The early mornings in the Outlands could be considered quite romantic if one were to live a nomadic life. Unlike the hustle and bustle of the Districts that dulled nature's gifts, the Outlands offered solitude—even if it might be temporary. Unobstructed by the grand skyscrapers, the blaring sirens, and the suffocating artificial haze of the Districts, Luciel would say that the Outlanders had it better.
He might be slightly biased since he grew up in this environment, but truly, there were not many spectacles that could rival the view of the sunrise in an open plane of the Outlands.
Luciel sat on the rubble of his collapsed concrete tent, arms resting loosely on his knees while watching the break of dawn. He was sufficiently rested—enough for his body to move normally at least.
He turned to look at his clothes that were left to dry on a bent metal bar. His shirt was now stiff with soot and old blood as it swayed awkwardly in the wind.
'Tch. I might as well walk naked.'
Luckily, the cold seemed a bit less today, though White Winter was fast approaching—a time when even the Southern Outlands yielded to potent frost. Up north, the Federation knew no seasons. Just snowstorms and blizzards, year-round.
'I need to at least find a place to stay before December hits,' he thought, reminiscing about the times when he wore tens of layers while curling up in a ragged blanket for days to survive the cold. A hibernation technique, of sorts.
In any case, Luciel was determined to make some money today. A monumental day, to say the least. It was the first step toward a normal life. He was ready to abandon this damned, terrible cycle—this feral half-life that he barely counted as living.
Luciel stood and stretched his body, joints cracking from last night's strain. He grabbed the stiff shirt and put it on with a grimace.
There wasn't much to bring along—only his broken dagger and a pouch of water.
'Wait... Where's the water?'
Never mind.
He might have forgotten his pouch of water and left it on the battlefield last night. Disappointed, he turned his back and walked away from the ruins. He had to take a detour to gather crucial materials and equipment to harvest the Skulkers anyway, so it didn't matter much.
'Let's see. This is around northwest of District Omega. I'll go to that place, then.'
Luciel hadn't visited that place for a while. The destination wasn't that far off. He just had to go through the ruins and cross a small ridge.
And so, he marched onward for around thirty minutes without any issue. Once he passed through the narrow ridge and slid down towards a rather uneven terrace, an old abandoned town hidden behind the mountain wall revealed itself.
The town looked like a polaroid film of the past left basking in the sun for too long. Tree roots slithered between the cracks of the concrete pavement, rusted signs dangled by a single bolt, and wells were covered by blackened moss.
Wooden cabins with broken windows stood proudly but forgotten; some of the logs were missing, others burned or gnawed by nature.
This town was just one of many cursed fates of Outlander settlements that tried to create a modern civilization. Ultimately, they all withered away, lost to time and only known by few.
Luciel walked silently through the neighborhood, salvaging anything he deemed usable. He found a junk of miscellaneous items: rusted kitchen utensils, an old TV, and even a baby crib. His expression turned quiet—something between melancholy and detachment—but he kept his head down, trying to empty his mind.
He then stopped by the town square, where he saw a tattered banner clinging to the front of the town hall, its emblem half-burned and its words unreadable. He thought the banner could be used to wrap the gears into a ball, essentially creating a makeshift backpack.
He needed something to carry everything back, after all. The banner wasn't ideal, but it would do. So, without hesitation, Luciel grabbed onto a protruding stone slab. The rough stone scraped his ashy fingers as he climbed the rugged wall.
He continued to work his hands and feet steadily until he finally reached a deteriorated windowsill near the banner. The windowsill beneath him looked like it would crack soon enough, so he hurriedly reached for the coarse weave and gave it a tug.
The top corner resisted, held firmly by a rusted nail. With a grunt, he tried to slowly peel the fabric away when he suddenly heard a gruntled voice that made him almost lose balance.
"That's a precious relic o' this town, boy. Ain't somethin' you rip off like a dishcloth."
Luciel froze, his eyes frantically scanning below. The voice carried the rusty grit of someone old and experienced.
'An Outlander, no doubt. The accent is heavy,' he thought.
He scanned the area again before setting sight on the source of the voice.
An old man stood below, supported by a wooden cane that looked more like a thick tree branch. His posture looked fragile—one flick of Luciel's flame might just knock him dead. But the glint in his brown eyes showed sharpness and steadiness, as if he'd experienced all sorts of tribulations and conquered them. His ears were clipped at the tips—possibly due to frostbite during White Winter.
He wore layers of tattered clothing, each one having a different color and style than the last, making him look ridiculous.
"What ya starin' at so hard? My bald spot ain't that pretty to gawk at," the old man joked with his heavy accent before unleashing a thunderous laugh.
'Is this elder crazy or what?' Luciel frowned.
Still crouched on the windowsill, he asked flatly, "Are you from this town?"
The old man chuckled, the sound hearty and phlegmy. "Ain't sure I deserve to call this place my hometown, but by fate, I was born 'n raised here."
Perplexed by the old man's cryptic speech, Luciel sighed, choosing to ignore him for a second. The old man didn't seem to harbor ill intentions.
He turned to the banner and gave it a final tug, freeing the weave from its ruined stage with a dry snap. He slung his new backpack over his shoulder, carefully climbed down the slabs before hopping down with a grunt, landing just a few steps in front of the old man.
Luciel looked at the old man in the eyes as he drew in a single breath. "I was born here too. I'm just collecting what's rightfully mine."
The old man's brow lifted with a hint of surprise. "That so? 'Tis a small world, indeed. I ain't catch no Aurelleth tongue on ya, so I reckon ya came from one of the Districts."
Aurelleth... Right, that was the name of the town, wasn't it? Luciel couldn't remember much—not the town, not the people, not even his parents. When he gained consciousness, the place was already reduced to rubble. Only faint warmth, vague shapes, and indescribable feelings. That... or he'd chosen to forget.
"I never stay at one place for too long," Luciel flatly told the old man—though with a hint of woe. "The town was destroyed before I even formed my first memory."
The old man stared at Luciel intently, his eyes focused on the blood-stained shirt Luciel donned. He tapped his cane before turning his gaze toward the town hall. "For a young'un like y'self to carry such weight... Ya must've been through hell n' back. I pity ya, truly."
"I scrape by," Luciel responded curtly.
The old man turned his gaze back to Luciel again, then gave his shoulder a firm pat. "Now that's the spirit, boy. Name's Haldrin. What do they call ya?"
"Luciel," he answered.
Haldrin gave a slow nod, as if the name stirred a spark in his heart. "Luciel, eh... carved from starlight, light of heaven. Bit fanciful for an Outlander, ain't it?"
Luciel didn't respond. He didn't even know the name had any meaning.
A chilly gust then suddenly drifted through the town square, whistling through wooden cracks and broken beams. For a moment, only the fluttering banner on Luciel's shoulder could be heard.
Silence hung, and neither man moved, both standing amidst the nostalgia and the forgotten. A town where two men saw two different images.
Then, Haldrin leaned on his cane and stepped away from the wreckage.
"Well now, Luciel... reckon you'd spare your precious time to humor an old ghost like me? Ain't many who still come 'round these parts, ya see."
Luciel tilted his head, puzzled by Haldrin's request. 'What does that old man want to do with me?' he thought.
"Forgive me. I have important work to do," he responded firmly but respectfully.
For whatever it was, he didn't want to delay reaping the bountiful rewards from those Skulkers. First of all, some Outlands scavengers might stumble across the corpses and loot them clean. Those leechlike bastards... just thinking about it made his blood boil.
Second of all, patrols could happen sooner than he expected, especially when he caused a large fire like that in the middle of the night. Normally, they wouldn't care about that since anything could happen in the Outlands—but it happened during a Breakout which made it conspicuous.
Luciel wanted to blame himself, but that was the only way he could've survived that night.
Lastly, he couldn't fully trust Haldrin just yet.
As he became deep in thought, Haldrin's heavy voice disrupted him from afar. "Ya sure, boy? What work out there in the Outlands could outvalue the knowledge of an old ghost? If ya hadn't caught on, I tend to let my words roam free like the wind."
Luciel thought about it. He couldn't refuse Haldrin's words. Not having enough knowledge could end up being a weapon that would kill you. And judging by how old Haldrin looked, Luciel reckoned he must've lived in the Districts for quite some time. After all, living until your hair turned grey in the Outlands was incredibly rare.
'No. I'd say that it's impossible.'
As if sensing his deliberation, Haldrin stopped in place and asked again, his cane pressing down on concrete, "What's ya answer, Luciel? We ain't got all day."
Luciel stared at Haldrin's back for a while before walking towards the old man. "I'll humor you for today."
Hearing his answer, Haldrin let out a hoarse chuckle as he stood beside Luciel. "Good choice."