Meanwhile Asterius traversed the foggy darkwoods tearing through the thick morning fog like a loosed arrow.
During this period he had come across multiple creature but decided to ignore heading straight to his destination: The star origin fort.
After almost an hour of continuous sprinting he caught sight of some adventurers and knew that he was close to the fort.
By this time he had already taken back his black armor, assuming the persona of the weak and battered Ceres.
It wasn’t yet time to show the world his capabilities.
He would do it slowly and gradually to avoid any suspicions and unwanted troubles that might come his way.
Finally he arrived at his destination.
Taken in the sight of the humongous walls of the star origin fortress…
The titanic stone walls of the **Star Origin Fort** loomed against the dark-tinted sky of the mystical planes, a colossal monument of human stubbornness.
Erected block by painstaking block, the fortress walls were scarred with deep, jagged claw marks and ancient, blackened scorch marks—grim testaments to the countless monster tides it had withstood.
Asterius paused at the tree line of the whispering, darkwoods forest, his breath catching in his parched throat.
In his past life, he had been a legendary magic weaver and a master of the blade, a peerless existence who commanded the respect of empires and swayed the fates of nations.
Now, he was trapped in the fragile, aching body of **Ceres Turner**—a greenhorn adventurer who had met a pathetic, terrified end at the claws of low-tier magical beasts in the outer wilds.
*”Still not enough ,”* Asterius thought, clenching his bruised, calloused fists feeling the flow of essence in his newly developed meridians.
*”But a blank canvas is simply an invitation to paint a masterpiece.
This body is a prison today, but tomorrow, I’ll make it into a masterpiece “*
With a quiet sigh, he adjusted the strap of his battered, throwing knives —the pieces that remained after that brutal fight —and walked toward the yawning maw of the fort’s outer gates.
As Asterius approached the gates, he felt the familiar, heavy pressure of the plane’s ambient atmosphere.
In this world, the genius of human utterly castrated.
What they called THE GREAT SILENCE.
Many experts had shared their thoughts regarding this anomaly.
Grandmaster Barrett Hohenheim, an expert of the Nascent Soul Stage explaining the anomaly as: “The ambient mana of the mystical planes is a living, jealous entity.
It acts as an absolute electromagnetic dampener, suffocating artificial currents and devolving complex nuclear reactions into inert ash.
It demands that power come from the soul, not the machine.”
* The Scholar’s Guilds Grandmaster also stating that: The fundamental laws of physics in this plane reject human ‘false sparks.’
Only biological soul-force, physical muscle refinement, and raw magical channeling are permitted to thrive
“`
Because of this strange phenomenon, the high-tech human federation, capable of building starships and terraforming worlds back home, was forced to fight with soul armaments and raw physical grit here.
The fort was a strange, jarring paradox: a medieval sanctuary built by anonymous race that once inhabited these lands.
Passing beneath the massive iron portcullis, Asterius was instantly hit by a sensory assault.
He found himself walking down the **Spur of the Vanguard**, the main thoroughfare of the fort.
It was a chaotic, sprawling marketplace of survival, teeming with an eclectic mix of humanity.
Battle-hardened warriors clad in heavy, hand-forged plate armor and mysterious soul armament of unknown creatures, their faces heavily scarred, conversing in hushed, serious tones about which sectors of the wilderness were currently active.
Shady traders standing before bone-framed stalls, hawking glowing herbs, jagged fangs, and refined alloy daggers.
Young couples holding hands, trying to find a moment of peace amidst the constant threat of death, alongside grim loners who sat in the shadows, sharpening their throwing knives.
But the fort was far from a paradise.
Asterius’s sharp eyes caught the darker elements lurking in the corners of the cobblestone streets.
In the damp alleyways beside **The Severed Fang Tavern**,: a popular tavern.Broken men and women—veterans who had lost limbs and sanity to the horrors of the wild—sat in shadowy corners .Some were desperately inhaling the vapors of crushed *Gloom-Weed*, a highly addictive, numbing narcotic that offered a brief, hallucinated escape from their trauma.
Further down, a shady apothecary openly displayed bottles of dark, unstable poisons, harvested from unknown creatures,seemingly meant for hunting but also for backstabbing rival adventurers when the guards weren’t looking.
As Asterius traversed the crowded thoroughfare, his tattered clothes and pale face drew immediate attention from the dregs of the fort.
“Well, look at that,” a burly mercenary leaning against a weapon rack sneered, spitting a glob of dark phlegm near Asterius’s boots.
“Ceres the Coward actually made it back?
I thought the Iron-Hide Wolves turned you into fertilizer days ago.
You are lucky that Morgan and his lackeys are out on a hunt right now you shit!
Hahaha….”
“He must have hid in a mud hole and cried until the pack moved on,” his partner mocked, drawing a round of harsh laughter from the surrounding sellswords.
“A useless good-for-nothing.
Why does the Federation even waste teleporter fuel on trash like him?”
Asterius didn’t even blink.
To a man who had once stood atop the world, the barking of stray dogs was nothing more than background noise.
He kept his eyes moving, cataloging everything: the placement of the guard towers, the quality of the alloy weapons being sold at the smithies, and the subtle tells of the cutthroats bargaining in the shadows.
He was a predator in a lamb’s skin, merely biding his time.
At the absolute center of the settlement stood an architectural marvel that commanded respect from every corner of the fort: **The Obsidian Zenith**.
It was a soaring, cathedral-like fortress crafted from dark, ancient stone and reinforced with heavy medieval brass filigree.
This grand structure served as the headquarters for the elite administrative and military force established by the **Human Federation Military**.
They were the law, the shield, and the sword of the asylum.They were known as the FEDERAL CORPS!
“`
The Zenith’s task forces were legendary.
As Asterius walked, the whispers of the crowd painted a picture of their terrifying might.
> “Did you hear?” a merchant whispered eagerly to a customer.
“Captain Kaelen’s squad returned from the Deep Valley yesterday.
They say he personally decapitated an **Epic-tier Shadow-Mane Tiger* His strength must have doubled!”
> Enjoying the story? Read on at g.com.
To the common adventurer, the Federal Corps was a beacon of absolute, terrifying power.
They kept the peace with an iron fist, and anyone who caused trouble inside the fort was swiftly broken and thrown into the dungeon beneath the black stone.
Just as Asterius reached the grand, arched entrance of the Obsidian Zenith, a sudden silence fell over the bustling plaza.
The heavy, rune-carved wooden doors of the Zenith’s courtyard swung open, and a returning vanguard unit marched through.
They wore the signature midnight-blue and gold-trimmed drapes of the Federal Corps, their heavy steel boots clanking rhythmically against the floor.
At their head walked **Captain Vanya**, a woman whose beauty was as striking as her reputation was lethal.
Her plate armor was chipped, smeared with the dark, iridescent blood of some unknow creature and her crimson cloak was torn at the edges.
Yet, she carried herself with a fierce, royal grace.
The crowd parted instantly.
Men drooled in quiet, desperate admiration, but they kept a respectful distance; none dared to make eye contact.
To offend Vanya was to court a brutal beating, if not outright execution.
Asterius paused, his eyes narrowing slightly as he observed her.
*”What a fierce aura, she should be around the 6th level of the qi condensation stage ,”* Asterius analyzed silently, his sharp, ancient mind measuring the density of her muscles and the quiet, turbulent flow of her internal energy.
*”And she is on the verge of breaking through to the 7th.
Decent potential for a mortal in this age.
But her energy cultivation art is a little crude…
a waste of good essence.”*
He did not linger to gawk like the others.
With an indifferent turn of his shoulder, he stepped past the starstruck crowd and slipped through the grand entrance of the Obsidian Zenith.
Inside, the Zenith was a breathtaking blend of ancient grandeur and military efficiency.
High vaulted ceilings stretched overhead, supported by massive stone pillars carved with complex, glowing runes that hummed with a soft, magical resonance.
The air here was cooler, smelling of old parchment and ozone.
* **The Grand Hall:** Dozens of heavy oak reception desks lined the sides of the hall, where professional receptionists processed mission boards, appraised beast materials, and managed the logistics of the fort.
* **The Teleporter Plinths:** In the center of the hall, three massive stone rings pulsed with a deep, ethereal blue light.
These were the ancient teleporters that bridged the gap between this dangerous, primal world and the comfortable, high-tech human civilization.
Adventurers of all ranks bustled about, exchanging words, boasting of their hunts, or weeping over lost comrades.
Asterius walked past them all, a ghost in the crowd.
He approached one of the unoccupied teleportation platforms.
He had survived the wilderness in this fragile shell, and he had reached the stronghold.
Now, it was time to return to the human federation, rest this aching body, consolidate his vast store of ancient knowledge, and begin his true ascent back to the peak of existence.
He stepped onto the glowing stone platform.
As the blue light rose to envelop his vision, a cold, knowing smile played on Asterius’s lips.
The next time he stepped through this portal into the mystical planes, the world would learn to fear the name Ceres Turner.