Colm stared into the crater, his new vision flooding the scene with clarity. The world around him seemed sharper, more vibrant, as Twilight Sight took effect, effortlessly cutting through the oppressive darkness. The shadows that once obscured the crater were now nothing more than muted grays, and every edge of the ruins stood out in stark detail.

At the center, he spotted it—a small chamber dug deep into the earth, barely noticeable and now wide open. He glanced at his phantoms, their forms steady and waiting for his command. "If there's anything down there," Colm muttered, his voice firm, "it's in that chamber."

With purpose, he stepped forward, his phantoms silently following. As they made their way through the fractured ruins of the crater, his eyes fell on the stone steps in the newly opened chamber etched into its walls, spiraling downward into the ground like a beckoning path into the abyss.

Thanks to Twilight Sight, Colm could see clearly what lay below. The steps wound downward for nearly a hundred feet, ending at the mouth of what appeared to be a new hallway carved into the earth. It felt ancient, untouched for countless years.

Colm exhaled a determined breath, his grip tightening on his spear. "Carver," he called, his voice steady, "take point." The Phantom Warrior stepped forward, its armor gleaming faintly with spectral light, the enhancements from its recent upgrade giving it an even more imposing presence. Carver's spectral blade hummed softly, its glow promising devastation. The phantom moved ahead, leading the way, ready to unleash Ripping Cleave at the first sign of danger.

Colm followed closely behind, his heart steadying as they descended step by step into the depths. Carver led the way, the Phantom Warrior's form paving the path ahead with calculated precision. Nothing emerged to attack, the silence settling heavily around them like a blanket. Colm let Carver move far ahead, maintaining a safe distance, before following with Lance and Robin at his side.

When Carver finally reached the bottom and continued into the hallway beyond, Colm paused for a moment, lingering at the base of the staircase. He waited, ears straining for any signs of movement or traps. Minutes passed. Nothing. Shrugging off his unease, he pressed forward, his phantoms flanking him as they advanced into the darkened corridor.

The hallway stretched long before him—roughly 80 feet, Colm estimated—its length disappearing into shadow. "Where does this lead, and why is it even here?" he muttered under his breath, his voice barely above a whisper. The stone walls seemed unnervingly smooth, their surface unnaturally pristine despite the passage of time.

At the far end, Carver stood motionless before a massive door, its presence looming in the dim glow of Colm's Twilight Sight. As he approached, the grim details came into view. The door was scratched, dented, and smeared with streaks of dried blood. "Well… this has to be where the Pitchcaller was trapped," Colm murmured, his eyes narrowing as he examined the door.

Its surface, worn down and battered, told a tale of relentless struggle. Deep gouges marred the metal, and dents covered its structure—evidence of something powerful repeatedly slamming against it. Yet despite the years of wear and abuse, the metal kept an unnatural shine, reminiscent of polished steel. It looked eerily similar to a vault door, the kind Colm had seen in banks back on Earth. "I guess magic made this, too," he muttered, awe flickering across his features as he ran a hand along its surface.

The door was still mostly closed, a narrow gap visible but far too small to squeeze through. Colm stepped forward, gripping its edge with both hands. At first, the door refused to budge, the resistance surprising him even with his enhanced strength. Gritting his teeth, he dug in his heels and pulled harder, the effort straining every muscle in his body. The door groaned in protest; the sound of screeching through the narrow hallway like a wail of agony.

Slowly, inch by inch, it moved. Metal scraped against stone, the sound grating in his ears as he pulled with everything he had. Finally, the gap widened just enough for him to slip through. Colm released the door, huffing as he straightened up. "That was surprisingly difficult," he said, exhaling sharply as he wiped his hands on his pants.

He turned back to his phantoms, silently nodding to signal them forward. A reason existed for locking whatever lay beyond this door away, and Colm wasn't about to let his guard down.

As Colm stepped into the room, his Twilight Sight illuminated every corner, making it as bright as day. The space was smaller than he expected, resembling an underground bunker hastily converted into an office. Haphazardly piled supplies lay against the far wall—empty containers were scattered, their worn surfaces suggesting they had once held food or water.

In the center of the room, a toppled desk dominated the space, its legs twisted awkwardly as though someone had thrown it aside. Torn papers, remnants of a forgotten struggle, lay strewn across the floor. But what immediately caught Colm's attention was the dark, dried pool of blood beside the desk. His stomach turned as he stared at it. There was nothing else here that it could be from—it had to belong to the Pitchcaller. There was nothing else down here that could explain it.

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Colm swept his gaze across the room, his senses sharp and his body tense, searching for any hint of movement or danger. His phantoms spread out to scour the small space, their silent forms shifting through the debris, but they found nothing—no enemies, no traps. The room felt unnervingly still.

Finally, letting his shoulders relax, Colm exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Finally, something that's not just broken ruins everywhere," he muttered, his voice breaking the silence. There was a flicker of relief as he scanned the room once more, the quiet and stillness a welcome reprieve after everything he had been through.

For the first time in what felt like hours, maybe days, it was just still.

Colm let out one more sigh as he stepped forward, his boots lightly scraping against the stone floor. His gaze fell on the overturned desk and the scattered papers strewn across the room like fallen leaves. Most of the pages were torn, smudged, or completely illegible, far beyond repair. But among the chaos, something caught his eye—a small, battered journal lying near the desk, its spine still intact and a few pages seemingly untouched by time.

With a flicker of hope, Colm crouched down and picked it up, brushing off a thin layer of dust. His fingers flipped open the cover, his pulse quickening. Please let this be something. Anything.

As he opened the journal, the scribbled symbols on the pages began to shift and reshape, the strange markings morphing into coherent letters thanks to his Through the Rift achievement. His eyes scanned the first legible passages, each word drawing him in deeper.

This is someone's journal, he realized, the handwriting hurried but deliberate. His brow furrowed as he focused intently on the text. A part of him wondered if this could have belonged to the Pitchcaller—or perhaps someone who had once lived here, sealing whatever secrets this place held within these pages.

…It's been eight months since the change. My supplies are running low, and the surrounding buildings have nothing left to offer. I need to venture further.

My family is gone. I've seen their lifeless bodies come back, twisted and hollow, and they haunt me in my dreams. I… I had to put them down with my own two hands. It broke me.

Everything was destroyed in the shift. This town—my Brimwhistle—the place I worked so hard to build… ruined. The 'system' changed everything. It moved the land, and tore the world apart. I miss the ocean. I miss the sound of the crashing waves, the way the horizon stretched endlessly before me. Now there's just silence and rot.

But it wasn't all loss. The 'system' gave me strength, strength I never thought possible. It's something else. It lets me manipulate the air with incredible precision. It's saved my life more than once…

As Colm flipped through the pages, he found most of them smudged and tattered beyond repair. The ink had bled, words faded into illegible streaks. Frustration gnawed at him as he turned page after ruined page—until he reached the end. There, a small snippet of text remained, barely legible, but just clear enough to make out.

…was a mistake. I should have never gone out today. There was this monster. It was unlike any others. It spoke. It… it infected me. I have little time left here, but at least I could help her. I helped her escape north to where those others went before. I was about to leave too, but it… it got me. It's only a matter of time now…

Colm couldn't make out any more words; the rest of the page was smeared with blood and torn beyond recognition. He let out a breath, running a hand through his hair. Oh shit. This had to be the Pitchcaller's journal from before it was infected. It was already incredibly deadly as an undead, but how strong was he when he was alive? And that other creature he mentioned—what the hell was that?

At least there's some useful information here. He straightened, glancing around in thought. If north is where the other survivor went, then that's where I'll go. I don't have any other choices. The thought settled like a stone in his chest, heavy but resolute. At least with this new body, I don't need food or water. Hopefully, I can make the trip quickly. I wonder how long and fast I can run in this new body if everything is provided for me. Can I just run at top speed without a care in the world?

Colm snapped out of his thoughts and spent the next few hours scouring the chamber for anything of value. His phantoms searched alongside him, their spectral forms drifting through the debris with silent efficiency. Watching them work, Colm couldn't help but chuckle to himself. "It's nice having some helpers," he muttered. "They're versatile—more than just fighters. Turns out they're pretty handy for the small stuff, too."

The search continued for a while, but the room offered little beyond dust and ruin. Colm eventually called it off with a sigh, realizing the space was too small to hide much else. "Looks like the journal's all I'm getting out of this," he murmured, tucking it carefully away.

With nothing left to find, Colm turned toward the stone steps leading back to the surface. His phantoms flanked him as he ascended, their silent presence a constant reassurance. As he reached the top, the faint light of the overcast sky greeted him, and he stepped out of the crater, the journal in hand—a lone piece of the past that still held answers.

He took one last look around Brimwhistle, his enhanced vision allowing him to see the ruins in striking clarity. For the first time, he truly took in the remnants of the city—the shattered stone, the crumbling buildings, the eerie beauty of what remained. It really is something. I would've loved to see this place in its prime.

His gaze fell to the body of the Pitchcaller, still lying lifeless across the crater's edge. Colm muttered quietly, "I hope you can rest now."

Turning away, he steeled himself and set out, leaving the crater behind. But after only a few steps, he froze in place, a realization dawning.

"Which fucking way is north?"

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