The roar of the collapsing chamber was a physical weight, a wall of sound that threatened to burst Dimas’s eardrums as he plummeted toward the white-hot veins of the earth. His fingers had just closed around the Obsidian Key, the jagged violet stone vibrating with a frantic, rhythmic heat that felt like a dying pulse against his scorched palm. Gravity claimed him, pulling him toward the magma, until his shoulder slammed into a narrow, protruding ledge of basalt with a bone-jarring crunch."Son of a—!" Dimas choked out, his voice instantly swallowed by the hiss of steam and the thunder of falling rock. He rolled onto his back, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps as he clutched the stone to his chest. He looked at his hands; the skin was already beginning to bubble, the intense radiance of the magma chamber turning his vision into a smear of red and black."Okay... okay, Dimas," he wheezed, staring at the ceiling as it began to rain dust and jagged glass. "You got the rock. Now y

The blinding white pillar of the spotlight felt like a physical weight, pressing Dimas back into the seat of his wheelchair. The voice that boomed across the waves didn't sound human; it sounded like a choir of machines, cold and perfectly synchronized."Final processing?" Dimas squinted, raising a bandaged hand to shield his eyes. "You guys really need a better PR department. That sounds like you’re taking us to a landfill.""Dimas, shut up!" Irina hissed, her hand white-knuckled on the gunwale of the small boat. "Look at the size of that thing. It’s not a yacht. It’s a floating fortress.""I see it, Irina," Dimas said, his voice dropping into a low, focused hum. "Hard to miss a mountain made of black steel.""The collection is incomplete," the voice boomed again, the vibration rattling the few remaining loose boards of Jaka’s skiff. "Relinquish the Foundation Keys, Subject 4-1-0. Resistance is statistically irrelevant.""Statistically irrelevant?" Dimas managed a dry, painful chuckl

The iron-reinforced platform had finally settled into its cradle, the echoes of the heavy wooden gears still humming in the stone floor. Abbot Kaelen stood at the edge of the circular hall, his silhouette framed by the glowing holographic map of the archipelago. He looked at Dimas, who remained seated in the wheelchair, the three Foundation Keys resting on his lap like heavy, silent judge."The time for talk has ended, Dimas Pratama," Kaelen said, his voice reflecting the gravity of the stone around them. "The dawn is coming, and with it, the Architect’s reach will extend to the Mountain of Whispers. If you are to meet him, you cannot go as a man who cannot stand."Dimas looked at his hands, the bandages stained with a mixture of sea salt and volcanic soot. "You make it sound like I’m going into a surgery, Abbot. I’m just sitting in a cave.""It is a surgery of the soul," Kaelen replied. "The deepest cavern is where the resonance is loudest. It is the only place where the veil is thin

The smoke hadn't even cleared from the crater where the main doors used to be before the first silver-etched rounds began whistling through the air. To everyone else in the Great Hall, it was a sudden, violent eruption of noise and death. To Dimas, it was a slow, agonizingly predictable arc of lead."Leo, drop! Irina, behind the pedestal!" Dimas shouted, his voice a distorted boom as he pushed his perception into the silver zone.He moved before the words had even fully left his mouth. In the time it took for a single Collector soldier to pull a trigger, Dimas had already crossed thirty feet of shattered stone. He caught the first soldier’s rifle barrel, wrenching it upward."Hey, watch where you point that thing," Dimas muttered, his silver eyes flashing. "These monks have a very strict 'no-bullets' policy."The soldier didn't even have time to gasp. Dimas delivered a palm strike to the man’s chest—just enough kinetic force to send him flying back into the squad behind him, and then

The ascent ended not with a climb, but with a rupture. Dimas tore through the final veil of freezing mist, his feet skidding across the frosted basalt of the summit. The silver fire in his blood hummed at a pitch so high it was almost silent, turning the chaotic roar of the storm into a rhythmic, structured vibration.He wasn't panting. He wasn't tired. He was simply there.At the center of the peak sat the ancient stone altar, its surface carved with grooves that pulsed in synchronization with the three keys in his pockets. And standing at the edge of the jagged cliff, silhouetted against the bruised, electric sky, was the Ghost. He held Irina by the arm, her figure small and fragile against the howling abyss."You're late, Dimas," the Ghost called out, his voice cutting through the wind like a razor. "For a man who claims to be the wind, you certainly took your time."Dimas stopped ten feet away, his silver eyes fixed on Irina. "Put her down, you gray freak. I’m here. I’ve got your