faces, a jolt of recognition struck him. Among the fanatics, hidden beneath tattered robes and wild-eyed stares, were nobles he had seen before. Their expressions were twisted in a mix of excitement and dread—some whispering the chants, others watching with apprehension. The division among the nobility ran deeper than he had imagined, with factions seemingly willing to embrace dangerous madness in pursuit of power or salvation.
His gaze settled on the fanatics' leader—a gaunt man with scars that twisted his face into a grotesque mask. Elias. The intel he had gathered echoed in his mind. Once a respected Inventor, now consumed by a theory: the Cataclysm was not a random event, but a "miscalculation" in the pursuit of power. His vision preached the merging of humanity with the Predators, absorbing their innate abilities as the next step in evolution. An ideology that traded physical form—and more—for survival and power.
Suddenly, the key in his pocket flared, radiating unbearable heat through his clothes. A wave of images flooded his mind—fragments of a memory not his own:
A gleaming laboratory filled with intricate machines and pulsating lights. At its center, a sharp-eyed man in strange robes worked feverishly, surrounded by notes scrawled in unknown languages. The First Inventor. He moved with the urgency of a man racing against time, locking away his legacy—books, diagrams, artifacts—inside an intricate vault, sealing it with multiple safeguards. In his hands, the key—the only means to bypass the defenses and reclaim his knowledge.
The vision faded, leaving Shaw with a clearer understanding of the object in his pocket. The First Inventor's legacy was not just a trove of power, but crucial knowledge, locked away for a reason.
Three paths lay before Shaw, each fraught with uncertainty and danger:
Interfere with the Ritual: Confront the fanatics directly, risking exposure and facing a united force drunk on zeal. Success was uncertain, and failure would be disastrous.
Observe and Act Later: Let the seal break, witness the consequences, and plan his next move in a world potentially overrun by Predators and exposed to the horrors of the Battlefield.
Use the Key: Ignore the ritual and focus on the First Inventor's legacy. With that knowledge, he might redirect the seal—perhaps even fuse it with the Battlefield under his control. A bold, untested gamble.
The last option pulsed with tantalizing promise. Control over the connection between worlds… The sheer power of that possibility was immense.
Making a swift, silent decision, Shaw moved. Still cloaked in the illusion of Molecular Manipulation, he slipped through the shadows like a seasoned predator. His feet found every crack and unevenness in the ground, avoiding any sound that might betray him. He skirted the chanting fanatics, their ragged robes brushing against him unnoticed.
(Note: Molecular Manipulation muffles noise but doesn't erase it entirely.)
His target was the vault door, the epicenter of the pulsing energy. With deft fingers, he slid the key into the intricate lock. The cold metal responded with a soft click, and a faint line of light traced the door's edge. Slowly, with tense patience, he opened a narrow gap—just enough to slip inside.
As soon as he crossed the threshold, he pulled the door shut with equal care, the faint click of the lock drowned by the ritual's fervor. He was in. The passage sealed behind him, trapping him in the oppressive silence of the First Inventor's legacy—seconds before any fanatic could notice the disturbance in their frenzied rite. The fate of this world, and perhaps many others, now rested on the secrets within that vault.
The Vault's Interior
The vault hummed with ancient energy, the air thick with the scent of old metal and a faint trace of ozone—as if the atmosphere itself was electrified. Before Shaw, shelves laden with leather-bound tomes and strange mechanical devices stretched in concentric semicircles. At the center, a worktable displayed intricate diagrams—some depicting dimensional portals, others illustrating creatures he recognized as Predators, though in forms even more terrifying than those he'd faced.
The First Inventor's Journal
He seized the book, and the moment his fingers touched the parchment, another wave of visions assaulted his mind:
"The Cataclysm was no accident. It was a test. The Predators are not mere monsters—they are refugees from another dimension (beings who lost their home), much like the cats and other creatures of our world. But in our arrogance, we disturbed them. The seal we created was not just to protect us from other dimensions—but to protect the Predators from humanity."
The First Inventor's words echoed like a solemn warning. Shaw flipped through the pages frantically, searching for answers. Among schematics and ciphered notes, one passage stood out:
"The key is not just a tool—it is a catalyst. If used at the right moment, it can rewrite the seal, fusing it with the Battlefield and granting the wielder control over the barrier between worlds. But beware: this power comes at a price. The True Predators (with cognitive abilities equal to or surpassing humans) will sense the change. They will come."
Shaw gritted his teeth. This explained why Elias and his fanatics were so obsessed with breaking the seal—they didn't just want survival, they wanted to usurp the Predators' power. But at what cost?
(Note: Not all fanatics are truly mad. Some saw this as the only way to protect their families; others were deceived into believing they were helping humanity 'awaken.' [This wasn't entirely incorrect—but hidden agendas twisted their purpose.])
As the walls trembled and the fanatics' screams echoed outside, a fourth possibility crystallized in his mind—one as dangerous as the others, but with unique potential.
'I've been following the path of a Dream Inventor, turning illusions and dreams into reality. So far, I've made little progress. Other Inventors need only grasp a concept and have enough Origin energy stored in their core to craft spells, manipulate machines, or enhance their bodies. But I walk the path of creation. One possibility would be crafting a world within a dream—first planets, then solar systems, atmospheres, rivers, simple life forms, and eventually evolution. But that would require vast knowledge: spacetime mechanics, and more.'
Then, an alternative struck him.
'Instead of building from nothing… why not take an existing world and transplant it into my dream? I'd skip countless steps—though I'd still need to master the underlying principles. Initially, I dismissed this as unfeasible… but with the key and the seal fused to my body, I could gain complete control over this dimension.'