Adrian had only meant to rest his eyes—one moment he was lying on a stiff mattress in a dim 1925 bedroom, and the next, he was weightless. He felt himself sinking, as if drifting through fog, then falling through silence. The air was cold but didn't bite; it was the kind of cold that came from absence—of life, sound, and time.
When he opened his eyes, the world had changed.
There was no bed, no room—just an endless expanse of grey, quiet and unreal, like a dream left half-formed. The ground beneath his feet shimmered faintly, like polished stone coated in mist. The sky—or what passed for it—was a swirl of muted clouds, unmoving and eternal.
And floating before him was a massive, ancient structure: Sefirah Castle.
Its spires defied gravity, twisting into impossible angles, vanishing into the hazy heavens above. The entire structure radiated presence—so much so that it felt like the air itself was bowing around it. The void pulsed with unseen power, and the castle seemed to hum in response, like a sleeping god exhaling slowly.
Adrian's breath hitched.
He was standing in front of the very thing he had once believed existed only in fiction. Sefirah Castle, from Lord of the Mysteries, stood tall and terrifying before him. He had read about it—its power, its significance—but never imagined he'd see it with his own eyes.
"Am I dreaming?" he muttered, barely able to hear himself.
But it didn't feel like a dream. Everything was too vivid, too real. His heart pounded in his chest. The stillness of the world only amplified his racing thoughts. Somehow, by merely closing his eyes on that creaky bed in 1925 London, he had crossed a threshold few ever could.
And in that impossible moment—between awe and terror—he smiled.
Adrian stood frozen before the towering gates of Sefirah Castle. His breath caught in his throat as he took in the details: massive stone doors adorned with runes that seemed to crawl across the surface, shifting ever so slightly when he wasn't looking directly at them. The air here wasn't just thick—it was alive, charged with meaning and something he didn't yet understand.
Ancient symbols pulsed with a soft, otherworldly glow, and a deep hum echoed in his bones, vibrating through marrow and memory. For a moment, he forgot the cold, the danger—forgot even his fear.
This was real.
His heart pounded with disbelief and awe, but a grin crept onto his face, despite himself.
"It's real," he whispered, half-laughing, half-crying. "It's actually real."
For the first time since arriving in 1925, he didn't feel lost.
He felt chosen.
With a trembling hand, Adrian reached for the massive doors. The stone felt impossibly cold, like the absence of warmth itself. The moment his fingers touched the surface, the gates creaked open—not with resistance, but as if they had been expecting him all along.
A wave of strange pressure swept over him as he stepped inside. It wasn't physical—it was deeper, something spiritual, something that brushed against his very soul and took measure of him.
The interior of the castle was vast and silent, lit by a pale, sourceless glow that painted everything in shades of silver and shadow. The floor was smooth obsidian, etched with intricate patterns that seemed to shift ever so slightly, depending on where he stood.
In the center of the chamber stood three ancient stone tables, arranged in a triangle, each spaced evenly apart. They looked worn by time, yet untouched by decay.
On each table, a glowing symbol was carved—burning faintly with subtle colors:
The Door — its lines straight and rigid, promising passage and peril.
The Error — a twisted symbol that seemed to glitch in and out of clarity.
The Fool — whimsical and chaotic, yet strangely comforting.
Upon each table rested a single, ornate bottle of potion, each utterly unique. One held a deep, ocean-blue liquid that swirled like a storm trapped in glass. Another shimmered like molten silver, its glow flickering like dying stars. The last was filled with a strange, opalescent mist that refused to settle, constantly shifting in shape and color.
Adrian's heart raced as he stepped closer, the silence pressing in around him.
He knew exactly what these were.
These were Pathway potions—the first step to becoming a Beyonder. A step that, once taken, could never be reversed. The wrong choice could mean madness, corruption, even death. And yet… the right choice? It could mean power beyond imagination. It could mean transcendence.
He wasn't just in a different world.
He was being offered a choice.
A real one.
He hesitated.
And then—a change in the air. A subtle tremor, like the walls of the castle had exhaled. The symbols on the tables pulsed once, faintly. The stone beneath his feet seemed to shift by a fraction—too slight to be sure. No voice spoke, but Adrian felt it.
The castle was watching.
It didn't speak in words. It didn't need to. But something about this place was alive—or aware—and it was waiting. Waiting for him to choose.
His fingers twitched.
But he didn't reach out.
Not yet.
The potions glowed softly in the stillness. The castle waited. And Adrian, for the first time in his life, chose to pause.