King Jareth's boots clinked against the copper tiles as he stepped into Dhavros' central plaza—a maze of shade-cloth banners and sandstone arches. The southern sun poured down, but the buildings had an eerie way of staying cool, their walls humming with ancient enchantments.
This was not the kind of place where brute magic thrived. Here, things worked sideways. Magic didn't roar—it whispered. You didn't cast it—you invited it. And if it didn't like you?
It ignored you.
Every continent had its own language for the arcane, and Axxora's was silence and suggestion.
Jareth ran a gloved hand along a nearby pillar. The stone pulsed faintly beneath his fingers—runework not etched but woven into the material itself.
"Southern magic is weird," he muttered.
Behind him, a voice piped up, "Weird? Or just smarter than yours?"
He turned. It was a boy, maybe nine, covered in ink stains and holding a floating parchment that refused to stay still.
"Depends. Does yours explode on command?"
"No," the boy sniffed, "but mine gets better grades."
The page snapped at his nose. Jareth laughed, ruffled the boy's hair, and moved on.
This was all cover. Casual movement. Goofball presence. But his eyes were scanning constantly. Watching how people moved. Who avoided the plaza. Who turned twice to look his way.
END had been spotted here three nights ago. After months of false trails and whispered leads, this was the most tangible one yet.
He passed through a market alley where hanging fruit swayed in rhythm with soundless chants. On a clothesline nearby, tiny knots in shirts were wriggling loose on their own—a housewife's magic laundry system.
Everywhere he looked, magic was subtle. Not showy. It lived in objects, shapes, behaviors.
It made tracking someone… difficult.
Especially someone like END.
Jareth adjusted his cloak against the hot southern wind, sand skimming off the stones as he leaned against a crooked pillar. The streets here curled like roots, winding in ways only the locals could make sense of. Magic hung in the air differently—less structured, more emotional. Felt like every breath was a prayer or a curse, depending on who you asked.
He wiped sweat from his brow, chewing idly on a fruit he'd bargained for two minutes ago. Then he saw it.
Far on the horizon, rising from the dunes like a half-buried memory, El Dorado shimmered—distant, gold-touched, and wrong.
He squinted. "Still standing, huh?"
A gruff voice nearby replied, "Always is."
Jareth turned. An old merchant was crouched beside a cloth-draped cart, arranging trinkets made of bone and dyed string. The man didn't look up.
"Funny thing about El Dorado," the merchant went on. "Everyone says it's cursed. I say it's patient."
"Oh yeah?" Jareth asked, smirking. "What's it waitin' for?"
The man finally met his eyes—his were pale and glassy, like they'd seen something too long ago to forget.
"They say no one lives there anymore. Not properly. No warmth, no firelight. Just… shadows wearin' skin."
He tapped the side of his nose. "Undead city, that one. Like the whole place made a pact it couldn't get out of. The dead got up, and the living got out. Hasn't changed since."
Jareth let out a low whistle. "Sounds like a party."
The merchant laughed once—dry, wheezy, too quiet.
"City of gold, they call it. But gold ain't the only thing that don't rot."
Jareth glanced back toward the horizon. The shape of El Dorado shimmered faintly, mirage-like, as though blinking in and out of existence.
"Huh," he muttered, "Well. That's spooky."
"Best not to get curious. Even the wind avoids that place."
The wind blew just then — from the opposite direction.
Jareth turned back toward the horizon and muttered, "Noted."
Meanwhile
Hamlet
The sun hung low, casting golden slants of light through the thinning trees as Kagetsuchi, Zerathos, Arashi, and Marek moved through the overgrown trail. The town elder's directions had been vague at best, but the tracks in the dirt—small, frantic, and slightly dragged—made the trail feel recent.
"I think he ran off this way," Marek said, squinting ahead. "Though I don't know why anyone would go into this part of the woods. It's so quiet…"
"Too quiet," Arashi added, scanning the brush. "Even the bugs shut up."
Zerathos narrowed his eyes. His senses had been on high alert since they entered the forest, but something now felt off. Not dangerous—yet—but… wrong.
Kagetsuchi took a few steps forward and then froze.
"What is that?" she whispered, eyes wide.
They all stopped walking at once.
It wasn't something they agreed on. Their bodies just… knew.
In the middle of the woods—where there should have been trees and roots and maybe a few bugs—there was now a door.
A single, ancient archway stood planted in the dirt, surrounded by nothing but the soft wind. Stone pillars stretched upward from nowhere, covered in glyphs that shimmered and changed when looked at directly. There was no wall behind the arch. Just space. Shifting, breathing space.
Kagetsuchi stared at it.
"…Is that a dungeon?"
Marek stepped forward slowly, almost reverently. "No. No, no, no… that's impossible."
"What is it, Marek?" Zerathos asked, his tone half-serious, half-alarmed.
Marek gulped. "That is a dungeon."
Zerathos gave him a deadpan stare. "Didn't she just say that?"
"No, like, actually a dungeon. A real one. Not a simulation. Not a guild-run trial. A natural dungeon. A legendary artifact from beyond space and time."
Arashi tilted his head. "Looks like a door."
"It's a paradox, Arashi," Marek snapped, his voice now bubbling with nerdy panic. "Dungeons aren't bound by logic. They don't exist in one place, one time, one reality. They just appear. No one knows how or why. When one shows up, the odds of seeing another are literally—statistically—one in eternity."
Zerathos blinked. "That's not a real number."
"That's the point!"
They stood there for a beat. The dungeon did not shimmer, or shake, or sparkle. It simply was—anchored to the ground like an idea too stubborn to leave.
Arashi leaned in a little too close to the arch.
"Wait—what if I touch it?"
Kagetsuchi immediately slapped his hand back. "Don't. What if it disappears if we interact with it too soon?!"
"Yeah," Marek muttered. "You breathe wrong around one of these and it folds itself back into the fabric of unreality."
Arashi looked horrified. "It can do that?!"
"Yes."
Zerathos raised a brow. "…Can we do that?"
"No!"
Kagetsuchi crossed her arms. "So what, we just sit here and admire it from a distance? The missing kid might be inside!"
The wind shifted.
And the dungeon responded. It pulsed faintly, as if listening.
Then, for a split second, they could see something through the archway.
Not a room. Not a cave.
A skyline. A city in ruins. Or maybe being built. Or maybe burning.
Time didn't work right through the gate.
Marek, completely mesmerized now, said, "Dungeons are described in ancient texts as the dreams of forgotten gods. They contain relics from the past, present, and future. No two are the same. They're spaces built on contradiction. The logic here is just… placeholder rules. You understand?"
Zerathos didn't. "Not even remotely."
"Good. That means you're ready."
Everyone stood quiet again. The wind stopped.
And for a moment—just a moment—they all felt it:
A hum in their bones. A feeling of something watching them from the other side. Not hostile. Not inviting. Just aware.
Kagetsuchi stepped forward.
"I think we have to go in."
Arashi hesitated. "Are we sure we even can?"
Marek whispered, "Once you've seen one, it means it's already chosen you."
They exchanged a look.
Then Zerathos stepped forward, hand brushing the edge of the arch.
It didn't vanish.
Kagetsuchi exhaled.
"Guess we're doing this."
And somewhere, beyond time and reason, a story that should not have existed began to write itself.
This… was the encounter that would change the course of the world.