The first thing they did was return to the heart of the city—where the city hall stood.
It wasn't until they reached the fountain where the rift to illusionary Haven had torn open that Northern truly grasped the scale of the destruction inflicted upon the trade city of Lithia.
What had once been a city of proud, lonesome buildings—erected with handsome craftsmanship—had been reduced to a wasteland. A battlefield of titans. A scar carved into the land by war.
Buildings lay in crumbled heaps, reduced to rubble and ruin. Craters pockmarked the ground like impact wounds from fallen stars. The devastation was complete, and the blame lay largely between the battle of Nebulous Lord and the Abysmal Belial.
The sheer scope of their clash stirred a question in Northern's mind—one that settled strangely at the edge of his thoughts.
'Are Abysmal levels stronger than Apex levels?'
He wasn't sure. Apex had always been defined as the peak of monster hierarchy—the pinnacle of danger. But his encounters with Apex beings had felt… different. Less monstrous. More structured.
He had begun to suspect that Apex monsters were marked not by raw power alone, but by their ability of order. They were natural leaders—born to control chaos, not contribute to it. Wherever they stepped, structure followed. They weren't just powerful… they commanded.
It was the reason why rift guardians were so often Apex-level creatures.
But something about the Abysmals unsettled him. Apex monsters, as he'd come to understand, had evolved from Abysmals… so how did Abysmals still feel more terrifying? More chaotic? More evil?
Devil and Abysmal… these two danger levels seemed like outliers. Ragged anomalies. Unrefined, untamed, unfit for the natural order.
Was Apex the world's way of fixing them? Was it nature correcting its own defect?
Another question he couldn't answer. Not unless the world itself decided to speak.
As they approached the lonesome plaza, Ascendant Zion and Sage Mack appeared at the front, reporting in. Sage Rhama leapt down from the roof of the ruined city hall shortly after, landing beside them.
He had been helpful—handling rogue Behemoths with his younger brother and a handful of Drifters.
All together, they had managed to bring one down.
Compared to what Northern, his summons and Paragon Raizel had accomplished, their feat felt pitiful. Insignificant, even. But still… a Sage and a Savant taking down a Behemoth was no small accomplishment. If there were a hall of fame, it would be worthy of inscription—though no such place existed.
Ascendant Zion looked at Northern with wide, gleaming eyes.
"Sage Rian… you are amazing! I—I don't even know what to say… You're so strong!"
His gaze shifted toward the Paragon beside Northern, a flicker of worry crossing his features.
Burning Storm raised an eyebrow.
"So, I'm not amazing?"
Zion froze. A tremble danced in his hands as he frantically shook his head.
"No! Not at all, sir! I just meant that—"
He stopped, catching himself, then awkwardly tried not to look at Raizel's missing arm. His gaze dipped, avoiding the empty shoulder entirely.
The Paragon smiled—softly, almost amused—and used the arm he was still holding in his other hand to lightly tap Zion's shoulder.
"It's fine. It's fine… no need to be so worried about me."
Zion went pale again, but forced himself to nod, trying to maintain composure.
"What's the situation on ground?"
Paragon Raizel's voice cut through the air—measured, serious—as he withdrew his hand from Ascendant Zion's shoulder.
Still slightly cringing from the cold, lifeless touch, Zion straightened and spoke.
"We've evacuated everyone. All civilians and merchants have been moved inside the rift. Only the Drifters remain now. There were a few… issues here and there, but I handled them. You don't need to worry."
Raizel gave a short nod.
"Oh? That's good then… I knew I could count on you."
Zion swallowed. A shadow crept across his expression, dulling the edge of his gaze.
"However, sir…there's still one situation."
Burning Storm narrowed his eyes, reading the unease on the Ascendant's face.
"It's the healer, Braham. He's refusing to go with us Drifters to Verulania. He insists he'll only be evacuated with the civilians."
Paragon Raizel groaned, rubbing his temple.
"Oh, dear stars… that butter boy again."
Northern scoffed under his breath.
"I'm not surprised he's being a problem."
Raizel turned toward him, his eyes widening slightly.
"That's right… you mentioned you're from the Dark Continent. Braham is too. Strange, isn't it? That the same land could produce him—a spoiled, whining son of a rotten birth—and you… a fine, terrifying child of steel."
He squinted thoughtfully.
"How is that even possible? Weren't you all forged by the same crucible?"
Northern gave a light shrug.
"Some people choose to step into the crucible. Others… just bask in its warmth and pretend that's the same thing."
Raizel stared at him for a few long beats, still caught in the quiet awe that hadn't left since the battle.
He'd witnessed just a sliver of what Northern could do—and it haunted him. The ease with which he fought. The monstrous presence that seemed to wrap around him like a cloak. The child from the Dark Continent had grown into something… else.
He exhaled and looked away.
Northern's voice came again—rough, hoarse, yet laced with dark amusement.
"Well… if you'll let me, I can deal with him."
A grin flickered on his face, crooked and wicked, though he was careful to keep it reined in.
Raizel looked at him, weighed the offer—then sighed and shook his head.
"No. We'll deal with him later. Right now, we need a real solution for that thing…"
He tilted his head, eyes narrowing as he stared upward—mind already shifting into strategy.
Northern lifted his gaze as well.
There, hanging from the rift like a limp marionette, was the hand.
It protruded from the black eye in the sky—unnaturally still, as if the heavens themselves had tried to pull something through and failed halfway. The fingers twitched now and then, sending faint pulses of unease through the air.
There was no way the rest of that creature could fit through the rift. It was simply impossible—at least, by any known standard of reality.
'Everything about this rift is wrong…'
The way it expanded. The pressure it exuded. The strange dissonance in the air, like the rules of the world had been stretched too far and were beginning to tear.
'Who could really be behind this? It doesn't feel natural. It feels… orchestrated. A stall tactic. Deliberate.'
His mind sifted through possibilities, trying to put a face to the scheme, but nothing surfaced. No name. No shadow. Only a lingering emptiness that gnawed at the edges of his thoughts.
Eventually, he exhaled slowly and tore his gaze away from the hand.
"Well," he muttered, voice low and resolved, "the only solution I can think of right now… is to cut that rotten hand off and seal the rift."