Mystical Fantasy : The Lazy Real Young Master [EN]

Daraka was walking through a vast stretch of rocky darkness, where the air itself seemed to breathe unease.

The only source of light came from the faint white flame spiraling around the body of the creature beside him — an otherworldly radiance that illuminated the uneven walls with ghostly shimmer.

Beside him trudged a humanoid being whose presence alone could make one’s skin crawl. Its skin was pitch-black, while its back was covered with pale, feather-like fur that gleamed under the dim flame.

A small, protruding mouth jutted forward beneath four perfectly round eyes, half-lidded, with no sign of a nose. Its arms were absurdly long, fingers numbering only three each, dragging across the rocky floor as it moved on legs as dark as obsidian, streaked with thin white veins.

The creature’s posture was slightly hunched, its movements slow yet deliberate — a predator lurking in patience, as though every step was a silent hunt.

Its breath came out as a steady hiss, like the sound of a snake slithering through hollow stone, echoing across the cavern. Despite its eerie demeanor, the being walked with composure, its motion calm and measured — the unmistakable stance of one who served as the right hand of a superior being.

Following them from behind were four other humanoid figures. Their shapes were simpler, yet each bore a distinct and unsettling feature, as though their existence was handcrafted to serve as bodyguards in this forsaken place.

”So many peculiar things here,” Daraka muttered, his tone carrying both awe and unease. ”I thought this place was only a myth. Are the corpses here truly still fresh? And will they always remain so, Lord Foteyo?”

The creature beside him — Foteyo — responded with a low, guttural hiss.

”You’ll see for yourself soon enough,” it said briefly, its voice deep and rough, carrying a weight that silenced further questions.

Daraka gave a thoughtful nod.

”So this is the Third Dimension... the realm spoken of only in ancient tales. The dimension where souls who have died but not yet been judged reside, waiting for the world’s end before being transferred to their next existence. The place they call Almakubar. So it’s real after all...” he whispered, matching his understanding of legends with what now stood before his eyes.

”Haha. Just enjoy your stay while it lasts,” Foteyo replied with a dry chuckle.

”We won’t be able to remain here for long. This dimension has been in chaos lately — too many dimensional disturbances. You shamans have been sending mortals into the dimension of djinn far too often. The Divine Agents are tightening their surveillance.”

Daraka gave a small smirk. ”You can’t put all the blame on us. You djinns have been demanding sacrifices far more frequently these past fifty years. And the last ten? Even worse.”

Foteyo laughed softly, the sound eerie but oddly amused. He didn’t continue the argument.

Daraka didn’t mind. His attention was drawn to his surroundings — to the unsettling silence broken by distant screams.

The darkness here wasn’t just an absence of light; it was alive, pulsating with agony and despair. The air itself carried echoes of suffering, as if the cavern walls had memorized the cries of countless souls.

Across the vast expanse, on the far side, a blinding radiance shone — a region filled with pure light. Yet that light could not cross into the darkness here, just as the shadow of this place could not invade the brightness beyond.

The boundary was absolute. The beings of darkness could not see into the light, and those in the light could not perceive what lay within the shadows. It was a strange equilibrium — a law of separation that existed beyond mortal comprehension.

A fascinating place, Daraka mused silently. If only I could remain longer... I could gather so much more information.

With the faint glow of Foteyo’s white fire as their guide, Daraka continued to study the scenery. Though visibility was poor, he could make out vague shapes drifting slowly through the dark — spirits.

Some appeared to be writhing under unseen torment, their cries sharp and pitiful. Others simply floated aimlessly, unbothered, as if accepting their fate.

Suddenly, from within the shadows, a gaunt man stumbled out and fell to his knees, clutching Daraka’s leg.

His body was thin, almost skeletal — more like a corpse that refused to rot.

”Please... save me, sir. Get me out of this place,” the man croaked, voice raspy, breath shallow.

Daraka didn’t even look down. He flicked his fingers, and a surge of dark magic flung the man aside like a broken doll.

”Pathetic creature,” he muttered coldly.

”Hahaha,” Foteyo let out a throaty laugh. ”That’s exactly what we find here — pitiful things that shouldn’t exist.”

Daraka turned his gaze toward the creature. ”Lord Foteyo, if I may ask... what exactly are these beings?”

Foteyo chuckled again, but this time he nodded, his tone shifting into something more informative.

”Most of what you see here are spirits — or, as some people call them, souls. This dimension, after all, was made for them. The ones you see being tormented — those are the dead, punished souls. The ones merely floating — those are the souls who have been separated from their living bodies, but are trapped here either by mistake or intentionally. And...” He paused, turning his gaze behind them.

The same man who had clung to Daraka moments ago was staggering toward them again. Foteyo reached out one of his long, sinewy arms, caught the man by the head, and lifted him effortlessly into the air.

”...and creatures like this one,” Foteyo continued, his hiss now almost a growl, ”are no different from you — the living who have found themselves caught in this dimension.”

With a swift twist of his hand, Foteyo snapped the man’s neck. The sound was sharp — a short, brittle crack followed by silence. The man’s spirit tore free from his body and was immediately dragged downward by some unseen force, pulled deeper into the abyss.

The corpse, however, changed before their eyes.

The dried, withered flesh began to smooth out, color returning to the skin. In a matter of moments, the body looked young again — untouched by death.

Daraka blinked in surprise. ”What the—? His body... it’s restored? Why did it return to its original state?”

”I don’t know for certain,” Foteyo replied calmly. ”But it’s one of the strange properties of this place. When a soul departs, the physical form reverts to its prime condition — as if death resets it.”

Daraka frowned, both intrigued and frustrated. A phenomenon like that could redefine every theory I’ve gathered so far...

He exhaled slowly, suppressing the excitement that bubbled up beneath his irritation.

”You,” he said, turning to Foteyo’s subordinates. ”Take that body with us.”

One of the creatures stepped forward obediently, hoisted the corpse onto its back, and followed as their eerie procession continued deeper into the unknown.

---

They had been walking for quite some distance when something unusual appeared before them.

High above their heads, several souls were floating in complete stillness. Yet, each of their ethereal bodies emitted a faint glow—different colors shimmering like dying stars in the dark. Even though the entire area remained swallowed in darkness, that subtle radiance was enough for Daraka and his group to see.

Daraka lifted his gaze, curiosity gleaming in his eyes.

”What’s happening up there?” he asked, his tone more intrigued than cautious.

Foteyo let out a low hiss that echoed faintly in the cavern.

”You’re a shaman, yet you don’t recognize what that is? Those are souls undergoing spiritization.”

”Spiritization?” Daraka frowned. ”I’ve never heard that term before.”

”It’s the positive counterpart of soul demonization,” Foteyo explained, his voice carrying a mix of mockery and patience. ”Surely even a shaman like you knows what soul demonization is, right?”

Daraka nodded slowly.

”Of course. Demonization is the special process that turns a soul into a demon—creating what we call a demon spirit.”

”Exactly,” Foteyo hissed approvingly. ”Spiritization, on the other hand, is the method to turn a soul into a ordinary living spirit, beings that can leave this place and wander in the dimension of the living as a new entity. Some become just living spirits—what you humans often call ghosts. Others may ascend into nature spirits, elementals, or, according to some myths, even angels. But don’t ask me for details—I’m not an expert on that.”

Daraka’s eyes lit up, genuine fascination washing over his usually cold demeanor.

”How interesting...” he murmured, watching the souls suspended in the air. Some looked calm, while others flickered wildly, surrounded by strange waves of dark energy.

”Lord Foteyo,” he said after a moment, ”what about those ones? The ones covered in that black aura... is that Helos?”

Foteyo nodded.

”Indeed. Those souls belong mostly to the djinn race and the demi-humans. The ones without the black current are pure human souls. Djinn souls usually evolve into elemental or nature spirits, while human souls become fairies—or ghosts, depending on their essence.”

He then gestured toward several entities struggling higher in the air.

”And those who seem overwhelmed... they’re demi-humans. Their path is longer and more difficult. Their bodies have already undergone a partial demonization while alive. Even if their souls are pure, they must completely sever themselves from their physical forms before spiritization can occur.”

”So what must they do to succeed?” Daraka asked, voice low but intense. ”If they die and lose their original bodies, won’t that make spiritization impossible? Wouldn’t they just end up trapped here forever?”

Foteyo nodded once again.

”That’s precisely why they perform the ritual here, in this region.”

Daraka frowned slightly. ”Here?”

Their footsteps halted. Before them stretched a massive chasm—a bottomless pit where countless corpses lay piled, each looking strangely fresh, untouched by decay.

Foteyo’s voice dropped to a hiss.

”I’m not entirely sure about the process, but they’ll use these bodies—choosing suitable vessels as temporary mediums once they reach the final stage of their evolution.”

Daraka didn’t fully understand, but he didn’t press the matter.

His eyes darted across the abyss, absorbing every fragment of knowledge this forbidden dimension had to offer. Despite his confusion, a thrill surged within him. Every mystery, every rule of this place—it was a treasure trove of knowledge waiting to be exploited.

Their purpose here remained clear: to harvest as many corpses as possible.

But unbeknownst to them, not far away, someone was watching.

Behind a massive stone formation, a girl dressed in a black uniform—so dark it nearly blended into the surrounding void—stood motionless, her sharp eyes fixed on Daraka and his entourage.

Shae.

So that’s him... The shaman Master’s been searching for.

No wonder we couldn’t find him—he’s been here all along.

Her mind raced.

What should I do? Should I fight them? But that thing beside him... it’s too strong. Could I even stand a chance?

She drew in a quiet breath and looked upward. Her expression softened as her eyes caught sight of another presence above.

There she is—the girl we’ve been looking for.

High above, a luminous soul floated serenely, its form resembling Putri. A brilliant white energy enveloped her spirit, intertwined with threads of black—residual traces of Helos rooted in her weakened body still lying unconscious in the human dimension.

Shae clenched her fists, determination solidifying in her heart.

She’s my priority now, she decided firmly, her gaze never leaving the glowing figure.

---

Back in the bunker—

A deep, vibrating voice suddenly echoed from behind Al.

”Khe-Do-Mua-Ppa-Lei-Yehe—?” (So this is your doing?)

The words rolled out in a heavy, otherworldly tone—an ancient language, alien to this dimension, carrying an oppressive resonance that made the air tremble.

Al instantly turned around, eyes narrowing as his instincts flared. The sound alone was enough to make the barrier seals across the bunker hum faintly in warning.

Sa-Ya, standing nearby, immediately tensed, ready to attack—but Al raised his hand swiftly, stopping her in place.

”Sa-Ya, don’t move,” he commanded firmly, his tone sharp and absolute. ”Keep your magic under control.”

Sa-Ya nodded obediently, keeping her senses alert.

In front of them stood a towering figure—its presence commanding and dreadful. The entity was enveloped in a mass of swirling black energy, the currents moving like a sentient storm, twisting and thrashing violently around its form as though eager to shred anything that dared to approach.

The air turned frigid. A suffocating chill pressed down on the room, halting even the flow of breath. Every instinct of any living being within range screamed a single word—run.

Al’s pulse quickened. He could feel the overwhelming energy radiating from that figure—heavy, ancient, and merciless. Cold sweat ran down his temple as his internal flow of energy began to fluctuate, distorted by the sheer pressure of the being before him.

So this is what it really looks like... he thought, his expression tightening.

Then—

FWOSHHHH!

A violent gust erupted from the creature, an unholy wind infused with shadowy energy that tore through the air. The blast wasn’t just cold—it burned. The moment it brushed against exposed skin, it scorched like acid, as if the wind itself didn’t belong to this world.

But Al had already anticipated the strike. In the blink of an eye, a series of complex, multi-layered barriers unfolded before him and the others—circular seals glowing faintly with runes. The storm smashed into them with tremendous force.

Crack—crack—!

The outermost layers of Al’s barrier shattered under the assault, melting as though devoured by the dark wind. A few stray currents slipped past, grazing Al’s right hand. The skin on his knuckles blistered instantly.

”Ugh... what a monstrous power,” he muttered through clenched teeth.

He turned quickly, checking on Sa-Ya, Basri, and Putri lying unconscious behind them. The barrier still held—barely—but it was enough. None of them were harmed, though the surrounding chamber was in disarray. Debris scattered across the floor, and Putri’s bed had shifted several feet from its place.

”Sa-Ya, are you alright?” Al called out.

”Thanks to your protection, Master, I’m fine,” she replied calmly

Al exhaled softly in relief.

”Good.”

Then his gaze returned to the figure still cloaked in darkness.

”Sa-Ya, can you see it clearly?” he asked.

She shook her head slowly.

”I can only perceive the black energy there, Master,” she said. ”What is that thing? What’s happening?”

Al’s lips curved into a thin, knowing smile. His voice lowered, steady but edged with caution.

”That...” he said, eyes locking onto the entity before him.

”...is an Agent of Death.”

---