An Isekai Story

Deep beneath Mount Thornmaw, past sealed gates and soundless corridors, lies the Vanta Gate—a chamber so saturated with ancient summoning rites that even echoes refuse to linger. It is not a room built by hands, but one seemingly bored into the world’s bones by sheer inevitability. This was where the Unmaker was first drawn into being: not birthed, but called, like a curse spoken backwards. The chamber is a perfect circle of black obsidian, its floor etched with summoning glyphs that never fully dim, always pulsing like a dying heartbeat. Seven towering monoliths ring the chamber, chained to the walls with links the size of wagon wheels, as if the spell required physical restraint. At the center stands a raised dais of mirrorstone, split neatly down the middle, the crack reaching toward the inactive summoning arch like a wound still bleeding silence. Even magic behaves strangely here. Scrying fails. Time stutters. And anyone who speaks finds their voice absorbed into the stone.

The chamber glistens like wet onyx, light swallowed whole by obsidian walls veined with red heat lines that never warm. The monoliths lean inward as if straining against their chains, while the broken dais reflects the ceiling in shattered, warped segments. The arch, massive and toothlike, waits like a locked jaw set to unhinge. No torchlight holds steady here—flames flicker toward the floor.