An Isekai Story

The Procession Path runs like a black artery through the bowels of Mount Thornmaw, linking the Cradle’s great chambers with a solemn, unfaltering line. Hewn from the bedrock and polished until it reflects like oil-slick glass, the corridor is unnervingly pristine—untouched by dust or decay. Six distinct channels split off from its center, each inscribed with ancient sigils representing the great factions of Kavrix—Aerthos, Solara, Aok, Sylvaniar, the Obsidian Order, and even the Silent Chorus. These runes do not glow; they smolder faintly, as though ashamed of being noticed. At the juncture where they converge, the stone is blackened in the perfect shape of a single bootprint, scorched into permanence. The Path has no guards, no banners, no footfalls, yet it always seems as if someone has just passed—too recently to be coincidence. When the Unmaker chooses to walk, the mountain holds its breath. Those who dwell in the Cradle know better than to watch.

The corridor stretches long and straight, its obsidian floor polished to a faultless mirror, broken only by spiderweb etchings of factional sigils that vein outward from a central, scorched print. Cold light leaks from unseen seams in the walls, casting shadows where there should be none. The air is dry, crisp, unnaturally still—like a tomb that forgot how to rot. Each branch off the path disappears into deep silence.