Moat was slowly coming undone from within.

  Not as the insignificant, lowly human he once was, but as the fragment of something incomparably greater. He was a guardian, a protector. A superior concept forged to outlast perpetuity itself. He was a singular creation over which altitude and time had no authority.

  And yet, he was dying.

  Since the moment of his birth, he had unraveled countless times. And countless times he rebuild himself from the final thread.

  But he dreaded the day he would not.

  He feared the day when what lay beneath would awake, devouring him as it was reborn from his rubble.

  With that thought, Moat's soul trembled in silent horror, and his body yearned to do the same. But his current form wouldn't permit such a mortal act.

  He couldn't falter, couldn't allow weakness to ever visit his unbreakable stones.

  For they had created him to be the first and last defense, an end after the end.

  As long as a single speck of existence remained, he would guard it. Only when the last flicker of life in the universe faded would he follow.

  Hence, he had no summit, for he was never meant to end.

  He pitied all those poor, dreamful souls who faithfully ascended his indifferent slopes only to realize that there was no final line to reach.

  Moat felt them all.

  Some devoutly embraced his outer layer, slithering upwards like snakes; others defiantly rejected his grace and took to the sky. They flied higher and higher in a delusion-like hope of touching his final line.

  And more and more of them used varied and unexplainable methods that Moat couldn't comprehend—but was sure were useless nonetheless.

  For he was not built to be climbed.

  No.

  He had been made for something far more terrible.

  Moat drew in a shaky breath, both hands flying to his chest as if to calm his wild, fleeting heart.

  ‘What the hell was that?’

  The vision, if he could even call it that, didn't last long. It only left feelings in its wake.

  He remembered no real information, just a tangle of foreign, intertwined emotions: dread, pride, and pity.

  Moat checked himself for any other change, but found none. Outwardly, he was sitting as if nothing had happened.

  But that was far from the truth. Though consuming the card hadn't granted him any visible powers like superhuman strength or magical abilities, it bestowed something equally—if not exceedingly—miraculous and extraordinary. It granted knowledge.

  An ocean of knowledge, information about nearly every facet and aspect of this strange, outlandish world. But like an ocean, it was too vast for a human mind to contain. Whenever Moat tried to recall or examine any part of it, the knowledge slipped through his mind like water through his fingers.

  He would always start to feel confused and distracted, forgetting what he was contemplating mid-thought.

  Still, some fundamentals had printed themselves so strongly upon him that they became intuitive—ingrained in his awareness even without conscious thought.

  Mainly: energy and cards.

  In this mythical world, those two concepts—energy and cards—established themselves as the very building blocks of reality. In fact, they weren't so different from each other; they were so deeply intertwined that, at times, the distinction between them all but disappeared.

  As Moat came to understand, one was simply a form of the other. Cards were nothing more than chaotic, untamed energy gathered by the Wall, then programmed and shaped to perform a specific function by the system.

  And since energy was the essence of all existence, anything could be transformed into a card—whether living or inanimate.

  That's why card types were so varied and myriad, and why energy cards were considered the most fundamental and primitive of them all.

  Moat flicked his fingers together, still enamored with all the newly acquired knowledge. Not believing he had just learned all of it, he decided to conduct a small experiment.

  Focusing inward, he mentally summoned one of the other cards and examined it.

  After a few moments, the information surfaced clearly in his mind:

  [Consumable Card: Tongue of the Wall]

  [Card Rank: E]

  [Card Description: Upon consumption, the climber gains the ability to understand every spoken language and communicated intention.]

  Moat couldn't begin to express what he felt in that moment. Just reading those few lines had taught him more about this world than an entire history book could have.

  Not because of any exceptional deductive skill on his part, but because of the way the information simply appeared, so matter-of-fact and complete. For instance, he instinctively knew how to access a card's data without speaking a word. It didn't surprise him that he understood this; only intent mattered when dealing with cards.

  Saying or mentally thinking activation phrases (like "consume" followed by the card's name) helped focus that intent, often triggering an almost immediate response. But pure, silent intent alone would still work, albeit with a slight delay.

  Even more astonishing was how thoroughly he grasped the card's content. He comprehended every detail as if he had read it dozens of times, despite seeing it for the first time just now.

  He somehow knew, without being told, that a consumable card could only be used once. and once consumed, its effects were permanent and could not be reversed. He also understood that E was the lowest rank a card could have.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Moat could have reached these conclusions on his own, but the unsettling part was that he felt no disbelief or resistance toward them. It was as if he had already accepted these truths, embraced them instinctively, as though this was simply how the world was meant to work.

  And clearly, it wasn't. Moat had never imagined that such mythical, magical cards could exist outside the realms of fiction. Yet here he was, interacting with them as casually as if they were part of his morning routine.

  And that frightened him.

  This peculiar sense of familiarity (the unprompted acceptance of all the strange and unnatural events) unnerved him deeply.

  It was as if he had been born here, a native of the Wall, and everything before this had merely been a prologue to his real life.

  Just like that, he no longer felt like a stranger in another world. He had been... unalienated.

  Moat didn't want to consider what that truly meant. Yet, he couldn't help but take a shred of comfort in the fact that he at least noticed it. He found a strange kind of solace that something inside him still recognized how wrong it all was.

  Then a troubling question struck him. How many wouldn't?

  How many others, brought here like him, would never even realize what had happened to them? And worse: how long would it take before they forgot everything about their original lives? Before their true memories faded into obscurity, until the only world they knew was this cursed, sinister Wall?

  Moat rubbed the back of his head, overwhelmed. Only the sound of Rob's breathing (growing uneven, a sign he was waking) cut through the chaotic storm of thoughts in his head known as overthinking.

  They were currently taking shelter in a shallow recess in the Wall, a dent-like hollow Rob had spotted glowing blue as they climbed. At first, they had hoped it was a resting spot, or better yet, one of the safe zones mentioned in the last message.

  But they weren't that lucky.

  No sooner had they laid their exhausted bodies on the narrow floor of the indent than a creeping sense of wrongness settled over them, accompanied by an almost physical urge to keep climbing.

  That, however, didn't prevent them from resting there. They had reached a point where, even if the place was as hot as an oven, they would gladly get roasted just to steal a little sleep.

  But now, Moat wondered if that had been a wise decision.

  True, the constant aching in his muscles and bones had eased, and the fogginess and headaches from sleep deprivation had thankfully lifted for a while. But the price was just as cruel.

  Now, he felt as if he hadn't eaten in ages. And in truth, he hadn't. Yet it was only after stilling for long enough that the hunger truly hit him. A new kind of fatigue crept in, different from what he'd felt before.

  This wasn't exhaustion from movement; it was the deep, gnawing weakness that came from drained energy and a lack of sustenance.

  The sound of Rob shifting caught Moat's attention. He had likely moved to sit at the edge.

  They stayed like that for a while: Moat seated in the corner, sometimes folding his legs beneath him, sometimes stretching them out; and Rob, legs dangling over the edge, staring into the endless drop below.

  "Do you think we are any closer to one of those safe zones?" Rob asked, his voice carrying the weight of a question that had likely been repeating in his head for some time.

  Unsure, Moat took his time to answer, making Rob assume he hadn't noticed the question.

  "Talking to you, buddy," Rob added, this time turning his head toward his direction.

  Moat exhaled softly, then whispered, "I hope so."

  "Hope? Don't you have, like, a gut feeling or something?"

  "Um, sorry. I don't have such a thing."

  But he did.

  His gut was screaming that they had made a grave mistake by stopping here, that they should have kept climbing, putting as much distance as possible between themselves and the source of that devilish scream.

  They had to climb until they reached a safe zone (or died trying). No stops. No rest in between.

  Yet he said none of it, for the simple reason that he was a coward. He didn't trust his gut feeling himself.

  He knew he should speak up. And he was going to.

  "Well, I have," came the admission (not from Moat, but from Rob), who let out a heavy sigh before continuing.

  "We shouldn't have listened to that manipulative piece of trash."

  Good. He noticed it too, Moat thought.

  "I think it would've been better if we hadn't started climbing right away. Maybe looked for, I don't know, a proper starting point first."

  Moat listened, waiting for him to elaborate.

  After a few heartbeats of silence, Rob simply said, "I'm going down."

  What? No. Why would he...?

  Moat pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth, fighting himself to speak. He had to say something, anything. They mustn't do that.

  Descending would be their doom. The haunting cry had come from below. Didn't he... didn't he hear that abomination?

  "I... um... I think we should keep going up," Moat said, managing to get out more than just a few words. "I don't think we're meant to descend."

  "Yes. We're not meant to," Rob replied, his voice firm. "And we won't."

  Moat sighed in relief.

  "Only I will," Rob added, shattering the fragile glass of safety Moat had built around himself.

  Moat would be lying if he said he hadn't expected it. No, not really. He'd been waiting for it. Waiting for the moment when either he wouldn't be able to keep up, or Rob would decide he could no longer carry the burden of two.

  But he'd also be lying if he said it didn't hurt. Being abandoned always felt like a stab to the heart, no matter how long you saw it coming. No matter how logical the reasons. It would always sting, and there was no shielding from its pain.

  I just took him for granted, Moat thought, when he didn't leave with that girl.

  As if only just realizing the weight of his words, Rob quickly added, "Don't worry. I'm just going to look around. If I find a livable spot (or someone who knows of one), I'll come back for you. I promise."

  He went on, barely pausing for breath, listing a thousand reasons (and a reason) why it made more sense for him to explore alone. How he'd move faster, cover a larger area. How, without a doubt, he would come back for Moat.

  And then, in the end, he left.

  He simply patted Moat on the shoulder and said, "I promise I'm not abandoning you. If I don't come back... then forgive me, for I've simply died."

  And as he heard the sound of Rob descending, growing fainter with each passing second, Moat couldn't stop himself from calling out, "I won't move from here. I'll wait for you. Please... come back safely."

  For a moment, Rob's descent paused, and Moat dared to hope that he hadn't said that too late. Then the sound resumed, slowly fading into the depths until the void swallowed it completely.

  And Moat did what he loathed most. He waited. Drawing his knees to his chest, he wrapped his arms around them. Time crawled, each moment staying longer than the last. Only the fog of dead images decaying in his eyes and the war of thoughts in his mind kept him company.

  And, as always, the ugliest questions struck only in the most vulnerable of moments.

  Should he have insisted on going with Rob? What would he have done? Stopped him by force? Rob didn't seem to be the type to force his views. He would've given in, eventually.

  Or maybe it would've been better if he had convinced Rob not to descend at all. Moat understood that the worry and fear he felt might have been unwarranted, but... fears often knew things the mind didn't, and they were there for a reason, a purpose, even if he was ignorant of what that purpose was.

  Had he foolishly sent the only person who extended a helping hand in this foreign world to his death? Was that how he repaid kindness: through hesitation and silence, all because of his damn lack of confidence?

  Then came the hunger. The quiet spectator that slowly and inevitably stepped into the spotlight to take the front seat in the play of his misery.

  It consumed everything: his thoughts, his body, his soul. Moat felt utterly famished, as if his body had been drained of every ounce of worth and had begun devouring itself just to survive. His cells waged an internal war, cannibalizing and feeding on each other until even his bones began to shrink.

  His skeleton no longer filled his skin, sagging and folding like that of an aged man at the end of his time. If anyone were to come to see his current state, they would swear by all that is holy that Moat had been there for hundreds of years.

  And perhaps he had.

  Moat, however, neither cared nor noticed the passing of time. His brain had long since gone dormant, not having the energy required to fear or feel his imminent demise.

  An unknown period later, he awoke with a jolt, like electricity surging through his nerves. Fully conscious now, Moat strained to understand what had just occurred. Listening intently, he didn't hear any strange sounds.

  "Rob... are you back?"

  Only the gust of frigid wind brushing his left side, and the airy stillness of the surrounding void, answered his question.

  Then, a chill crept down his spine.

  Slowly, hesitantly, Moat extended his left arm into the space beside him, the emptiness where the warm, solid stone had just been. An opening had appeared in the wall.

  Then he heard them.

  Demon-like creatures poured through the newly formed gate, their howls filled with defiance and death.