100\% DROP RATE : Why is My Inventory Always so Full?-Chapter 353 - Fall

The corridor pulled.

It dragged the Liberators forward in a trembling line of agreement.

From inside the corridor, they watched Moltsage shrink with distance.

They watched him refuse to shrink with fear.

He moved like doctrine given muscle. Every step was a lesson. Every motion was a refusal.

Space around him kept shedding as a desperate craft. He peeled angles away from the incarnation’s reach. He molted distance into wrongness. He forced the void to stutter, to miscount, to hesitate.

Each time the scythe cut, the cut should have been final.

Each time, Moltsage made "final" stop meaning what it meant.

The reactions inside were mixed.

Lucien said nothing.

His gaze remained fixed on Moltsage’s back.

The longer he watched, the clearer it became.

Moltsage was not winning.

He was just buying them time.

Only now did they fully understand.

This was the danger the diviner had foreseen.

A Primordial’s incarnation noticing their path.

Lucien felt cold clarity settle in his bones.

He exhaled once.

’Too late.’

They had moved fast and still, the danger had caught up.

Outside the corridor, Moltsage took a glancing blow. It should have removed his shoulder from the concept of "body."

Instead, his flesh blurred, peeled, and returned with an audible snap of reality agreeing to his lie.

He did not even look at the wound.

He only kept his attention on the corridor.

On them. On the future.

"You do not get them," Moltsage said again, but this time the words sounded less like anger and more like prayer.

The incarnation answered without voice.

It changed.

Up until now, it had moved like an editor correcting sentences.

Now it moved like an author deciding the Chapter was over.

The scythe in its hand rotated once. The void darkened around the blade.

Then it let go.

The scythe left its grip and flew.

It cut through the void toward the corridor’s throat with such speed that the corridor’s edges rippled. The blade did not drag light behind it. It dragged absence. A line of severance that did not aim for bodies.

It aimed for the idea that the corridor could exist.

Inside the corridor, the crowd moved as one, a collective flinch that threatened to tear the tunnel’s stability.

Astraea’s voice rang out.

"Hold still. If you panic, you give it leverage."

Lucien felt his own breath catch. He watched Moltsage’s head snap toward the flying scythe.

Moltsage vanished.

He molted his location, his distance, and his momentum. He reappeared in pursuit, tearing across space like a man trying to outrun a falling star.

For an instant, he was close enough to touch it.

Then the incarnation moved again.

It did not chase the corridor.

It chased Moltsage.

It stepped into Moltsage’s path and met him bare-handed.

No scythe were needed.

Just fingers wrapped in law.

Its hands glowed with severance, the way a blade glows when it has been sharpened too often. Every knuckle carried the certainty of division. Every movement promised that whatever it touched would stop being whole.

Moltsage struck first, palm forward. Molting flared outward as if he would peel the incarnation’s forearm from reality.

The incarnation caught the motion with a single hand.

There was no impact sound.

There was only a faint sickening quiet, like a page being torn out of a book.

Moltsage’s forearm blurred. A seam opened in it.

The seam tried to become absence.

Moltsage’s teeth clenched.

He molted the injury before it could finish becoming true, shedding the severance into the void like dead skin.

He surged again toward the flying scythe.

The incarnation followed, not hurried but proactive now.

It struck Moltsage’s ribs with a short, efficient blow.

Moltsage’s torso buckled.

The severance tried to split him in half at the waist.

He molted the damage again, but it took a fraction longer this time.

That fraction mattered.

His pursuit slowed.

The scythe continued.

Moltsage threw his Law outward.

The void around the scythe molted. Layers peeled and folded to misdirect its path.

For a heartbeat, it worked.

The scythe drifted a finger’s width off its line.

Then the incarnation’s hand lifted.

Two fingers pointed.

The void obeyed it.

The scythe corrected, returning to its original trajectory as if "misdirection" had been deemed a temporary permission.

Moltsage’s breath came out hard.

He pushed again.

He became a blur of shedding space and renewed flesh, chasing a verdict with a body that was steadily running out of lies.

His attention never left the scythe.

Adults protect children.

He had said it like a law.

Now he was proving it like a sentence written in blood.

The corridor shuddered.

Astraea fed the disc with greater force. Lightning crawled across her skin. Her Tempest Crown flared as she poured authority into the corridor’s script.

"Faster," she commanded.

The tunnel obeyed.

Stars stretched harder.

The Big World ahead grew larger. Its curve filled the corridor’s mouth like an oncoming sea.

For a breath, it felt like they might make it.

Then Vaelcar spoke.

"It is still coming."

Lucien’s eyes snapped to the forward edge.

The scythe had entered their range.

It crossed the corridor’s threshold as if the tunnel’s boundary was merely an opinion.

A line of severance slid into the corridor.

And then the scythe changed.

It unfolded.

The blade widened, warping into a crescent of absence. The edge opened like a jaw, and the void inside it looked deeper than the void outside. It became a mouth not of flesh, but of principle.

A mouth that ate connection.

A mouth that ate corridors.

A mouth that ate the word "safe."

The Liberators inside the tunnel finally lost their stillness.

Everyone drew their defensive weapons.

They fell into stance and formed a formation in the same breath.

Just then—

Vaelcar moved.

He stepped in front of them and his voice filled the corridor.

"Behind me. Now."

No one argued.

They surged backward, pressing behind Vaelcar’s position as if his body was the only wall left in creation.

Vaelcar’s Monolith flared.

Scripture erupted, dancing through the void in spiraling lines. Seals layered in front of the advancing mouth so quickly the air looked like it had become a stack of translucent pages.

Then Vaelcar transformed. His human shape tore open like a mask.

A Cataclysm Wyrm emerged.

His body barely fit inside the corridor.

The tunnel’s edges bowed outward, strained, as if reality itself had to make room for his true name.

Darian stared, breathless.

Kaia whispered, "So that is what he is."

Lucien felt the corridor’s walls tremble.

The mouth of severance came on.

Vaelcar lifted one clawed hand.

The Monolith rotated beside him like a moon made of scripture.

Seals layered again, faster, denser.

A thousand layers.

Two thousand.

Each seal was not only a barrier. It was a rule.

You cannot cross.

You cannot bite.

You cannot enter.

The mouth reached the seals.

It touched the first layer.

The first layer broke.

It did not explode.

It was simply eaten. The law... was erased mid-sentence.

The second layer followed.

Then the third.

The mouth advanced by consuming rules.

Vaelcar’s script flared brighter. He pressed harder, stacking new seals faster than the mouth could eat them.

For a few heartbeats, he succeeded.

The mouth’s advance slowed.

Inside the corridor, the crowd held their breath as if breathing would help the mouth hear them.

Astraea’s lightning crackled. She did not look back. She only fed the disc harder, forcing the corridor to pull.

Vaelcar’s eyes narrowed.

The seals were breaking.

Layer by layer.

The mouth was learning their taste.

Then Vaelcar cut his own finger with a motion so clean it looked like ritual.

Blood fell into the scripture.

The effect was immediate.

The seals bloomed thicker, deeper, like vows written with life instead of ink. The mouth’s advance slowed again, visibly now, as if it met resistance that had weight.

But it still did not stop.

If anything, it became hungrier.

It ate blood-script and grew stronger.

Vaelcar’s jaw tightened.

He hissed a word that sounded older than language.

Then his aura dipped.

He burned his own essence and mixed it into the seals.

The corridor filled with a grave warmth. A feeling like a cathedral lighting its last candles.

The mouth pushed.

Vaelcar pushed back.

The clash shook the corridor so hard that several Liberators stumbled backwards.

Seconds stretched.

The mouth’s edge trembled.

Vaelcar’s seals trembled.

The corridor’s walls trembled.

The Big World ahead loomed closer.

Vaelcar’s breath came out in a low, controlled rumble.

He was losing....

Then it happened.

Vaelcar coughed. Blood scattered into the void like red punctuation.

His eyes widened by a fraction in calculation.

The mouth of severance lunged.

It swallowed his entire hand.

Erasing.

His hand vanished into the mouth’s absence up to the wrist as if the universe had removed the definition of "hand" from that location.

A shockwave ran through the corridor.

A few screamed in concern. Others took a step forward, then stopped, because stepping forward would only make them die closer.

Lucien’s heart slammed against his ribs.

Vaelcar did not roar. He did not waste breath on pain.

He moved like an ancient being who had already lived through worse.

His Monolith flared.

He twisted the remaining seals with a brutal, precise motion and redirected the mouth’s trajectory.

Not stopping it.

Misdirecting it.

The mouth veered away from the crowded centerline.

It slid past them.

It missed the lives.

For a heartbeat, relief tried to exist.

Then the new problem arrived.

The mouth did not vanish.

It continued forward, and its edge scraped the corridor itself.

The tunnel’s boundary screamed silently.

A chunk of the corridor’s wall was eaten.

Deleted.

Astraea’s head snapped up too late.

Her eyes flared with lightning and horror.

"The corridor is compromised."

Vaelcar’s voice came out rough.

"Hold the tether," he growled. "If it breaks completely, you will scatter."

Astraea poured more mana.

The disc’s glow surged.

For a half-second, the corridor held.

Then the mouth took another bite out of its edge.

And the corridor cracked.

It ruptured like a vein burst under pressure.

The tunnel shuddered and splintered into branching streams of unstable transit.

Gravity twisted.

Space stopped agreeing on what "together" meant.

The thousand Liberators were pulled outward as if the universe had grabbed them by their names and flung them.

Lucien too felt the floor vanish under his feet.

He felt his body become a point.

He saw Kaia’s golden flame flare as she tried to latch onto someone.

He saw Darian reach for Velun.

He saw Rhazek’s hand clamp onto nothing.

He saw Seryth’s eyes go wide as the corridor split between one blink and the next.

Astraea’s lightning roared, trying to stitch the fracture.

Vaelcar’s Monolith screamed scripture, trying to bind what could no longer be bound.

It was not enough.

The corridor broke into scattered paths.

And then the Big World rushed up like an ocean meeting rain.

Lucien was flung.

He became a streak.

A falling star aimed at the Big World with no promise of where he would land.

Around him, hundreds and thousands of other streaks scattered across the sky like shattered constellations.

Some fell toward oceans.

Some toward mountains.

Some toward the blackened half of the world where the Black Mass waited like a wound that never closed.

And far behind, in the distance that was no longer reachable, a lone Eternal fought a principle given hands, while the mouth chewed the last edges of their escape.

The Big World rose.

The Black Mass stared.

And the universe, pleased with its own cruelty, let them fall.