The Infinite Summoning Space stretched out before Zarek, unchanged—an endless expanse of vibrant, surreal greenery blanketed by drifting strands of ethereal fog. The mist dancing faintly in the air, like pale spirits caught in a dream, swaying gently around him.
Before him stood the object of his curiosity.
"So this is the Ninth Sequence Ultimate Grade Enhancement Stone…" Zarek muttered, unimpressed.
A massive chunk of obsidian floated slightly above the ground, blacker than shadow, its surface veined with glowing runes that pulsed with ancient resonance. The inscriptions weren't static—they moved constantly, shifting like living glyphs, rearranging into patterns that were beyond human understanding. The stone radiated a presence that was both silent and overwhelming.
Yet, despite the aura of mystique, Zarek felt oddly detached.
His gaze lingered on the runes, and slowly, a dazed fog crept into his mind.
"Where… am I?"
The scenery shifted. The ground beneath him fell away, and he floated in an ocean of stars. He was no longer in the Summoning Space.
It was a boundless void—cosmic and ancient. The stars surrounded him like glittering fireflies in an infinite black canvas, cold and uncaring. There was no up, no down—only the sensation of drifting through forever.
He tried to move, but his limbs wouldn't respond. Panic began to rise in his chest, but before he could fully grasp it, the void rippled like fabric caught in a gale.
The stars dimmed.
One by one, their light blinked out, swallowed by a force beyond comprehension.
Then came the tear.
A colossal rift spread across the void, stretching infinitely in all directions. From its twisted heart emerged a stone—at first, a speck, drifting like dust.
But the illusion shattered.
What he had thought was a pebble was anything but small. It was larger than entire galaxies, a monolithic presence hurtling toward him from unimaginable distances. It didn't move—reality shifted to accommodate it.
The moment it filled his vision, time seemed to stop.
Across its vast surface, images flickered—cosmic murals depicting the birth of stars, the rise and fall of civilizations, the death of time itself. The end of everything.
And through it all, the stone remained.
Eternal.
Unmoved.
Independent from existence itself.
Then—twist.
His perception whirled violently, and in a breathless instant, Zarek found himself grounded once more within the Infinite Summoning Space.
But something had changed.
A short distance away, a piece of obsidian now rested quietly on the grass. This one looked entirely mundane in comparison—silent, inert, devoid of aura. Its surface no longer pulsing with runes.
Still, the moment his gaze landed on it, a translucent interface materialized in front of him.
[Ninth Sequence Ultimate Origin Enhancement Stone]
[State – Origin Core Destroyed]
[Titles – Treasure of True Antiquity, The Last One Standing, Zenith Treasure, Absolute Peak]
[Available Function – The stone can enhance the origin of anything by combining lower-grade items to form a higher grade. Place the object you wish to enhance above the stone to proceed.]
"Enhance the origin?" Zarek mused aloud. "So... it does mean enhancing the grade? Like from Common to Rare?"
His brows furrowed slightly as his eyes lingered on the State section.
[Origin Core Destroyed]
"Tch. Just my luck," he muttered with a resigned sigh.
Still, disappointment didn't root too deeply in his heart. The stone wasn't useless—just dormant. It wasn't the right time for it to show its worth. He could feel it. Its true potential was buried beneath that shattered core, waiting for the future.
For now, it could still perform basic enhancement.
That alone was enough.
Zarek glanced around.
He was empty-handed.
Then a thought occurred to him. If he could bring the enhancement stone into the Summoning Space from the outside world… could he do the same with his other items?
Focusing his mind, he visualized the Wolf Howl Dagger on the wolf's back.
The moment the thought solidified—flash—the dagger materialized in his hand.
He felt the coolness of the blade, its faint magical aura brushing against his fingers. The edge gleamed with a predatory sharpness, reflecting the ambient glow of the space around him.
Satisfied, he stepped forward and placed the dagger atop the obsidian slab.
The stone stirred.
A low, harmonic hum filled the space, like the faint echo of a ghastly Mantra's. Wisps of energy rose from its cracked surface, swirling around the dagger with pious devotion.
A series of messages appeared
[First Sequence common Grade – Wolf Howl Dagger]
[Requirement – Place ten similar treasures to enhance its grade.]
"I can enhance it," Zarek murmured, eyes narrowed. "But I need few more of the same dagger…"
A quiet moment passed as he stared at the floating interface, deep in thought.
The possibilities stirred his imagination.
Meanwhile, in the real world, his summoned mad wolf continued to trek steadily across rugged terrain. Despite its earlier injuries, it moved with unshakable determination, carrying Zarek toward the heart of the floor—the very center where the floor boss awaited.
There, an alpha led a pack of over fifty Mad Wolves.
A brutal battle was on the horizon.
Zarek's grip on the summoned wolf's fur tightened slightly.
He wasn't afraid.
He was preparing.
This time no challenge would stop him.
While Zarek was bracing himself for the confrontation with the floor boss…
Far away, buried deep within the heart of the Silver Sword Family's private territory, a vastly different scene was unfolding.
The headquarters stretched across a sprawling field, dotted with towering structures built in a style long forgotten by the modern world. Grand old buildings rose with timeless grace—arched ceilings, intricate pillars, and soaring domes crafted from pale stone that glowed faintly in the sunlight. They stood like sentinels of tradition, unyielding in the face of progress.
To the outside world, it was a mystery.
How could one of the most advanced manufacturers on the continent reside within architecture that looked centuries behind?
But no outsider could answer that question. Only the Silverswords knew.
And they never told.
In a quiet courtyard framed by silver-tipped hedges and cobbled stone, two men stood in still silence. One was young, the other older, but their resemblance was unmistakable—sharply defined features, hawk-like eyes as black as the void, and a presence that demanded attention.
They were Khass Silversword, the current patriarch of the family, and his eldest son, Knull Silversword.
Both were dressed immaculately in tailored black coats with crisp white collars, the subtle embroidery on their cuffs catching the soft glow of the morning sun. The air around them was tense, heavy with expectation.
Their gazes kept returning to the same spot—an empty patch of air above the marble courtyard.
It was more than a habit.
They were waiting.
And then, finally, Knull broke the silence.
"Why is Grandpa returning so early? He was supposed to return half a year later, wasn't he?"
His voice was low, but there was a flicker of unease buried beneath his composed tone.
Their grandfather—Klassen Silversword, Khass's father and the unshakable founder of the Silver Sword family—had embarked months ago on a dangerous expedition. The goal: to delve into the recently emerged Sacrificial Dungeon, a place rumoured to contain numerous Second Sequence monsters.
A challenge befitting only the highest tier of powerhouses.
His sudden return was unexpected. Worrisome.
As if summoned by the mention of his name, the air above them cracked—literally. A jagged fissure tore across space itself, spilling faint glimmers of light as the void parted.
From that fracture stepped a man.
Towering and broad-shouldered, with the build of a living war machine and a presence that silenced everything around him. His thick hair, streaked with steel-gray, hung wild around a chiseled face marred by blood and exhaustion. His once-white tunic was torn and stained with streaks of dried crimson. And yet, the feral energy radiating from him hadn't dulled in the slightest.
This was Klassen Silversword—the foundation, the fist, and the legend of the Silversword name.
At once, two voices rose in respectful unison.
"Welcome back, Father…"
"Welcome, Grandpa…"
Klassen's weathered expression softened. A faint smile flickered at the corners of his lips—just for a moment.
But then, as his eyes swept across the courtyard, his brow furrowed. His gaze darted about as if seeking someone, as if something was missing.
And finally, he asked.
"Where is my lovely grandson, Zarek?"
At that question, both Khass and Knull visibly stiffened. The faintest shift in their expressions betrayed what their words had not.