AK : RISING MYTHIC

The moon was veiled by clouds, casting long shadows across the Royal Sector of the Mythic Base. Most of the Base was asleep, cloaked in silence. But in a certain stone chamber—half-modern, half-ancient—a single flickering light danced from a lantern affixed to a curved wall.

Arslan sat alone in his room, elbows on his knees, fingers laced, his dark eyes fixed on the cold floor.

But his mind?

His mind burned.

> "Why only me?"

> "Why does my energy behave like it belongs there… inside the Threshold?"

The whispers he heard earlier that day hadn't faded—they lingered like threads of smoke, curling through his thoughts, breathing questions into his ears that no one else dared to ask.

> "You carry the ache I planted long ago."

> "You are not mine yet… but you will be."

He clenched his fists.

He had to know.

With calm resolve, Arslan stood and walked to the window. His cloak brushed the edge of his bed—its silver embroidery catching the moonlight briefly. Beyond the stone sill lay a sheer drop into darkness.

He looked down without fear.

> I'll find the answers myself.

A ripple of black aura gathered around his feet and calves—a dark energy shield, humming low. Without hesitation, Arslan stepped up, then leapt from the window.

The wind rushed past him in an instant.

As he fell, he formed a semi-solid barrier beneath him—cushioning the impact like crashing through shadows. His boots touched the earth soundlessly.

And then, with swift and silent steps, he moved toward the Bound Threshold.

---

Scene: Gate of the Whisper

The path to the Threshold was abandoned at this hour—only the flicker of barrier lights and the faint hum of rune markers in the stone guided his way.

And there it was again.

That familiar whisper.

> "So… you decide to know the truth."

The wind grew cold and thick.

> "Let's break the chain."

He reached the outer circle—a protective boundary forged from iron and magic, wrapped in ancient chains meant to suppress the Gate's aura.

Five thick iron chains crossed the threshold entrance like a web of fate.

Arslan raised his hand. His eyes narrowed, and dark energy spiraled into his fingers like liquid shadow.

One slash.

Then another.

He moved fast. Precise. Silent.

Four… five expertly formed cuts of dark energy cleaved the chains apart. Not a single metallic clang echoed—each chain withered into black dust before hitting the ground.

And then, he stepped forward.

The moment his foot crossed the gate's lip, a pulse ran through the air.

The Bound Threshold opened—just enough to let him in—and then slammed shut behind him.

The outside world vanished.

---

Scene: Welcome to the Bound Threshold

The air was different here.

Heavy.

Dry, but not dead.

Like the kind of silence that only exists in places forgotten by time, yet remembered by destiny.

A low hum echoed through the underground expanse—walls of jagged stone curved like ribs around a spiraling staircase and cavernous halls. Floating lights hovered near the ceiling, casting shadows in every direction.

Then a voice.

Not a whisper.

A voice.

> "Welcome, Arslan…"

> "Welcome to the Bound Threshold."

The sound came from deeper in the chamber, where a narrow corridor led into an open chamber that radiated subtle light—cold and pale, like a memory made physical.

Arslan moved forward, each step unshaken.

As he entered the vast chamber, his eyes caught the throne.

An ancient King's chair of stone, obsidian, and bone—twisted into regal cruelty. Intricate carvings of serpents, moons, and flame spiraled up its legs and backrest.

Seated upon it—

A living figure.

His skin was pale but not dead. His long, dark hair flowed like a shadowed waterfall. Horns curled from his head like twisted crowns. And his eyes…

Glowed red.

With fire that did not flicker.

In his lap rested a skeleton, cradled casually like a long-lost friend.

The living being slowly turned the throne toward Arslan.

And spoke.

> "Say hello to your brother."

He gave the skeleton a tap on its shoulder and smirked, as if sharing a joke only he could understand.

Then he looked directly at Arslan.

> "Ahhh… you've come. The wait is over. I was so bored."

Arslan didn't flinch. "Who are you?"

The man on the throne spread his arms slightly, as if offering himself to the stage of fate.

> "Kar'Thæl."

The moment the name left his lips, the air trembled.

And Arslan felt it.

The aura.

It was unmistakable—exactly as described in the book Anti-Kar'Thæl:

A pressure that didn't crush, but instead filled the space like drowning in history.

A pulse that echoed not in the ears, but in the soul.

The scent of burnt chains and frozen stars.

Recognition struck like a blade.

> This is him.

This is the entity the devils feared.

The one the Council debated.

The one the book warned about.

The one whose name made even Zenith-ranked Knights fall silent.

And now… here he was.

Not in legend.

Not in dream.

Alive. In flesh. And waiting.