The currents had calmed, though the trench still throbbed with the echo of Kuro's trial.
Silence settled like a heavy fog, broken only by the faint pulse of bioluminescent organisms drifting aimlessly.
Kuro floated above the trench floor, tentacles coiled, shell flaring with residual mana. Every movement was measured, cautious, yet he felt the shift inside himself—growth, awareness, and the lingering resonance of the Abyss acknowledging his survival.
Below him, a faint glow shimmered among the jagged rocks. Not bioluminescence. Not Strider blood. Something artificial. Shapes that didn't belong in natural trenches—lines of runed stone, broken pillars, and half-buried obelisks, etched with symbols that throbbed faintly in the dark water.
The Ruined Expanse.
Long before, myths had whispered of the Old Sea Race, architects of impossible cities, rulers of depths that no predator could dominate. Their remnants were said to warp reality, turning even the strongest leviathan into prey for their traps.
Now, hundreds of years later, Kuro would walk among their echoes.
He drifted closer, barbed sensory spines quivering as he scanned the area. Mana lingered thick in the water—faint, volatile, and hungry. Even the Strider's assimilation hadn't prepared him fully.
Every instinct screamed caution. Every neural pathway fired: danger, deception, death.
Then he sensed it.
A presence—not one, but many. Shadows detached from the ruins themselves, moving as though alive. Tentacles of stone and mana reached outward, probing. The Abyss whispered:
They remember. They punish. They consume knowledge without mercy.
Kuro coiled his limbs defensively, Phase Ripple ready. He darted through the ruins, scanning, analyzing. Echo Magic flared briefly, sonar mapping the labyrinthine ruins with precision. The runes on the pillars weren't just decorative—they were wards, sentries, traps.
A sudden pulse—sharp, malicious—cut through the water, striking his tentacle. Pain flared as mana leached from the strike. Kuro twisted, dodged, and unleashed a short burst of Hydro Jet, slicing water currents to disrupt the attack.
> [Environmental Hazard: Runic Trap Activated.]
[Damage: Minor, Mana Drain: Moderate.]
The ruins themselves seemed to pulse in rhythm with Kuro's heartbeat. He understood—this was not just a place, but a memory of power, a test of both body and mind. Those who wandered unprepared were devoured by the echoes: fragments of ancient Leviathans, warped by centuries of residual mana, forever trapped in loops of violence.
A shadow lunged. Not living. Not dead. But aware. A skeletal leviathan, fused with broken ruins, its teeth jagged shards of crystal, tentacles entwined with broken runes. It struck, and water pressure tore at Kuro's shell.
Pain flared, but he countered instinctively. Tentacles lashed, barbs piercing the creature's crystalline limbs. Mana surged between them, a violent clash that made the trench quake.
Kuro realized—this wasn't merely combat. Every strike, every movement, every dodge fed the ruins' memory. The echoes were alive, testing him, gauging his evolution. Only by surviving, adapting, and moving with precision could he navigate the Expanse.
As he advanced, the shadows multiplied. Traps triggered in sequence. Mana siphoned into the ruins, then back into shapes of teeth and claws. Kuro's body burned with exertion, neural strain screaming warnings. He was pushed to the brink, yet every wound, every stress, every adaptation made him sharper.
Deep inside, he sensed it: something vast, older than even the Abyssal God he had encountered. Something buried beneath the ruins, waiting for one who could survive the memory of the Old Sea Race.
The echo whispered:
You are worthy… but only if you can walk through death itself and claim the knowledge of the lost.
Kuro's eyes narrowed. His tentacles flexed, shell flared. The Ruined Expanse was not merely a battlefield—it was a crucible. And he would survive.
Even if the echoes tried to tear him apart.