The Red Portal: Awakening of the S-Rank Dungeon

Thomas blinked, his blurred vision gradually giving way to clarity. It was no longer the suffocating, abstract void; now, a vast and imposing grayness enveloped him. He was in a vast chamber, a place where time seemed to have stopped, with touches of eternity engraved on each cold stone.

The place had the solemn silence of an ancient tomb, a sense of reverence hanging in the air, so dense it almost could be touched. The high arches of the ceiling rose into darkness, lost in the gloomy twilight, while the walls were adorned with faded tapestries and crests of clans whose names time had devoured.

Rows of warriors were arranged in perfect symmetry on both sides of the room, statuesque in their armors that were works of art in their own right - heavy and majestic, venerating the marks of battle. Their swords, crossed in front of them, were not just weapons, but symbols of unwavering intent, broad and menacing, reflecting the dim glow of a light whose source could not be identified.

And at the heart of this scenery was he, Thomas, whose eyes were slowly opening to take in every surreal detail of the scene. He felt the weight of countless gazes even without seeing their faces, as if each stone warrior studied him in silence, waiting for his next move in a game he had yet to understand.

Beneath him, a throne rose. It was not just a seat, but a pronouncement of power and destiny. It was made of dark metal that absorbed the faint light, inlaid with stones that glimmered with an ethereal inner light. Complex sculptures entwined its forms, narrating indescribable deeds and carrying an air of majesty. On this throne, Thomas felt both exalted and entrapped, as if the throne were an anchor that bound him firmly to this unknown domain.

The atmosphere carried the omens of a hidden purpose, a story about to be unfurled, and Thomas, at the center of it all, a newly awakened key piece in a game of ages. He inhaled deeply, the cold of the stone against his skin contrasting with the sudden warmth of an energy beginning to flow through his veins. What did this world expect of him? What trials, what battles were etched into his future?

Here, in the solemnity of a tomb pulsing with the promise of life, Thomas felt reborn. And this new birth, under the watchful gaze of eternity, would not be without consequence. He knew that every movement of his would echo through this realm of shadows and silence, and he was about to discover his role in this theater of ancient memories.

Feeling both a part of the scenery and simultaneously an intruder within it, Thomas remained motionless, absorbing the strange duality of emotions that besieged him. The initial fear, expected upon awakening in such an impressively unknown environment, was mysteriously mixed with an unexpected sense of belonging. His body, though new to him, seemed to already know every shadow and every whisper of that ancient tomb, as if it were pre-tuned to the frequency of those age-old stones.

He rose, and the action seemed to trigger a chain reaction; a murmur so low it was almost imperceptible spread through the space, and the motionless warriors seemed to approve his decision to explore this new realm.

Clad in a white robe that flowed like water around his form, Thomas felt starkly contrasting with the grays and bronzes of the surroundings. Nails painted in deep black served as a symbol of status – or a mark of something deeper? And the symbols, strangely familiar, seemed to pulse with an ancient power, a direct link to the energy permeating the place. They suggested that he was not merely a visitor, but intrinsically belonged to this environment in some way.

Thomas slowly lifted his hands before his eyes, rotating them so that the silent luminescence of the stones set in the throne illuminated every line, every mark on his skin. The light revealed complex designs, possibly words of a language that his conscious mind did not recognize, but that seemed to resonate on a subliminal level.

Struck by a sudden inspiration, he ran the tips of his fingers over the symbols, almost fearing – almost hoping – they would react to his touch. However, they remained inert, and he surmised that perhaps more than a simple gesture was needed to awaken them.

"You are the strongest here," this thought resonated in his mind, echoing like an unquestionable truth. Did his presence there mean something to those eternally silent warriors? Was the throne an indication of power destined for him? And more importantly, was he willing to accept and play the role that was implicitly offered to him?

With a sigh of determination, he began to walk through the tomb. His robe floated behind him, a specter of light in a somber realm.

Thomas cast an inquisitive glance over the expanse of the room, his impatience blending with a tinge of defiance. A test – yes, it had to be. There could be no other explanation for such a setting and his commanding presence in it. The throne on which he had awoken so comfortably was nothing but an opening gambit on a chessboard.

There were no visible doors or secret passages, just the continuous echo of silence that refused to unveil its secrets. Thomas wondered if the challenge was more mental than physical – perhaps the exit required a kind of perception beyond the five conventional senses.

"Where am I?" He allowed the question to hang in the air, almost expecting an answer from the watchful stone warriors. But the static expectation remained unshakable; the armored warriors gave no sign of life, and the only response was his own voice's muffled return against the ancient stone.

"Tsk." The sharp sound, a click of tongue against teeth, shattered the mantle of silence. Thomas stood up, irritation evident in his voice. "So, this is the so-called Project Rebirth? Some kind of test for me to get out of this place or something?"

Moments passed without any tangible change in the environment. Thomas assessed his situation - isolated, yet intimately aware that he was the protagonist, the center stage. Perhaps that was the key: recognizing that he had control, that he had power, power that he still needed to learn how to access and wield.

His mind raced to process the possibilities. The symbols on his hands could be clues, perhaps a map or a guide. He focused, beginning to sense that the "test" was not merely about escape; it was about discovery, understanding, mastery. He was here to learn, and what he needed to learn was the weight and the reach of his own potential.

"Alright, then," said Thomas, more to himself than any of the stone companions, "let's see what this Rebirth is all about." The words came out decisively.

Thomas clenched his fists, and a peculiar sensation began to sprout within him. It was something deeper than nervousness—an unsettling anxiety that suggested something within him was pleading for release. He concentrated, instinctively channeling all that bubbling energy to the center of his clenched fists. And then, with a sudden burst of clarity, an aura of crystalline blue began to emanate from his hands.

Intrigued and fascinated, Thomas watched as the light intensified, taking a deep breath and expanding his focus. The power within him, strange yet undeniably his, eagerly responded to his attention. The aura spread out, floating beyond the confines of his skin and enveloping him in a radiant cloak of pulsing energy.

As the blue light intensified, the room's structures seemed to respond to this newly awakened power. A gentle tremor, almost imperceptible at first, grew as the eyes of the warrior statues began to glow, reflecting the same blue of the power emerging from Thomas. They seemed to be waking from a long slumber, brought to life by the energy Thomas was releasing.

Then, abruptly, the tremor transformed into a powerful vibration that coursed through the ground, the walls, the very air around him. And before Thomas could fully marvel at the power emanating from his hands, the wall in front of him began to crumble. Stone after stone fell with muted thunder, raising a thick dust that danced in the blue light.

When the dust settled, where the wall once was, there now stood a large door, revealed by the removal of the concealing stones. Thomas knew what this signified. The door was his next step, the path ahead. His destiny was not to remain in that chamber of awakened powers, but to venture forth, into the unknown eagerly awaiting him.

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In the deserted expanse of Wembley Stadium, an extraordinary group stood out on the customarily green pitch, now eclipsed by the otherworldly spectacle of a blue rift in the fabric of reality. These 20 souls, stark against the backdrop of a silent stadium, formed a diverse unit, a band of warriors and mystics united by a common purpose.

The 15 at the front, dressed in clothing that defied era and place, seemed as if they had been transported directly from an age or world where combat and magic determined status and power. The front line was made up of imposing figures in heavy armor, shining under the effect of the strange blue light of the portal. They wielded immense shields and swords that promised brute strength, assuming the stance of tanks ready to absorb any threat that might emerge from that gleaming portal.

Just behind them, warriors in lighter armor but no less menacing, bore katanas and swords from medieval times, their stances suggesting a readiness for balanced attack and defense. They were the middle line, ready to strike lethal blows or reorganize as a secondary defense.

The third line consisted of individuals in robes that billowed with the nonexistent breeze of a magic that was already stirring the air. The symbols adorning their garb spoke of ancient knowledge and the ability to manipulate aspects of the world that common eyes would never see. They maintained their composure as their hands conjured reflections of light on wands and staves, promising a battle of spells as soon as the need arose.

And at the rear, a particularly vulnerable group; they wore protective uniforms that evoked less the image of combatants and more that of healers or specialized envoys. They carried simple staves or no adornment beyond their clothing. These were the supports, those whose abilities sustained and revitalized the collective effort, offering healing, protection, and perhaps even strategic guidance.

Together, these 20 individuals stood poised before the blue portal, each aware of their roles and ready to either enter or defend against the unknowns of another world or dimension. Any casual observer would have deemed the scene a surreal blend of fantasy and reality, but for those gathered on the pitch, the danger and the destiny were tangible. They waited, breath controlled, gazes fixed on the pulsating heart of the blue light that tore through the space before them, prepared for whatever they were to face in the next heartbeat of the cosmos.

The five remaining figures, stark in their black suits, stood a little apart from the group of hunters, calmly observing the scene like directors of an orchestra about to commence a heroic and perilous symphony. Among these, one figure in particular drew attention, perhaps for the stark contrast of his yellow hair against the formality of the dark suits, perhaps for the penetrating intensity of his black eyes.

He now stepped forward, his eyes sweeping across the group of hunters with a mixture of assessment and encouragement. "Hello hunters," he began, his voice carried clearly by the emptiness of the stadium, seizing the attention of his audience. "As you see, this is an F-rank portal. We, the English Association of Hunters, thank you for your participation to complete this dungeon. You are ranked E, so you should have no trouble completing this dungeon. But still, keep your guard high, because we do not know what can occur in a dungeon. Your enemies will be unknown, as will the route to the end. Anyway, prepare for the worst."

The warning issued by the man with yellow hair was clear: despite the low rank of the portal, danger was a constant companion in any foray into the unknown. Only vigilance and readiness would assure safety through the dungeon.

With the warning heeded, the hunters exchanged determined glances, tightened the grip on their weapons, and murmured spells softly, consolidating combat and survival strategies in their minds. They knew that the classification of a portal did not lessen the inherent risks of an incursion, and that the true measure of a hunter was not in their rank but in their ability to face the unexpected.

The leader's words had been a cue, and with silent concord, they moved in formation toward the pulsating blue portal. The portal itself was an enigma, exuding deceptive quietude that masked the thousands of possibilities and dangers lurking beyond.

This mission might be the first of many for these hunters, or it could be the last. The future was uncertain, yet the step forward was inevitable. Step by step, they advanced, not just toward the dungeon but toward the unknown, toward their destiny as hunters in the vast tapestry of worlds beyond the portal.

The hunters marched with determination toward the portal, diminutive against the vastness of the surrounding stadium, yet colossal in bravery. Arthur, with his impeccably black attire and golden-yellow hair catching the bluish light, maintained a firm and scrutinous gaze on the advancing formation.

It was then that Leo's voice, as jovial and outgoing as his appearance, cut through the tense silence that had fallen over the group of supervisors. "Arthur, did you check if the hunters are carrying healing and mana potions? You know, in case the mages need to recharge their mana and the tanks need to heal up."

Arthur, upon hearing Leo's interjection, did not remove his eyes from the view of the hunters nearing the portal. His expression, firm and serious, remained immobile, as if carved in stone by the weight of responsibility he bore. "Yes, Leo, I've checked everything," Arthur replied, a trace of assurance weaving through his words. "But I do not believe these hunters will have any trouble taking care of a simple F-rank dungeon."

Leo nodded, acknowledging the prudence in Arthur's words. "Well, you seem to be right… But we have to be prepared for any event, right?" The agreement between them highlighted the foundation of shared experience; both aware that in the hunt for the unknown, the expected was merely a starting point.

Arthur nodded subtly, ready to continue with a calm and confident voice. "Yes, but in this case, the level is not considered dangerous. Anyway, I need to—" Arthur's sentence was abruptly cut off by a dramatic transmutation in the portal. The mild blue pulse suddenly transformed into an alarming red glow, an unmistakable visual warning of imminent danger. The atmosphere in the stadium palpably shifted; what was once managed expectation now became a thick cloak of uncertainty and alert.

The supervisors, including Leo and Arthur, widened their eyes as they witnessed the change. They were trained to handle the unexpected, but a dungeon break was among the most feared scenarios - a moment where control over the situation could easily slip through one's fingers.

"A dungeon break? Just now?!" Arthur's concern in his voice was as unusual as the event unfolding before them. A dungeon break wasn't just a complication; it was a catastrophic collapse of the dungeon field, where all rules and expectations were cast to the wind.

In the seconds that followed, the supervisors sprang into action. Under Arthur's command, communications were initiated, emergency protocols were activated, and the medical team was alerted for an immediate response. In a world where dungeons and hunters had become reality, it was essential that every possibility – no matter how remote or dire – be considered and addressed with precision and utmost speed.

The previously blue portal, now a furious red sea, was no longer a safe entrance to an adventure; it was an omen of disorder and potential calamity, and everyone in the stadium knew that the ensuing moments would be critical for the safety of the hunters and for the stability of reality itself.

The hustle amongst the supervisors was palpable, each one executing their function with urgency dictated by the situation. One of them, with brisk steps and hands barely able to contain the tremor of adrenaline, headed towards the portal, now a boiling cauldron of red energy, with a mana meter in hand. The precision of the device was crucial at such times, and until then, had been a reliable parameter.

However, as the supervisor approached and the meter came into contact with the aura emanated by the portal, a cataclysmic reaction was triggered. The device screeched, its internal circuits unable to process the overwhelming amount of mana pouring from the crack in reality. The readings, leaping to stratospheric numbers, surpassed any prior record, defying human comprehension and understanding of the portals and dungeons that had become part of their world.

"IS THIS AN S-RANK DUNGEON?" The supervisor's voice, laced with incredulity and fear, conveyed the magnitude of the revelation. The understanding of such a scale of power resonated with the knowledge of all those present. An S-rank dungeon wasn't merely a simple anomaly—it was an event without precedent, with the exception of one infamous moment that already occupied the pages of history.

The memory of the dungeon that erupted at the height of the Second World War, an event that nearly served as a catalyst for global disaster, echoed in the minds of the supervisors. The invasion of monsters, the titanic struggle against the final boss, and the victory of the heroes of that era stood as a testament to the human capacity to overcome the unbelievable.

Decades after that desperate battle that sealed the peace, the emergence of a new S-rank dungeon was a cruel reminder that, despite the control and understanding they tried to impose on these unknown forces, they were still at the mercy of events that were beyond the limits of their expectations and experience.

Arthur, Leo, and the other supervisors faced a threat that required the mobilization of resources and talents that were seldom necessary. Contacting authorities, higher-ranked hunters, dungeon specialists, and all possible forms of support, they organized themselves to respond to this unexpected crisis.

The S-rank dungeon before them was a colossal challenge, and the lives of the hunters who had entered the portal before the transmutation were now of prime concern. The measure of the following hours would define the near future of humanity, a story about to be written with the determination of those who were now preparing to face the purest manifestation of danger and the unknown.