Dirga’s telekinesis stirred.
A faint tug, like gravity whispering through the marrow of his bones, pulling him deeper into the armory’s heart.
He stilled his breath.
There — in the quiet between echoes, a call. Subtle, but certain. Something was drawing him.
Without hesitation, he followed it.
He passed shelves of rusted axes, vitrines filled with gilded spears, and pedestals holding blades that buzzed like living nerves. Some weapons hissed. Others growled. A few simply wept.
But Dirga ignored them all.
He wasn’t looking with his eyes anymore. He was letting the pull guide him.
Eventually, he reached a narrow corridor shrouded in shadows, ending at an old iron door. Its frame was etched with forgotten runes, and a chill clung to the handle.
Dirga reached for it.
The door opened without a lock — no key, no barrier. Like it had been waiting for him.
A spiral staircase descended beneath the ground, lit only by torches that flickered with fire as ancient as the realm itself. The air smelled of soot, oil, and old blood. Every step creaked like it remembered war.
The further he descended, the heavier the pull became.
Until he reached the bottom.
Another door — this one different.
Reinforced with dark metal bands.
The moment he placed his hand on it, Dirga felt the pressure.
Something beyond this threshold wasn’t meant for everyone.
But he didn’t hesitate.
He called on his telekinesis — not just as a skill, but as a natural extension of his will.
Mental pressure pulsed in his skull, but he didn’t falter. His control had grown. His mind, once fraying under the simplest strain, was now a fortress.
The room beyond was... empty.
Just a single pedestal in the center of the chamber, lit by a halo of soft firelight.
And on that pedestal sat a cube.
Floating inches above the surface.
Runes crawled across its sides like living things, changing shape, shifting constantly, whispering in languages Dirga didn’t recognize — and yet somehow understood.
Dirga stepped closer.
The pull intensified.
It wasn’t just a call now.
It was a conversation.
This wasn’t a weapon.
This was a pact waiting to be formed.
Something beyond blade or steel.
Dirga’s heart pounded.
"This... is what called me," he whispered.
And the moment his fingers brushed the surface of the cube—
Closer now, he saw the truth: it wasn’t just a cube.
It was a dice — a perfect red die, each side etched with smooth, black dots. Not painted. Not carved. They pulsed softly, like tiny black holes eating light.
That was his first thought.
Like Sasa’s slot machine. Could this be the same? Another artifact tied to luck, fate, chaos?
His instincts screamed.
Not just dangerous — alive.
But still, the call was clear. His soul had already answered.
Dirga clenched his teeth and grabbed it.
The cube fit perfectly in his palm. Heavy. Cold. Silent.
A full minute passed.
No blinding flash of awakening power.
"...Huh." Dirga frowned.
Disappointed, he turned to leave.
But the moment his foot crossed the threshold of the room—
A surge of information flooded his skull like a collapsing star, hot and overwhelming. His knees buckled. Visions erupted behind his eyes — images, sounds, truths.
Like watching a movie.
Except the cube wasn’t the weapon.
The cube was the protagonist.
Dark matter — not theory, not myth. Real, tangible, ancient.
The dice was a solidified core of it. Energy that didn’t obey light, didn’t obey gravity — it commanded them.
It had condensed — in the vacuum of deep space, where even time forgot how to flow.
Each one tied to a cosmic domain, scattered across realms — waiting to be found, waiting for a wielder.
And this one had chosen him.
A whisper crawled through his thoughts, as if the cube itself was speaking:
"You are the vessel. The pull of the singularity. Gather us, and we become one."
As the vision faded, Dirga’s mind steadied.
And something else clicked.
The dice... wasn’t a fixed weapon.
A weapon made of possibility.
It could shift, morph, adapt — to his will, to his concept, to his thoughts.
It was perfect for someone like him.
Someone who didn’t need to hold a blade — only control it.
Dirga looked down at the dice in his hand. It sat quietly now. Innocent. Silent.
From the visions it gave him, one thing burned clear in his memory:
Dice of World: The Crimson Core.
That was its name — or at least the first of six.
The rest remained shrouded. Hazy fragments. Scattered truths.
But that was alright.
Dirga didn’t need to understand everything yet.
Let the journey unravel it.
He turned back, retracing his path through the endless cathedral of weapons.
Every footstep echoed — a metallic hush across ancient tile. The relics whispered as he passed, but none called to him now.
He returned to the massive vault door.
As he stepped through, it shimmered — then vanished behind him like it was never there.
And waiting for him in the center of the armory’s combat arena...
Floating cross-legged like a meditating imposter god, weapons strewn around him like discarded toys.
"You got one?" Sasa’s voice echoed — playful, but watching.
"Yeah," he said, lifting the dice. "I got one."
He tossed it lightly into the air.
The red dice spun midair, glinting under the light —
A mosquito zipped toward him.
Before Dirga could react, the dice responded.
It morphed midair — edges folding, surface warping —
And in a blink, it became a slim throwing knife, slicing through the insect with a snap of force and speed.
He reached up, catching the knife midair as it returned to his hand — and watched as it melted back into the dice, pulsing once like it enjoyed the taste.
Before he could breathe—
But this time, the dice didn’t become a blade.
It morphed into a tiny yellow sphere.
And a massive, chomping grin.
"Seriously?" Dirga muttered.
The dice — now shaped like Pac-Man — surged forward with a little chomp chomp chomp and swallowed the mosquito whole.
It hovered, smug. Then morphed back to a dice, spinning once in Dirga’s palm.
"I was just testing my imagination, but... damn."
Sasa clapped once, amused. "Now we’re talking."