While the others fought for every breath of survival,
Ezra walked.

Slow steps, almost sleepwalking. His mind was the only place where the chaos seemed quiet.

'Maybe... it's because we touched the switch?'

"Of course it's the switch, Ezra," he answered himself — with that second voice, the colder one, the one that didn't waste time on guilt. "But there must be something else."

The ground beneath him changed texture. From cracked marble to smooth, almost slick stone.
He didn't see the transition. Didn't hear it. It simply… changed.

The darkness around him was alive.
There were no walls. No ceiling.
And yet… he could see.

Not with his eyes — but with a kind of stretched-out awareness, as if space itself were not a place, but an idea.

'If it were a trap… the Gate would've killed us on entry. But it didn't. It allowed us in. There's no reason for it to attack. That would go against the Law of the Good Host.'

Ezra stopped.

Something within him — a shard of logic amid the chaos — clicked into place.

"DAMN IT, BASTIAN!" he shouted, the echo unraveling far too quickly in the empty air.

In this new world, the Laws had shifted.
Some had become erratic, others vanished entirely.
But certain rules… remained. Unchanging. Universal.

Among them, one stood out — always present in secret places tied to the Primordial Law or its fragments:

The Law of the Good Host.

It was simple, yet unyielding:

"He who receives, must offer protection.
He who enters, must not threaten."

This Law dictated that, so long as someone is received into a space — be it a house, a sealed room, a reliquary, or an arcane chamber — the host is bound not to cause harm, and must offer sanctuary.

In return, the visitor is expected to act with respect and avoid any form of aggression.

Within the domains of the Order, this rule is typically invoked only in treasure rooms, knowledge halls, or other non-combative sanctums — places where knowledge or reward is the answer.

But there's one critical caveat:

If the Visitor acts with hostility — whether by raising weapons or forcing their way through — the Host is fully within its rights to revoke that sanctuary.

And to expel the intruders however it sees fit.

In practice?
The Gate isn't attacking.
It's reacting.

"What the hell did you all do while I was unconscious?" Ezra's voice sank into the nothingness, like it had been spoken into a fog-draped sheet.

But it was only then, only when he finally stopped and broke free of his trance, that Ezra truly looked around.

Nothing.

Just that fog-veiled ground and the vast gray void — and then he noticed.

A horde of mannequins running. Hundreds. Maybe thousands. All moving in the same direction. And all… passing right by him.

Ezra's eyes widened.

"HAAA!" he screamed in panic, leaping backward. The delayed adrenaline finally hit. The revelation, the terror, the sheer absurdity of it all — he was standing in the middle of a flood of monsters… and they were simply ignoring him.

He stumbled, crouched down on the smooth ground, trying to control his breathing.

"I knew I should've brought a weapon!" he hissed through clenched teeth, voice trembling with frustration.

But the memory returned automatically.
Sharp.
Annoying.

 "You don't need one, Ezra. You're just the guide."
 "Besides… would you even know how to use it?"

Nyra's voice echoed in his head, laced with that dry, merciless tone she used whenever she wanted to wound without seeming cruel.

Ezra clenched his fists.
The anger — at her voice, at the memory, at himself — boiled for a moment.

"OF COURSE I do!" he shouted into the void, as if he could somehow convince the universe of his worth.

But the void…
Didn't answer.

Only the rhythmic sound of hurried footsteps continued, echoing from every direction.
The mannequins — that disordered mass of broken bodies, some with human features, others twisted and bestial — kept running.
Without hesitation.
Without turning.

As if he didn't exist.

Ezra took a deep breath.
His tangled thoughts spiraled in loops:

'What do I do? What do I do!? I don't have a weapon. And even if I did, normal weapons wouldn't work without Vis.
Artifacts? Who would give one to someone like me? Useless, Codex-less. And even if I had one — it would never be for combat.
Maybe one of those new hybrid weapons, arcane-tech… But who'd ever authorize me to carry something like that? Who would ever see me as… necessary?'

He sighed.
Long and heavy.
As if letting his soul flow out with the air.

And against all expectations — nothing happened.

The world didn't crush him.
No entity whispered in his ear.
No judgment fell from above.

Only… silence.

That dense, suspended silence — Except, of course, for the ceaseless marching of the mannequins.

They continued.
Marching with blind precision.

Ezra blinked. "Huh…?"

He looked more closely.
All of them were running in the same direction.
All of them moving around him.
As if he were air.
As if he were… absent.

His first reaction came automatically — the same as always: "Great. Even the monsters ignore me."

He nearly gave in to that old voice of contempt, nearly spiraled again into the usual cycle: weakness, guilt, self-loathing.

But then… something different stirred.
Reason lifted its head.

"No… they're not ignoring me. They simply don't recognize me. Because I'm not an obstacle. I'm not a threat. Because… I'm being a good Visitor."

The word resonated inside him with a new weight.
Visitor.
Not intruder.
Not combatant.
Observer.

Ezra placed a hand over his chest. "Better get back before those idiots kill themselves."

He exhaled, then stood — and began to run.
In the same direction as the mannequins.