The smog-choked air of Terra Minor's lower districts clung to Rabaston Rose's skin as he stood at the edge of his balcony, the world below him a chaotic mess of neon lights, grime, and desperation. The distant sounds of the marketplace buzzed like the constant hum of dying machinery—a background noise that had become as familiar to him as his own breath. He stared out at the city, his green eyes, flecked with strange purple hues, reflecting the flickering light of mana-powered signs that advertised cheap cultivation manuals and diluted potions.
This was his life now. A series of monotonous days strung together by the faint hope that something—anything—would change.
Terra Minor, a backwater planet known for its low mana density and lack of significant resources, was a place where dreams of cultivation went to die. The majority of its inhabitants were cultivators who had failed to ascend beyond the most basic levels, their growth stunted by the world's limited mana. Rabaston had grown up here, in the lower levels of the city, where the poor and the forgotten struggled to make ends meet. Even the academy he'd attended, once a symbol of promise and potential, had proven to be nothing more than a factory for producing mediocre cultivators.
He had left the academy two years ago, full of hope that his talent—his so-called potential—would be enough to carry him beyond the limitations of his planet. But the world had other plans. Despite his best efforts, his cultivation had stagnated, his growth stifled by the thin trickle of mana that Terra Minor could offer. The academy had taught him the basics—how to harness the mana around him, how to meditate, how to strengthen his body and mind—but no amount of training could overcome the fundamental problem: there simply wasn't enough power here.
Rabaston clenched his fists, feeling the sharp bite of frustration gnawing at his insides. His instructors had always praised him, telling him he had a natural affinity for cultivation, that his future was bright. They had spoken of his "unlimited potential" as if it were a blessing. But potential meant nothing on Terra Minor. Here, talent was wasted. Here, even the most gifted cultivators were little more than pawns in a system designed to keep the powerful in control and the weak in their place.
His gaze drifted upward, to the distant, towering structures of the higher districts, where the elites lived. The air up there was clearer, the mana denser, and the people… wealthier. Stronger. The gap between the higher and lower levels of the city was more than just physical. It was a chasm that separated those with power from those without. And Rabaston, for all his potential, had been left on the wrong side of that divide.
He pulled a small vial from his pocket and held it up to the dim light. The liquid inside shimmered faintly, a diluted mana tonic that barely had enough potency to sustain his cultivation for another week. It was all he could afford—just enough to keep his body from deteriorating further but nowhere near enough to push him to the next level.
He downed the tonic in one swift motion, grimacing at the bitter taste. It did little to ease the ache in his muscles, the result of days spent pushing his body to its limits in a futile attempt to force a breakthrough. He had tried everything—meditation, physical training, even dabbling in techniques he had learned from the academy's restricted scrolls—but nothing worked. His progress was at a standstill, and every day he felt himself slipping further behind.
The door to his cramped apartment creaked open behind him, and Rabaston turned to see Kazan step inside. Kazan, a local cultivator who had once been Rabaston's peer, now saw himself as something of a rival. Though they were roughly the same age, Kazan's fortunes had been slightly better. He had aligned himself with one of the city's smaller, more aggressive sects, and while his cultivation wasn't much more advanced than Rabaston's, his arrogance had grown in proportion to the marginal improvements he had made.
"Well, well, if it isn't the great Rabaston Rose," Kazan said with a smirk, leaning casually against the doorway. His robes, though tattered, were a cut above Rabaston's own ragged attire, a reminder of the slight edge he held in this brutal, hierarchical world.
Rabaston said nothing, his hands resting at his sides. His patience for Kazan's provocations had worn thin long ago, and he had no desire to engage in another one of his games today.
Kazan stepped forward, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "Still wasting away in this dump, I see. You'd think with all that potential you're always bragging about, you'd have found a way out by now."
Rabaston clenched his jaw, his gaze narrowing. He hadn't bragged about anything in years—not since reality had sunk in, along with the realization that his talent would never be enough on this forsaken planet.
Kazan chuckled, clearly enjoying the tension. "Ah, don't take it personally. We're all stuck here, right? But you, Rabaston… You had such big dreams. Guess the world had other plans for you."
Rabaston forced himself to take a slow breath. "What do you want, Kazan?"
Kazan's smirk widened, as if he'd been waiting for that question. "I heard something interesting today. Thought you might want to know about it."
Rabaston remained silent, but Kazan's words piqued his curiosity despite himself. Information was a commodity on Terra Minor, especially for someone like Rabaston, who was constantly searching for any scrap of knowledge that could help him break free of his stagnant existence.
"There's a rumor going around," Kazan continued, stepping closer. "Something about an ancient dungeon. They say it's called the Infinite Labyrinth."
Rabaston's eyes flickered with recognition. He had heard the name before, though only in whispers and fragments—stories passed down by older cultivators, tales of an interdimensional dungeon that held the secrets to unimaginable power. Most dismissed it as a myth, a story told to entertain or deceive those desperate enough to believe in it.
"The Infinite Labyrinth?" Rabaston repeated, his voice measured.
Kazan nodded. "That's right. Supposedly, it's real. And supposedly, it's out there, waiting to be found. I thought you might be interested, given your… ambitions."
Rabaston stared at Kazan, trying to gauge his intentions. Was this just another one of his taunts, a way to get under his skin? Or was there some truth to the rumor?
"And why would you tell me this?" Rabaston asked, his tone suspicious.
Kazan shrugged, his smirk never leaving his face. "Call it a gesture of goodwill. After all, if anyone's desperate enough to chase after something like that, it'd be you, right?"
Rabaston felt his blood boil, but he kept his expression neutral. Kazan was baiting him, trying to provoke a reaction, but Rabaston wouldn't give him the satisfaction.
"If you're not interested," Kazan said, turning toward the door, "then don't bother. Just thought I'd pass it along."
Rabaston watched as Kazan sauntered out of the apartment, leaving the door ajar behind him. The sound of the marketplace below drifted in through the opening, mingling with the thoughts racing through Rabaston's mind.
The Infinite Labyrinth.
He had dismissed it as a myth before, but now… could there be some truth to it? If the Labyrinth really did exist, and if it really held the kind of power the stories claimed, then maybe—just maybe—it could be the key to escaping this wretched planet. The key to unlocking the potential he'd been told he possessed but had never been able to fully realize.
Rabaston walked over to the door and pulled it shut, sealing himself in the dim, musty confines of his apartment once more. His heart pounded with a strange mixture of excitement and dread. He had nothing to lose, and if there was even the slightest chance that the Labyrinth could offer him a way out, he would take it.
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He crossed the room to where his small terminal sat, its screen flickering faintly as it powered on. The public network was slow and outdated, but it was still the best source of information available to him. He typed in the name: Infinite Labyrinth.
The search results were sparse, filled with broken links and outdated threads on ancient forums. Most of the posts were speculative, full of wild claims and conspiracy theories. But Rabaston sifted through them, scanning for anything that might offer a clue. After several minutes, he found a thread that caught his attention.
It was old—dated nearly a decade ago—but the details were intriguing. The poster claimed to have seen an artifact that contained a map leading to the Labyrinth's entrance, though they offered few specifics. The replies were filled with skepticism, but something about the post felt… different. Genuine.
Rabaston leaned back in his chair, his mind racing. This was it. This was the thread he needed to follow.
Rabaston stared at the screen, his mind whirling with possibilities. The thread before him was old, the kind of relic that most would overlook. But Rabaston had always been good at picking through the fragments of rumors and half-truths that floated around the network. The post was brief, little more than a cryptic mention of an artifact and a map leading to the Infinite Labyrinth, but it was enough.
The Labyrinth isn't a place. It's a test. Only those who understand that will ever find it.
The words echoed in his mind as he read them over and over again. A test. What kind of test? He wasn't sure, but it was the first real lead he had found in months. Terra Minor had always felt like a dead end, its people and systems strangled by the planet's weak mana flow. But this—this could be something more.
He stood from his chair, pushing it back with a rough scrape on the worn floorboards. His apartment was sparse, a reflection of the life he had carved out since leaving the academy. The walls were cracked, the small window covered in a layer of grime that blocked out most of the already dim light. A small pile of worn cultivation manuals lay scattered on a nearby table, their pages yellowed with age. They had been of little use to him, mere scraps of knowledge passed down from the academy, barely worth the effort of studying.
In the corner of the room, his meditation mat lay unused, gathering dust. He had tried meditating for hours every day, hoping to break through the stagnation that had settled over his cultivation, but it had been pointless. No matter how hard he pushed himself, the weak mana of Terra Minor limited him. The talent he had been praised for meant nothing here.
Rabaston ran a hand through his messy hair, his frustration bubbling to the surface. He was tired of being trapped, tired of feeling like a prisoner in his own life. Terra Minor was suffocating him, slowly draining away the fire that had once burned so brightly inside him. The Labyrinth, whether real or myth, represented something more—a chance to escape, to rise above the mediocrity that had been forced upon him.
He grabbed the worn hilt of his sword, strapped it to his back, and shoved the rest of his belongings—a few talismans and a small pouch of spirit stones—into a satchel. There wasn't much left to pack. Everything of value he had once owned was either sold or traded for mana tonics and scrolls that had failed to make any real difference in his cultivation. But he still had his determination, his will to break free from this miserable existence.
As he stepped toward the door, the weight of his situation pressed down on him. He didn't have the resources to leave Terra Minor, much less track down an ancient, possibly mythical dungeon. He had no ship, no powerful sect backing him, and no allies who would risk their lives to help him. He was alone, just like everyone else at the bottom of the cultivation ladder.
But Rabaston had something that most of them didn't: the will to do whatever it took to escape. Even if it meant chasing a ghost across the stars.
As he left the apartment, stepping out into the narrow streets of the lower district, the neon lights of the marketplace flickered in the distance, casting an eerie glow over the crumbling buildings. The air was thick with the scent of burning mana, the residue from the cheap talismans and low-grade potions sold in the market stalls. The noise of the crowd washed over him, a constant drone of haggling and argument, broken only by the occasional hum of a mana-powered artifact sparking to life.
Rabaston's steps were purposeful, his mind focused on the task ahead. He needed information, and there was only one place to get it. In the farthest corner of the marketplace, hidden among the maze of stalls, was a man who knew more than anyone else about the hidden undercurrents of Terra Minor. His name was Tyron, and he dealt in secrets. If anyone had knowledge of the Infinite Labyrinth—or at least knew where to start looking—it would be him.
The marketplace was a labyrinth of its own, with narrow alleyways and overhanging signs that blocked out the weak, artificial light from above. Vendors called out to him as he passed, their voices blending into the general noise of the crowd. Rabaston ignored them, his eyes scanning the familiar path to Tyron's tent. He'd been here before, asking for scraps of information, always careful not to owe too many favors.
He turned down a narrow alley, the air growing thicker and the crowd thinning out. The stalls here were different—darker, quieter, the wares more dangerous. Illegal cultivation scrolls, black-market artifacts, and forbidden techniques were sold openly, though the vendors kept their faces hidden beneath hooded cloaks.
At the end of the alley stood Tyron's tent, flanked by two hulking figures who kept a close watch on anyone who approached. They were cultivators, though their auras were weak—low-tier thugs who relied on their size and muscle more than their cultivation abilities. Still, they were dangerous in their own right, especially in a place like this, where the law barely existed.
Rabaston walked toward them, his posture relaxed but alert. He had learned long ago that projecting confidence was more important than actual strength in these situations. The guards eyed him warily as he approached, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords.
"I'm here to see Tyron," Rabaston said, his voice calm.
One of the guards, a scarred man with a shaved head, stepped forward. "Tyron doesn't see just anyone. What makes you think he'll see you?"
"Tell him it's Rabaston Rose," Rabaston replied, his voice steady. "He'll know why I'm here."
The guard stared at him for a moment, then grunted and disappeared into the tent. Rabaston waited, his hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword. The other guard kept a close watch on him, though Rabaston could sense that the man didn't see him as much of a threat. He was just another cultivator from the lower districts, another face in the crowd.
But Rabaston wasn't like the others. He had more than just desperation driving him. He had a goal. A purpose.
After a few minutes, the guard returned, motioning for Rabaston to follow him inside. The interior of the tent was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of burning incense. Shelves lined the walls, filled with old scrolls, small talismans, and various trinkets—each one giving off a faint, flickering aura of mana. At the center of the room, seated behind a low table, was Tyron.
Tyron was a thin, wiry man with pale skin and sharp features. His eyes, sunken and shadowed, gleamed with intelligence, and his fingers tapped rhythmically against the table as Rabaston approached. He was surrounded by small artifacts and scrolls, each one humming faintly with mana, though none of them seemed particularly powerful. Tyron's wealth was not in cultivation or strength but in information. He knew things others didn't, and that made him dangerous.
"Rabaston Rose," Tyron said, his voice smooth but lacking warmth. "I didn't expect to see you here again so soon. What is it this time?"
Rabaston stepped forward, his gaze steady. "I need information about the Infinite Labyrinth."
Tyron raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. "The Infinite Labyrinth, you say? Now that's not something I hear about every day. You're venturing into dangerous territory asking questions like that."
"I don't care," Rabaston replied. "I need to find it. I need a way out."
Tyron leaned back in his chair, his sharp eyes studying Rabaston carefully. "Many have come to me with similar requests, looking for ways off this rock. Most of them never make it. And the Labyrinth… well, that's more than just a way out. It's a death sentence for most who try to enter."
"Most," Rabaston echoed. "But not all."
Tyron smiled, though it didn't reach his eyes. "No, not all. Some survive. Some come back stronger… different. But the Labyrinth isn't just a place. It's a test, one that few pass. The rewards, if they exist, are beyond anything you can imagine. But the price… it's steep. Are you willing to pay it?"
"I don't have a choice," Rabaston said, his voice firm. "Tell me what I need to know."
Tyron's smile faded, replaced by a more calculating look. "Information comes at a price, Rabaston. And I don't deal in charity. You'll owe me a favor. A big one."
Rabaston hesitated for a brief moment, knowing that dealing with Tyron was dangerous. But what choice did he have? This was his only lead, his only chance to escape Terra Minor.
"Fine," Rabaston agreed. "What do you know?"
Tyron's smile returned, though it was colder than before. "There's a merchant—an off-worlder—who deals in rare artifacts. Rumor has it he's in possession of a map that leads to the Labyrinth's entrance. If you can track him down and convince him to part with it, you'll have your way in."
"Where can I find him?" Rabaston asked, his heart pounding with a mixture of excitement and dread.
Tyron slid a small slip of paper across the table. "Here. But be careful, Rabaston. You're playing a dangerous game."
Rabaston took the paper, tucking it into his pocket without a word. He turned and left the tent, stepping back into the cold night air of the marketplace. The road ahead was uncertain, but it was the only path left to him.