The morning sun, still fighting to break through Terra Minor's perpetual haze, cast weak, distorted rays across the crumbling rooftops. Rabaston's breath was shallow as he walked through the winding streets of the lower district. His thoughts raced, flickering between excitement and an uneasy tension that sat heavy in his gut. The weight of the pouch at his side—a collection of talismans and potions—seemed inconsequential compared to the enormity of the journey ahead.

He had been preparing for this moment for years, piecing together fragments of knowledge and rumors, chasing whispers that hinted at the existence of the Infinite Labyrinth. A forgotten place, an ancient challenge that could push any cultivator beyond their limits—if they survived. But now, standing on the precipice of his escape from Terra Minor, the reality of the Labyrinth's dangers loomed larger than ever.

The district around him reflected his own state of mind—worn, grimy, decaying. The weak, polluted mana of the planet seemed to seep into everything, a constant reminder of the limits this world imposed on its inhabitants. Buildings sagged under the weight of time and neglect, their facades cracked and covered in layers of dirt and graffiti. Rusted cultivation tools lay discarded in the streets, relics of failed attempts at greatness by countless other hopefuls, all of whom had been swallowed by the harsh reality of Terra Minor.

Everywhere Rabaston looked, the signs of this dying world screamed out, though they had become little more than background noise after years of living here. But today, he noticed every detail with a sharpened clarity. The streets were alive with the mundane—the vendors hawking spirit-infused trinkets that promised fleeting bursts of power, the ragged cultivators skulking in the alleys, barely able to maintain their rank due to the suffocating lack of mana. Even the air tasted stale, as though the very atmosphere had given up on ever being anything more than a stagnant prison for the weak.

Rabaston stepped over a broken mana conduit, its once-glowing runes now flickering uselessly in the dust. These conduits had once powered the city's cultivation hubs, drawing what little mana they could from the thin veins beneath the planet's surface. Now, they served as nothing more than a reminder of Terra Minor's descent into irrelevance.

He continued down the narrow streets, his boots echoing against the cobblestones, worn smooth from centuries of use. His hand rested instinctively on the hilt of his sword, a habit he had picked up from years of living in these parts of the city. There were no sects here, no organized training grounds or academies anymore. Only the dregs of society, scraping by with low-level cultivation techniques and outdated knowledge passed down in fragments.

Above, a massive rusted structure loomed—a relic of the old world, where once-powerful cultivation sects had gathered. Now, its windows were broken, its walls crumbling into dust. Faded banners still fluttered weakly in the wind, their once-proud insignias long since forgotten. Rabaston glanced at them, his thoughts flickering back to his time at the academy, where his dreams had still been unbroken by reality.

He stopped at a small, decrepit market. The air here was thick with the smell of burning incense and alchemical potions, a heady mix that clung to everything. The vendors' stalls were haphazardly assembled from scraps of metal and wood, their goods displayed with little care. Spirit stones, talismans, and cultivation manuals lay scattered across the tables, all relics of a once-greater past. Most of these artifacts were second-rate, their power drained long ago, leaving them little more than trinkets for desperate cultivators trying to scrape together any semblance of strength.

Rabaston's eyes drifted to a vendor at the far end of the market, where a pile of old, weathered books sat untouched. He knew better than to trust what was in them. These books were nothing more than a collection of half-truths, outdated techniques, and long-debunked theories. Yet, they were all that most cultivators on Terra Minor had access to.

He turned away, his thoughts already shifting back to the Labyrinth. What kind of place was it really? The stories varied, but they all agreed on one thing—it was alive, a place that shifted and changed, testing not just the strength but the very soul of those who dared enter.

Rabaston's pulse quickened as he imagined the labyrinthine halls stretching before him, each turn a new danger, each challenge a step closer to power. The thrill of it was intoxicating, yet a gnawing doubt lingered at the edge of his thoughts. Tyron's warning echoed in his mind: "The Labyrinth changes you. Be careful."

He shook his head, dismissing the thought. He had to move forward. He had to escape this world, this life of stagnation and weakness. His hand tightened on the strap of his satchel, feeling the weight of the talismans inside. Every resource mattered. He had scraped together everything for this—he couldn't afford failure.

The streets began to quiet as he approached the outskirts of the district. The buildings here were fewer, their facades even more worn and forgotten. Broken cultivation banners hung limply from the walls, their colors faded to near nothingness. He passed by a wall, covered in scrawled graffiti—symbols of old sects long dissolved, slogans of rebellion that had once meant something. "Mana flows for the strong," one of them read, its letters barely legible under layers of dirt and grime.

Rabaston's eyes narrowed as he traced the faded characters. The irony wasn't lost on him. Here, on Terra Minor, mana barely flowed at all. The weak were left to scavenge whatever scraps of cultivation knowledge they could find, and even then, it wasn't enough. But Rabaston was determined to be more than the sum of this broken world.

He passed the last remnants of the city, the streets now eerily silent. A distant wind stirred the dust, carrying with it the scent of decay and forgotten dreams. The atmosphere weighed heavily on him, but it also fueled his resolve. Terra Minor was a graveyard for ambition, but Rabaston would not let it bury him.

Ahead, just past the crumbling remains of an old cultivation hall, was the meeting place where Tyron awaited. Rabaston steeled himself as he stepped into the tent, the fabric parting with a soft rustle as he entered the dimly lit space.

Tyron sat there, his sharp eyes glinting in the low light. The broker's tent was cluttered with artifacts, old scrolls, and trinkets from across the galaxy. The air was thick with the smell of burning mana incense, and the faint glow of spirit stones lit the space with a dim, ghostly light.

Tyron leaned forward, his voice low and laced with amusement. "So, you're really going through with it, eh? The Labyrinth. Dangerous, dangerous place, Rose. More than you realize."

Rabaston said nothing, his gaze fixed on the leather-bound book that Tyron placed on the table between them. It was small, unassuming, but Rabaston knew better than to underestimate it. This book contained fragments of the truth, pieced together over centuries, collected from those few who had returned from the Labyrinth.

Without a word, Rabaston picked it up, feeling the worn leather under his fingers. As he turned to leave, Tyron's voice stopped him. "One last thing, Rose. Don't let the Labyrinth change you too much. It has a way of… twisting people."

Rabaston didn't look back as he left, the weight of Tyron's words pressing down on him once more. The Infinite Labyrinth awaited, and with it, his future. He had no choice but to step forward.

As Rabaston stepped back into the streets, the sense of finality hung over him. He clutched the leather-bound book, feeling the weight of it grow heavier with every step he took away from Tyron's tent. The information broker's words gnawed at the edge of his thoughts: "Don't let the Labyrinth change you."

What did Tyron mean? It was a labyrinth, after all—a dungeon. A place to gain power. But Rabaston knew better. The Labyrinth was no ordinary dungeon, and the stories that surrounded it weren't the usual fare of exaggerated myths meant to scare off the weak. He felt the chill run through him again, the sense of something ancient and alive lurking just beyond the threshold of his current reality.

As he walked deeper into the city, the crowd began to thin out. The market buzz had faded, leaving behind a quieter part of Terra Minor's underbelly. The buildings here were old, their foundations cracked and slumping, like weary souls who had long since given up. Old banners still hung, though barely more than faded strips of cloth now, remnants of once-great sects that had all but disappeared.

The streets, narrow and claustrophobic, were littered with discarded tools and cultivation artifacts that had long since lost their power. Rabaston spotted a cracked mana crystal embedded in the side of a dilapidated structure, its glow faint and intermittent, as though it clung to the last dregs of life. Above him, rusted cultivation hubs—once used to gather the city's weak mana—stood as skeletal reminders of Terra Minor's forgotten past. Their metallic towers rose into the air, casting long shadows over the streets as the day wore on.

The deeper Rabaston walked into the heart of the district, the more oppressive the air became. It wasn't just the physical decay of the place, but the staleness of the mana that seeped into everything. The very atmosphere felt like it resisted any form of cultivation. No wonder the majority of Terra Minor's inhabitants lived stunted, never able to progress beyond the lower cultivation ranks.

He passed by a small group of cultivators sitting in the alleyway. They wore tattered robes, once indicative of a minor sect that had likely long disbanded. Their expressions were gaunt, hollow-eyed. Their spirit stones lay beside them, dull and cracked, no longer capable of channeling mana. Rabaston barely gave them a glance—this was the fate of those who had no ambition, who accepted the world as it was rather than striving for more.

That won't be me.

The thought burned through him with renewed intensity. He couldn't let this world consume him, as it had so many others. The Infinite Labyrinth was his only chance to break free from the suffocating weight of Terra Minor.

Ahead, he could see the outskirts of the district giving way to a barren wasteland that stretched toward the edge of the city. This was the boundary between the cultivated parts of Terra Minor and the wild, untamed lands beyond. Here, civilization thinned out, and the world became even more dangerous, filled with rogue cultivators and creatures that had evolved to survive in the mana-starved wilderness.

The ground beneath his feet changed from cobblestone to rough, cracked earth, littered with broken shards of old cultivation tools and abandoned technology. Rabaston could see the remnants of failed experiments scattered along the ground—alchemical devices that had lost their potency, mana conduits shattered from misuse, and old vehicles repurposed for short-distance travel before their mana cores had burned out completely.

These vehicles, designed to hover over the ground using low-level mana, were now nothing more than skeletal frames rusting under the weak sun. Rabaston's gaze flickered over one of them—a transport once used by the city's sects to carry disciples from one end of the district to the other. Now, it lay half-buried in the dirt, its core long since removed or stolen.

He stopped for a moment, staring out at the expanse ahead. The skyline was dotted with towering ruins of ancient cultivation hubs, structures that once symbolized power and ambition. Now, they were nothing but crumbling remnants, forgotten by time and the people who had once sought greatness here. Rabaston's jaw tightened. It was a reminder of how far Terra Minor had fallen—and how far he needed to rise to escape it.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

As Rabaston stepped back into the streets, the sense of finality hung over him. He clutched the leather-bound book, feeling the weight of it grow heavier with every step he took away from Tyron's tent. The information broker's words gnawed at the edge of his thoughts: "Don't let the Labyrinth change you."

What did Tyron mean? It was a labyrinth, after all—a dungeon. A place to gain power. But Rabaston knew better. The Labyrinth was no ordinary dungeon, and the stories that surrounded it weren't the usual fare of exaggerated myths meant to scare off the weak. He felt the chill run through him again, the sense of something ancient and alive lurking just beyond the threshold of his current reality.

As he walked deeper into the city, the crowd began to thin out. The market buzz had faded, leaving behind a quieter part of Terra Minor's underbelly. The buildings here were old, their foundations cracked and slumping, like weary souls who had long since given up. Old banners still hung, though barely more than faded strips of cloth now, remnants of once-great sects that had all but disappeared.

The streets, narrow and claustrophobic, were littered with discarded tools and cultivation artifacts that had long since lost their power. Rabaston spotted a cracked mana crystal embedded in the side of a dilapidated structure, its glow faint and intermittent, as though it clung to the last dregs of life. Above him, rusted cultivation hubs—once used to gather the city's weak mana—stood as skeletal reminders of Terra Minor's forgotten past. Their metallic towers rose into the air, casting long shadows over the streets as the day wore on.

The deeper Rabaston walked into the heart of the district, the more oppressive the air became. It wasn't just the physical decay of the place, but the staleness of the mana that seeped into everything. The very atmosphere felt like it resisted any form of cultivation. No wonder the majority of Terra Minor's inhabitants lived stunted, never able to progress beyond the lower cultivation ranks.

He passed by a small group of cultivators sitting in the alleyway. They wore tattered robes, once indicative of a minor sect that had likely long disbanded. Their expressions were gaunt, hollow-eyed. Their spirit stones lay beside them, dull and cracked, no longer capable of channeling mana. Rabaston barely gave them a glance—this was the fate of those who had no ambition, who accepted the world as it was rather than striving for more.

That won't be me.

The thought burned through him with renewed intensity. He couldn't let this world consume him, as it had so many others. The Infinite Labyrinth was his only chance to break free from the suffocating weight of Terra Minor.

Ahead, he could see the outskirts of the district giving way to a barren wasteland that stretched toward the edge of the city. This was the boundary between the cultivated parts of Terra Minor and the wild, untamed lands beyond. Here, civilization thinned out, and the world became even more dangerous, filled with rogue cultivators and creatures that had evolved to survive in the mana-starved wilderness.

The ground beneath his feet changed from cobblestone to rough, cracked earth, littered with broken shards of old cultivation tools and abandoned technology. Rabaston could see the remnants of failed experiments scattered along the ground—alchemical devices that had lost their potency, mana conduits shattered from misuse, and old vehicles repurposed for short-distance travel before their mana cores had burned out completely.

These vehicles, designed to hover over the ground using low-level mana, were now nothing more than skeletal frames rusting under the weak sun. Rabaston's gaze flickered over one of them—a transport once used by the city's sects to carry disciples from one end of the district to the other. Now, it lay half-buried in the dirt, its core long since removed or stolen.

He stopped for a moment, staring out at the expanse ahead. The skyline was dotted with towering ruins of ancient cultivation hubs, structures that once symbolized power and ambition. Now, they were nothing but crumbling remnants, forgotten by time and the people who had once sought greatness here. Rabaston's jaw tightened. It was a reminder of how far Terra Minor had fallen—and how far he needed to rise to escape it.

Rabaston descended the small rise, his steps slow and deliberate as the barren landscape swallowed him. The distant city had faded from view, leaving only the endless stretch of wilderness that marked the true boundary of Terra Minor. It was quiet here—unnaturally so. Even the wind seemed hesitant to stir, as though the land itself had long given up hope.

He couldn't help but reflect on Tyron's final warning. The Labyrinth changes you. What did that mean? Did it break the mind? Warp the soul? The stories varied, but the underlying truth was consistent: no one left the Labyrinth the same person they had been upon entering. Rabaston had always dismissed those tales as the ramblings of the weak—those too fearful to grasp the power that awaited within. But now, with the journey ahead becoming more real with each passing moment, a flicker of doubt tugged at him.

He clenched his fists, forcing the thought from his mind. Fear was a weakness he couldn't afford. He had already sacrificed too much to hesitate now. His brother had been lost to the endless pursuit of cultivation, his parents had abandoned him in search of greater strength, and Terra Minor had offered nothing but disappointment. The Labyrinth was his only way out—his only chance to claim the power that had eluded him for so long.

His eyes traced the horizon where the land met the sky. Somewhere out there, past the cracked earth and crumbling ruins, lay the entrance to the Infinite Labyrinth. It was said that the path to the Labyrinth was hidden, visible only to those who had the will to see it. Rabaston had no map for this part of his journey, only fragments of information gathered from unreliable sources.

The Temple of Forgotten Voices loomed in the distance, its dark silhouette casting a long shadow over the wasteland. The sight of it stirred something within him. Knowledge… or madness. There had been whispers that the temple housed ancient cultivation techniques—methods long forgotten by the rest of the universe. But it was also a place of despair, where many had entered seeking wisdom and left with nothing but hollow eyes and fractured minds.

Rabaston paused, considering the path that led toward the temple. He had no intention of entering, but a small part of him wondered if there was something there—something that might give him an edge before he ventured into the Labyrinth.

No, he decided. The Labyrinth was his goal. Distractions were dangerous, and the temple was a relic of a past that no longer mattered.

The air grew colder as the sun dipped lower on the horizon, casting everything in long, twisted shadows. Rabaston pulled his cloak tighter around him, the chill biting at his skin. His breath formed a faint mist in the air, a subtle reminder of the weakness that plagued Terra Minor. Even the elements seemed to conspire against those who sought to rise.

His thoughts turned once again to the Labyrinth. He had heard that the environment inside shifted constantly—an interdimensional space that bent the laws of reality. The deeper one ventured, the more the Labyrinth revealed its true nature. Some spoke of trials, others of ancient guardians that patrolled its halls, testing those who dared seek its treasures.

But what truly lay at its heart? Power, certainly. Artifacts of immense strength, capable of propelling a cultivator through the ranks. But there were also whispers of something more… something darker. Rabaston's fingers brushed the edge of the map in his satchel, feeling the strange pulse that ran through the ancient parchment. It was more than just a guide—it was a key, a tool that would lead him to the heart of the Labyrinth.

The wind picked up, stirring the dust around him. Rabaston glanced over his shoulder, scanning the horizon for any signs of life. The wilderness was dangerous, not just because of the creatures that roamed it, but because it was a place where rogue cultivators gathered—those who had been cast out of society, or those who sought power by any means necessary.

Rabaston moved with purpose, his senses alert. He had learned long ago that even the smallest misstep could cost him everything. His hand never strayed far from the hilt of his sword, the weight of the blade comforting in a world where betrayal lurked around every corner.

As the sun continued its descent, the landscape around him became a shifting palette of grays and purples, the colors of twilight blending with the endless wasteland. Rabaston's mind drifted back to his years at the academy, to the nights spent studying ancient cultivation techniques under the flickering light of mana-infused lamps. Those days seemed distant now, almost dreamlike. He had been naïve then, filled with the certainty that he would ascend to greatness simply by following the well-worn paths laid out before him.

But the world had proven otherwise. The academy's teachings had been limited, its techniques outdated. The real world was far harsher, its paths to power far more elusive.

Rabaston's grip tightened on his satchel, his mind settling once more on the Labyrinth. There, he thought. There, I will find the power I need.

The wasteland stretched endlessly before Rabaston, each step pulling him further into the desolate expanse. His focus sharpened as the landscape continued to shift, but something about the air felt wrong. There was a faint hum in the atmosphere, barely perceptible, like a vibration under the surface of reality itself. Rabaston paused, his eyes narrowing. He wasn't alone.

Slowly, deliberately, he let his hand rest on the hilt of his sword, his senses extending outward. The terrain around him was barren—nothing but cracked earth and the distant silhouette of the Temple of Forgotten Voices. But the feeling of being watched lingered.

He turned his head slightly, scanning the horizon. In the distance, just barely visible through the twilight gloom, a figure moved. At first, Rabaston thought it might be a wandering rogue cultivator or a scavenger, but the way the figure moved—slow, deliberate, and far too fluid—set off alarms in his mind.

The figure was heading toward him.

Rabaston shifted his weight, his grip tightening on his sword as he prepared for a potential confrontation. This was no place for aimless travelers. Whoever was approaching knew exactly what they were doing.

The distance between them closed quickly. As the figure came into view, Rabaston could make out more details—a hooded cloak, the hem brushing against the ground, obscuring most of their body. A faint glow emanated from the figure's hand, a cultivation artifact of some kind, though its purpose was unclear.

Rabaston stood still, letting the figure approach, his expression unreadable. He had no intention of revealing his intentions or his strength unless absolutely necessary. Let them make the first move.

When the figure was within speaking distance, they stopped. A moment of silence stretched between them, the air thick with anticipation.

"I didn't expect to see another so far from the city," the figure said, their voice low, barely above a whisper. It was difficult to determine their age or intent from the tone alone, but there was something unsettling about the way they spoke, as if they were measuring each word with care.

"I could say the same," Rabaston replied, keeping his voice neutral.

The figure's hood tilted slightly, as though studying him. "You're heading toward the Labyrinth, aren't you?"

Rabaston's heart skipped a beat, but he didn't let it show on his face. "That depends. Why does it matter to you?"

The figure chuckled softly, a sound that sent a chill down Rabaston's spine. "The Labyrinth isn't a place for the unprepared. Those who enter without knowing the truth rarely come back."

Rabaston's jaw tightened. He had heard these warnings before. He didn't need more people questioning his resolve. "I'm prepared," he said firmly.

"Are you?" The figure stepped closer, their cloak parting slightly to reveal a thin, silver blade at their side. It shimmered faintly in the fading light, the glow of its mana-infused core pulsing softly. "There's more to the Labyrinth than just trials and power. It's... alive, in a way. It feeds on the minds of those who enter. You think you know what you're getting into, but I've seen what it does to people."

Rabaston didn't flinch. "What do you want?"

"I'm offering advice," the figure said simply. "But advice isn't free."

Rabaston's hand shifted ever so slightly on his sword. "And what's the price?"

The figure hesitated for a moment before lifting their hood just enough for Rabaston to catch a glimpse of their face—a woman, her eyes glowing faintly with mana, but it was the tiredness in her expression that stood out. She looked like someone who had seen too much, who had survived something that had left her hollow inside.

"Information," she said, her voice quieter now. "You've heard the rumors about the Labyrinth. They're true. Most of them. I'm one of the few who made it out. But I didn't come out unscathed."

Rabaston's interest piqued, but he didn't let it show. "What do you want in exchange for this information?"

"Nothing more than a promise," the woman replied. "If you survive, if you make it through the Labyrinth... find me again. I'll need your help. There's something inside, something I left behind."

Rabaston considered her offer. He didn't trust her—he trusted no one—but if she had indeed survived the Labyrinth, her knowledge could be invaluable. And if she was lying... well, it wouldn't matter much after he entered the Labyrinth. He would deal with whatever threats came his way.

He gave a slight nod. "I'll consider it."

The woman's eyes flickered with something—hope? Desperation? It was hard to tell. She took a step back, her figure slowly blending into the shadows. "Then I hope you're stronger than you look, Rabaston Rose. The Labyrinth won't show mercy."

Before he could respond, she turned and disappeared into the darkness, leaving Rabaston standing alone once more.

For a long moment, he remained where he was, his hand still resting on his sword. The encounter had unsettled him more than he cared to admit. The Labyrinth's reputation was one thing, but meeting someone who had survived it—and been changed by it—was something else entirely.

He exhaled slowly, calming the tension in his body. Whatever challenges lay ahead, he would face them. He had no choice. The path to power was never easy, but it was the only path he had.

Rabaston turned his gaze back toward the horizon, where the last vestiges of daylight were fading. The Labyrinth was close now, closer than ever. He could feel it, calling to him, urging him forward.

He set off again, his steps steady, his mind focused. The Infinite Labyrinth awaited.