I woke up to the sound of birds.
Not just any birds—these ones sang in layered harmonies, like they were born knowing how to make the world feel... soft. That was the first thing I noticed. The softness of it all. The wind, the light, the way the leaves whispered secrets above my head. I blinked once, then twice, and realized my body wasn't my own.
It was new.
Smaller. Lighter. My hands were thin but sturdy. My skin smooth, like untouched paper waiting to be written on. I was lying beneath a massive tree with roots like claws stretching into the earth. Its leaves shimmered green and silver, dancing in the sun, like they were showing off.
That sun...
I stared straight into it.
Not because I was brave. But because for the first time in all my lives—both real and imagined—it didn't hurt to look.
It was a warm sun. A kind sun.A sun that didn't know the word "fear."
And that's when I felt it.
Them.
The people nearby.
They weren't speaking. They weren't even close enough to touch me. But I could feel them—their hearts beating, their eyes watching, their souls shrinking into themselves like prey.
Not because I was dangerous.But because I was different.
I sat up slowly, bones cracking like they were still deciding if they belonged to me. My clothes were simple—loose-fitting white linen tied at the waist. My hair, dark and slightly wavy, fell across my face like I hadn't brushed it in weeks. When I reached up to move it, a breeze helped me first, almost like it was trying to impress me.
Then I saw him.
An older man, standing at the edge of the clearing. Wrinkled tunic. One boot. A crooked cane. His face was lined by sun and time, but it wasn't age that made him tremble. It was me.
He stared at me like he was looking at a god. Or a ghost.
"…It's awake," he whispered.
Not he, not the boy, not you.It.
Behind him, a group of farmers stood frozen in the tall grass. A few had pitchforks clutched like weapons. One had a bundle of herbs. Another held a loaf of bread, now dropped in the dirt. A woman covered her child's eyes, as if my existence might blind them.
And that's when I remembered.
Not who I was.Not what I had done.But what I had asked for.
Let me bleed.Let me suffer.Let me live.
And the Creator had said yes.
I stood up slowly, dust clinging to my knees. No one moved. The man with the cane swallowed and took a step back.
"D-don't… move too fast," he said.
His voice cracked like old wood. His hands shook. But it wasn't fear of violence that had him on edge—it was the aura. The presence I couldn't hide.
True Fear.Even sealed… even buried under this young flesh… it leaked.
It always leaked.
That's what an SSS-ranked Trait does.
They didn't see my second trait. No one could.Even I barely felt it now.It lay beneath the surface, quiet, watching, documenting.
Word for word. Step for step.
I took a breath. The world smelled different here.
More… alive.
The grass had a weight to it. The air had texture. Mana floated through the wind like strands of starlight, brushing against my skin like invisible threads trying to learn me.
"Where am I?" I asked.
The old man flinched. Not because the question was loud, but because it was me asking it.
"You're in Feldrin," he answered. "A small village… southeast of Elaris."
I didn't know what that meant. Not yet. But my heart whispered: good.New names. New places.A world untouched.
"I'm sorry if I scared you," I said. "That wasn't my intent."
He blinked. Then laughed—a shaky, bitter sound.
"You didn't intend nothin'. You just… are."
And somehow, I understood.
This world wasn't ready for me. Not because I was cruel. But because something in me broke their rules—rules they didn't even know they followed.
"Do you have a name?" he asked.
I paused.
My old name…The one I had in the realm beyond names… the one the gods choked on when they whispered it… was gone now.
But the name in this body, in this story, in this life?
Vael.
"I'm Vael," I told him.
He nodded like it confirmed something dark and unspoken.
"…Then the stories were true," he muttered. "A child would be born under the Ash Star. One with… eyes that death avoids."
Eyes that death avoids?
Cute.If only they knew who I used to pretend to be.
A dog barked in the distance. A crow flew overhead. A child peeked out from behind a leg, saw me, and started crying.
I smiled gently.
"Don't worry," I whispered to the wind. "I'm not here to hurt anyone."
But the truth was, even I wasn't sure.
I hadn't felt… this human in a long time.Every emotion was louder.Every color burned brighter.Even fear had taste.
A tear slipped from my eye—not because I was sad, but because I was alive.
And being alive felt like poetry.
The man backed away as if satisfied I wouldn't explode.
"You've got somewhere to go?" he asked, trying to sound casual.
"No."
I meant that in more ways than one.
He scratched his beard, hesitating, before finally waving me toward the village path.
"Come on, then. Before someone mistakes you for a ghost and tries to salt your bones."
He muttered it like a joke. I chuckled like it was one.
But even jokes hold roots.Even laughter grows from fear.
The village wasn't much.Just thirty, maybe forty huts built into the sloped hills, stone paths connecting scattered homes like cracked veins. Children peeked from under straw rooftops. Chickens scattered. One old woman threw a sandal at a duck with murder in her eyes.
It was peaceful. Ordinary.Beautiful, in a way most gods never understood.
And that was the tragedy.All this?It wouldn't last.Not because I'd destroy it—but because the world always does.
The man's name was Dhoran.He walked with a limp that whispered stories I didn't ask about.
"You hungry?" he asked.I nodded.He led me toward a hut with wildflowers growing through the cracks in its walls.
"You'll sleep here tonight. No one'll come near. They're afraid of you. But I think…"He paused, then shrugged."…you've got eyes too sad to be a monster."
I didn't know what to say to that.So I didn't.
That night, I lay on a hay-stuffed cot, staring at a ceiling full of cobwebs and cracks shaped like constellations.
Outside, the wind whispered names I didn't recognize.
Inside, I could feel the silence writing itself.
My thoughts were loud.Louder than the crickets.Louder than the fear lingering in the villagers' eyes.Louder than the hunger building in my chest—not for food, but for meaning.
Why was I here?
Not because of death. Not because of power.But because I asked for this.I asked for the struggle.
So why did I feel like something else was moving beneath it all?
Something watching.Something patient.Something that didn't speak in words.
I turned my head and whispered the name of my second—……
…
I blinked.
Had I said something?
I frowned. The thought felt… broken. Like it had been torn out of me before I could hear it.
But in the dark, I swore I heard the walls shudder.As if they heard it anyway.
Morning came like golden paint poured across the hills.
I walked into the street with no destination. Just steps.
That's when I saw her.
A girl.Maybe fifteen.Black braid. Sharp green eyes. Dust on her cheeks. Boots thicker than her legs.
She was trying to pull a stubborn ox out of a collapsed fence.
The ox wasn't moving. She was swearing like a soldier.
And something about that made me smile.
"Need help?" I asked.
She looked up, squinting.
"You the demon everyone's scared of?"
"I don't think so."
"Good. I hate demons. Help me move this thing."
I stepped forward, grabbed the ox by the collar, and gave it a gentle pull. It groaned, blinked at me like it had seen too much, then stood and walked like nothing happened.
The girl stared at me.
"…That thing nearly killed Dhoran yesterday."
"I smiled at it."
She narrowed her eyes.
"…You're weird. I'm Ren."
"Vael."
She smirked. "Of course it is."
We walked together after that.
Nowhere in particular. Just the dirt path that curved around the village's edge and led to the cliffside.
She talked a lot.
About how she hated milking goats.About how the village stew always tasted like sadness.About how she wanted to leave someday and become an adventurer.
"Not for glory," she said."For stories. Real ones. Ones worth remembering."
That hit me deeper than I thought it would.
I didn't reply.I just nodded.
And she didn't push.Like somehow, she understood.
Later, she asked if I had any traits.
I nodded once. "One."
She tilted her head.
"Only one? Everyone says you've got some crazy aura."
I smiled, but it didn't reach my eyes.
"…That's the one."
She squinted. "What's it called?"
"True Fear."
She blinked. "…Sounds edgy."
"It is."
She laughed. Then nudged me with her elbow.
"You're not scary. Just sad. Like a ghost who forgot how to haunt."
I looked out toward the cliffs, wind in my hair, and said nothing.
But in that moment,for the first time since I woke up,I didn't feel like the ghost of a god.Or the memory of something terrible.
I just felt like a boy.Walking next to someone bright.Someone real.
And somewhere deep beneath the surface,I felt a pause.
Like something inside me had stopped…to listen.
Ren had gone home.
She said she needed to check on her "demon-slaying goat" before it destroyed another fence. I didn't argue. I just gave a half-wave and watched her disappear behind the hillside.
The wind was quiet again.
The kind of quiet that wasn't silence—just… waiting.
I stood there, toes brushing the edge of the cliff, and let the sun hit my skin. This body—this strange, beautiful body—was still unfamiliar. But I liked the way it felt under sunlight. Like it belonged here more than I ever had anywhere else.
So this is what it feels like to just… exist.
No screaming skies.No collapsing realms.No gods whispering from behind the stars.
Just the earth.The sun.And my breathing.
You don't have to be anything right now.
That thought hit me out of nowhere.
Not a weapon.Not a fear-born shadow.Not a myth, or a memory, or a lie I told too well.
Just Vael. A boy standing on a cliff, heart still beating.
I closed my eyes, and for a second, I almost forgot what I was.
Almost.
Later that night, I sat alone near Dhoran's fire pit.
The village was settling. Lamps glowed in windows. Laughter floated from a tavern two houses down. Someone played a stringed instrument with three broken notes and zero rhythm.
And I liked it.
I really liked it.
It was flawed. Raw. Beautiful.
I never realized how quiet the world could be when you weren't trying to conquer it.
"Thinking too loud," Dhoran grumbled behind me.
He lowered himself beside the fire with a groan.
"I can hear it from inside the walls."
I gave him a look. "That's not how thinking works."
He shrugged. "You carry weight, boy. Even when you're silent. It leaks off you."
I stared into the flames.
He didn't push. Just waited.
"…You ever feel like you were born too… sharp?" I finally asked. "Like the world was soft, and you were meant to tear it?"
He didn't answer at first.
Then: "Yeah. I was a soldier. I came back from wars with my teeth still grinding in my sleep. Took years to stop dreaming in screams."
He glanced sideways at me.
"You ain't dreaming in screams, are you?"
"No," I said softly. "Mine are quiet."
That scared him more than if I'd said yes.
The next morning, I left the village without telling anyone.
Not because I didn't care.But because I didn't know how to say goodbye yet.
Not like a boy should.Not like someone who wanted to stay.
So I walked.Step by step.Down the path.Through the trees.Past the river.
Until the hills turned to valleys,and the sky felt bigger,and I couldn't hear the village anymore.
I didn't have a destination. But I had a reason.
I wanted to feel the world in my bones. Every crack. Every heartbeat. Every scream and every laugh.
I wanted to see what stories lived in the corners no one visited.
Not for glory.Not even for answers.
But because something inside me ached to know what it meant to keep walking.
The road twisted into stone.
A merchant cart passed. The driver nodded, didn't speak. His daughter—maybe eleven—peeked from the back and stared at me like I was magic.
Not frightened.Just curious.Like she saw a painting come to life.
I smiled.She smiled back.And the cart rolled on.
Not everyone runs.Some people see you and stay.
That truth settled deeper than fear ever did.
I found a town by nightfall.
Larger than the village.More noise. More smells.More life.
I didn't know the name. Didn't care.
All I knew was that people filled the streets—selling, singing, shouting, stumbling drunk. A drunk man bumped into me, slurred an apology, and kept going.
He didn't see me. Not me. Just another kid on the road.
And for once… I liked being invisible.
A bard was playing in a corner near the well.
Her fingers danced over strings like she was casting spells.Her voice was rough, but soft.Her eyes closed, like the words were older than her.
And people listened.
I stood among them, arms folded, head tilted.
Stories matter here.
Even the made-up ones.
She finished her song, looked right at me.
"You look like someone who's been somewhere," she said, grinning.
I raised an eyebrow. "You always talk to strangers?"
"Only the ones with eyes like storms."
A few people laughed. I didn't.
Not because I was cold.But because I didn't know how to be seen like that… not yet.
Later, I found a rooftop.
I slept under the stars.No blanket. No fire.Just the sky.
I watched as one star blinked out.Then another.Then another.
I didn't flinch. I just whispered:
"Goodnight."
Not to the stars.
To myself.To whoever I was before.To whatever I used to be.
I woke to the sound of distant bells.
Not the soft chimes of a village temple—these were sharper, heavier. Metal on metal. Morning rituals in a place too alive to ever fully sleep. Beneath me, the rooftop tiles still radiated the last of yesterday's heat, but the air had shifted. Crisp. Carried scents of roasting meat, wet stone, and something faintly floral.
The city had already begun its next story.
And I was still breathing in the middle of it.
I sat up slowly, stretching my arms toward a pale sky dusted with lavender. Below, people moved like ants with voices. Merchants barking half-heartedly. Children laughing too loudly. A couple arguing near the well over the price of plums.
It's all so… loud.Not in volume. In presence.
There was no grandeur here. No thrones. No beasts. No swords drawn beneath shattered skies.
Just people.Living.Existing.
And somehow, it felt bigger than all the myths I used to pretend I lived in.
I climbed down the side of the building, careful not to draw attention.
The alley below was still damp with morning dew, its shadows thin but clinging. A cat darted past my feet and hissed at nothing—then nothing hissed back.
I didn't flinch.
Fear doesn't hunt me anymore. It waits inside me.
By midday, I'd mapped enough of the city in my head to move without looking lost.
Name: still unknown.Location: east of Feldrin, close to the ridge lands.Border city. Trade stop. Tower whispers nearby.
They called it Ireth.
No banners. No guards in shining armor. Just people with calloused hands and pockets full of grit. The kind of place where legends didn't walk—they limped.
I liked it here.
At the market square, I watched two adventurers argue over a cracked crystal.
The taller one, half-drunk and sword-bitten, slammed it on the table. "It glowed in the dungeon! You saw it!"
The other, thinner with sharp eyes, crossed his arms. "It glowed 'cause it was about to explode, idiot."
I kept walking.
Not my fight. Not yet.
But still… I listened.I always listened.
At the corner of the square, a boy no older than me sat playing with two carved figurines—one shaped like a beast, the other like a man.
He made them fight.Over and over.The beast always won.
Until I crouched beside him.
"You ever let the man win?" I asked.
He looked at me like I'd just insulted his mother.
"The beast always wins," he said. "It's stronger."
"Maybe," I said. "But what if the man learns something the beast doesn't?"
He frowned. "Like what?"
I stood, brushing dust from my knees.
"How to lose without becoming a monster."
I left before he could respond.
Some truths aren't meant to be taught.Only seen.Lived.
Later, I found myself on the edge of the city again.
A cliffside overlook. They were everywhere in this region—breaks in the world that reminded you how high you'd climbed without noticing.
The wind here didn't whisper. It howled.
And as I stood there, eyes tracing the horizon, I felt it.
Not fear. Not fate.A… presence.
Someone was watching me.
The sun was climbing when I stepped off the overlook and onto the southern trade road.
Dust kicked up under my boots, and the wind started to taste like copper and dry wood—signs that I was moving toward the outer roads. Where cities ended and the wilds began. There were fewer voices now. Less laughter. More eyes that stayed on the horizon, just in case something decided to crawl out of it.
People here know better than to feel safe.
And honestly?
I liked that kind of honesty.
I hadn't walked far before I saw them:
A caravan, slow-moving, creaking along a winding path of loose stone and wind-bent trees. Five carts pulled by long-legged huffbeasts—ugly things with too many joints and spittle that burned grass—but fast, efficient, and stubborn.
Each cart had its own story.
One carried lumber.Another carried herbs sealed in fogglass jars.The third—armor, covered in silk to hide the dents.The fourth, children peeking out from the curtains.And the last?
I couldn't see. But I could feel it.
Something in that cart made my skin tighten.
Not from fear.
From recognition.
A tall woman with a curved blade on her back walked beside the lead cart.
She spotted me, narrowed her eyes, then waved a hand half-heartedly.
"Not often we see a kid walking the dead stretch alone."
"I'm not alone," I replied calmly.
She stopped walking.
The driver leaned forward, glancing at her, then me.
"You a stray?" she asked, brushing a strand of gold hair from her sun-tanned face.
I thought for a moment.
"No. Just... going somewhere."
"Where?"
I shrugged.
"That way."
She smirked. "Fair enough. You hungry?"
I didn't answer with words.
My stomach did it for me.
They let me walk alongside them, no questions.Not at first.
People who live on the road know better than to ask too soon. Names and stories come with time—or they don't come at all.
The caravan moved like a living thing. Voices in rhythm, feet in sync, breaths carried across canvas.
Someone offered me a piece of roasted bird. I nodded in thanks, bit into it slowly. It tasted like fire and salt and something vaguely nostalgic—like hunger from another life.
Later, I sat near one of the children—barely nine, big eyes, scars too old for her age.
She stared at me like I was made of fog.
"Are you cursed?" she asked.
"I don't know," I said honestly.
"…You look cursed."
I smiled. "I probably am."
She nodded like that made sense, then offered me a small wooden trinket.
It was a carved wolf—jagged, ugly, beautiful in its own way.
"My brother made it," she whispered.
"Where is he now?"
She didn't answer.
She didn't need to.
The caravan leader finally introduced herself as Rika.
Ex-mercenary. Speaks five languages. Broke a duke's jaw once for underpaying her guards.
I liked her instantly.
She walked beside me later that evening as the road dipped into the forest's edge.
"You've got something in you," she said.
"So do you."
"Not like you."
I stayed quiet.
She gestured toward the last cart—the one I hadn't looked at since.
"You felt it too, didn't you?"
I nodded slowly.
She sighed. "Don't know what it is. We picked it up near a ruined temple. Thought it was just junk. But ever since…"
"Something's watching you," I finished.
She didn't argue.
That night, I finally looked inside.
The cart was quiet. Unlocked. Draped in thick cloth and rune-chalked talismans.
Inside was a mirror.
Old. Fractured. Warped around the edges.
And in the reflection—
I saw myself.But not the boy I was.Not the body I walked in now.Not even the one I remembered pretending to be.
It was something in between.Something ancient.Something... waiting.
My breath caught.
The glass rippled. Just once.
Then it cleared.
Just a reflection again.
I stepped back.
Rika was behind me, arms crossed.
"Thing's been messing with our dreams," she muttered. "Tried to dump it twice. Each time, it reappeared in the cart."
"Why keep it?"
She shrugged. "Maybe I want to see how far it'll follow."
I looked at her.
"You're not afraid?"
"Of course I am."She smiled."I just don't let it make my choices."
That line stuck to my ribs like blood on iron.
The caravan reached the city gates by noon.
Valdari, they called it.Stone walls taller than most trees, banners fluttering with the sigil of a three-eyed stag, and guards who looked like they hadn't smiled in years.
But the streets inside were alive.
Vendors yelled. Children chased each other with ribbons. An old man danced with a cane while a drumline of beggars kept the beat with broken pots.
It was a mess. A glorious, beautiful mess.
This city didn't care who you were.It only cared what you could survive.
I didn't come here looking for anything.But I found him almost immediately.
He was on a table.Not sitting at it—on it.Standing. One foot in a soup bowl, one hand dramatically raised, declaring something stupid to a crowd of ten very confused strangers.
"…And that's how I, the heroic, tragic, devastatingly attractive Orin of the Golden Eyes, defeated a basilisk with nothing but a comb and a bowl of spoiled milk!"
Silence.
Someone coughed.
A child threw a coin.
He caught it midair, kissed it, and bowed like he was born on a stage.
I blinked.
"…No way this guy's real," I muttered under my breath.
Then he saw me.
Locked eyes.
Grinned.
And jumped off the table like we were best friends already.
"YOU."
"Me?"
"Yes, you. You've got the face of someone who's seen things. Things that should not be seen. Which means—we're going to get along perfectly."
I stared.
He extended his hand dramatically.
"Orin Calden. Future legend. Current menace. And full-time lady killer."He winked at an old lady passing by. She snorted and slapped him with a leek.
"…I'm Vael."
"Vael. That's got edge. Brooding. Sexy. But soft underneath. I like it. I'm calling you Broodling."
"No, you're not."
"I already did."
Before I could walk away, I heard a soft thunk.
Then a sharp voice:"Orin! You moronic peacock, what did you do this time?!"
A girl stormed over from the crowd.Black cloak. Boots heavier than her frame. Hair tied back tight enough to cut glass. And a glare that could melt mountains.
She had a book in one hand, a frying pan in the other.
"…Is that for cooking or violence?" I asked.
"Yes," she snapped.
"Hey hey hey—Arra," Orin held up his hands, "I was bonding."
"With a total stranger?"
"With a total stranger who has brooding energy and sad eyes. You know I'm weak for that combo."
Arra squinted at me.Then back to him.Then smacked him with the pan.
I didn't even flinch.
Mostly because I was trying not to laugh.
"You're not from here," Arra said, voice flatter now, suspicious.
"No," I admitted.
"You dangerous?"
Orin grinned. "He's mysterious, Arra. That's code for emotionally damaged and probably hot under pressure."
She hit him again.
"I don't know why I travel with you."
"Because I cook."
"No, you burn things and call it art."
"I add spice."
"You add suffering."
I couldn't help it—I laughed.
A real laugh. Not the kind that's forced to be polite.The kind that escapes.The kind that reminds you you're alive.
And they both froze.
Orin blinked.Arra tilted her head.Even the background noise seemed to fade.
"…What?" I asked.
"You laughed," Orin said, eyes wide.
"Yeah?"
"You've got a good laugh."
Arra looked away quickly, then mumbled, "It's… not bad."
We didn't talk about it.
They let me walk with them through the city.No questions. No suspicion. Just... like I belonged there.
Orin flirted with anything that moved.Arra scolded him, then scolded me when I didn't stop him.I mostly just watched.
And something clicked.
Not loudly. Not with a bang.But soft.
Like a puzzle piece sliding into place after years of being held backwards.
These two were chaos.But it felt like a kind I could survive in.
Like home, but louder.
We ended up at a tavern called The Slanted Horn.
They dragged me in like we'd known each other for years.
Orin ordered something fruity. Arra rolled her eyes. I asked for water.
"Gods, you're so mysterious," Orin said. "Bet you drink tea and watch sunsets and write sad poetry in your sleep."
I stared. "No."
"…You so do."
Arra was sipping something dark. "If he does, don't encourage it."
I leaned back, letting the chatter wash over me.
The smells, the firelight, the noise—it was too much.
The Slanted Horn tavern was chaos before we even stepped inside.
Crowds spilled from the open windows. People leaned over balconies with mugs raised. A bard played too many strings at once, and a man in the corner was arguing with a chicken. Loudly. In three languages.
Orin lit up like a flame.
"This is where I was meant to die."
"You say that every time we pass a building with a roof," Arra muttered.
"I mean it this time. Feel the energy. The danger. The possibility."
"He's going to get punched in five minutes," she whispered to me.
"Three," I corrected.
Inside, we found a table near the back—half cracked, slightly sticky, and perfect.
I could hear five conversations at once. A swordswoman betting on a duel. Two ranking agents arguing over forged mana results. A traveling poet swearing she once kissed a Ranker and survived.
But one conversation caught me.
A voice behind me, cold and precise:
"There's a live ranking sweep happening in the upper ring. Anyone who wants to be seen… now's the time."
I didn't turn.
But Orin did.
"A sweep?" he whispered, eyes gleaming. "Oh, Vael. Oh Vael. You know what this means."
"I really don't."
"Glory. Chaos. Possibility."
Arra groaned. "We're not doing this. We just got here. We don't even have gear. Or enough coin for another pair of boots if someone loses one again—Orin."
"That goat was stronger than it looked!"
"Your combat rating is zero and your flirting stat is negative."
But I was already thinking about it.
Not for fame. Not for ego.
Something about the idea of being seen—ranked—felt dangerous.
Because if someone stared too long…If someone really looked…
They might see what's buried under my skin.
Not the trait.Not the other one.Not even me.
Just… weight.
And weight cracks things if you're not careful.
But I didn't say no.
And Arra knew it.
She stared at me with narrowed eyes. "Don't you dare."
"I haven't said anything."
"You're thinking about it. You've got that look."
"What look?"
"The one that says 'this might be a terrible idea but I'm going to do it anyway because I'm sad inside and don't like admitting I want things.' That one."
…I hated how accurate she was.
We ended up in the upper ring anyway.
The ranking event wasn't what I expected.
It wasn't a tournament. Not exactly.
It was a scan—a ritual array that pulsed outward like sonar, reading power levels, mana flows, trait resonance, even intent. You stepped into the circle. It read you. And if you ranked? Your name flashed in the plaza obelisk.
Simple. Brutal. Honest.
Orin stepped forward first.
"I'm going to blow their minds," he whispered.
"You'll blow something," Arra mumbled.
He entered the circle. It lit up gold.
Flashes of mana spun like threads, scanning his soul.
A second passed.
Two.
Then:
[Ranking Registered – Orin Calden – Adventurer Class – E-Rank]
He turned and gave a dramatic bow to no one.
Arra rolled her eyes but clapped once.I clapped too.
He looked too proud not to.
Arra went next.
No drama. Just a sigh, a crack of her knuckles, and a step into the circle.
[Ranking Registered – Arra Vehl – Spellblade Class – D-Rank]
That… was higher than I expected.
She walked back with no smile, but her ears were red.
"Don't say anything."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
Then it was me.
They looked at me.
I didn't move.
Don't.You know what happens when you step into light.
They see it.Even if they don't understand it—they feel it.That pressure.That... weight.
But Orin grinned.
"Come on, Broodling. What's the worst that could happen?"
Arra tilted her head. "You don't have to. No one's forcing you."
And maybe that was why I did.
I stepped into the circle.
And everything went quiet.
The ritual pulses hit me like waves.Then stopped.
Then the air around the array… bent.
The sky didn't dim.The ground didn't shake.
But every bird in the city went silent.
The array flashed white.
Then black.
Then—
[ERROR: Trait Signature Unreadable.]
[ERROR: Fear Index Exceeds Measurement.]
[WARNING: Unknown resonance detected.]
Then the array shut down.
I stepped out slowly.
Orin was staring. Arra's mouth was slightly open. The crowd had backed away a few feet.
I didn't speak.Didn't look at anyone.
Just exhaled.
And walked.
Behind me, someone whispered:
"...What the hell is he?"
And someone else muttered:
"I don't want to find out."
But Orin?
He caught up, tossed an arm around my shoulder, and said:
"Okay… that was cool."
Arra punched him in the arm.
"I told you we shouldn't have come."
We left the upper ring without another word.
Not because we were afraid.Not because the city guards had started whispering.Not because the air suddenly tasted like burnt magic.
But because I didn't trust myself to stay.
I stepped into the light… and it almost broke.
Not just the array. Not just the silence. But the feeling I've been clinging to—that I'm just a boy. That I'm not something else beneath this skin.
I needed to breathe.So we walked.
Back at the inn, Orin flopped onto the bed like he'd just saved the world.
"I'm famous now," he said.
"You ranked E."
"Infamously underappreciated. My brand."
Arra was pacing, arms crossed, eyebrows in a civil war.
"I told you not to go up there. I told you the scanners weren't stable."
"You were D-rank."
"I'm still mad."
She looked at me then—sharper this time. Not angry. Not scared.Just… trying to read a language she didn't know.
"What are you, Vael?"
I looked away. "I don't know yet."
The knock came just after sunset.
Three times. Firm. No hesitation.
Orin groaned, dragged himself up, opened the door—
And froze.
A man stood there.Dark robes.Face hidden behind a half-mask shaped like a wolf's snarl.The kind of presence that didn't fill a room—it cut into it.
"You three are the ones from the square?"
"Maybe," Arra said flatly. "Who's asking?"
He ignored her and looked straight at me.
"There's a ruin. Old. Buried. Moving."
My heart slowed.
"A traveling ruin?" I asked.
He nodded.
"It opened two days ago. The council sent Rankers. None returned. Then the obelisk glitched."
"And you want us to go in?"
"I want him to go in," the man said, eyes still on me.
Orin whistled. "See? I told you that 'undefined monster aura' thing would get us gigs."
Arra kicked him in the shin.
"Why us?" I asked.
"Because no one else will. And I think…"He leaned forward.
"You want to know what's at the bottom of it."
He was right.
I did.
Not for treasure.Not for power.But because something called from the dark places.
Not a voice. Not a threat.A curiosity.
And part of me whispered:
That ruin has answers.
Not to the world. Not to fate. To you.
We left before dawn.
No grand goodbye. No packed luggage. Just blades, boots, and the weight of a bad decision that felt too right to refuse.
The ruin sat on the outskirts of Valdari—half-buried in stone and vine, its entrance pulsing with a dull red glow.
It wasn't supposed to exist.Maps didn't show it.Even the trees grew around it like they were afraid to touch it.
"This is where I die," Orin whispered.
"You've said that five times today," Arra muttered.
"This time I feel it."
We stepped inside.
The air changed immediately—dense, wet, humming with something that wasn't mana.
Symbols lined the walls, shifting when you looked too long.Torches burned blue.The floor wasn't stone—it was bone turned to crystal.
And the silence?Alive.
Like the ruin itself was watching us walk deeper.
Then the floor cracked.
Orin fell first.
Arra screamed.
I jumped—
Darkness swallowed us whole.
I landed hard.
Stone? No—flesh.
It pulsed beneath me like a heartbeat, and the air smelled like ash soaked in old flowers. I pushed myself up, vision slow to catch up. The walls moved. Not metaphorically. They breathed—shifting in and out like lungs dreaming of violence.
This ruin is alive.
Orin was gone.So was Arra.No noise. No shouting. Just silence thick enough to choke.
I stood, knees aching, and tried to get my balance. The tunnel ahead was warped, spiraling into a narrow throat of shifting crystal veins and black moss.
Then it spoke.
Not with words.
With memory.
A flicker.
Me, standing under a red sky, not this world. Screaming stars. A sword I don't remember holding. Blood that wasn't mine, or maybe was.
Then—gone.
The ruin pulsed again. My breathing sped up.
It's showing me things it shouldn't know.
Things I never wrote.
My trait stayed silent.No comfort.No narration.No pages to turn.
Just me, alone, and the breath of something ancient pressing against my ribs.
I started walking.
Not out of courage.
But because standing still felt worse.
The corridor tightened. My thoughts began to echo.
And then I heard it.
Orin's voice. Distant. Muffled.
"I swear, if this place eats my boots I'm burning it down!"
I almost laughed.
Almost.
Then I turned the corner and found him—half-covered in green sludge, holding a stick like a sword, surrounded by three… things.
They looked human.Until they moved.
Their limbs bent the wrong way. Their faces were all mouths. Their skin looked stitched together from people who never agreed to share.
"Vael!" he yelled. "I was just—uh—buying time!"
I didn't ask. I ran forward.
My body moved on instinct.
No fear.No hesitation.Just precision.
I slipped past the first, ducked under the second, and struck the third with a stone I didn't remember picking up. The creature shrieked—high, piercing, unreal—and collapsed into dust.
The other two stopped.
Stared at me.
And ran.
Orin blinked.
"…Are you sure you're not secretly a god?"
"No."
"Okay, but like… maybe just a minor one?"
We found Arra five minutes later—her cloak torn, one dagger missing, and three corpses at her feet.
"You're late," she said.
"We were bonding," Orin replied.
She glared at him. Then at me.But softer.
"You okay?"
"…Yeah," I said.
Lying.
But she didn't press.She just handed me back the dagger I didn't know she had taken from my belt.
We moved deeper.
The ruin stopped looking like a dungeon.
It looked like a temple now.
Carvings of eyes—thousands—covered the walls.All open.All watching.
At the center, a pedestal.
And on it—
A mirror.
Again.
But not broken. Not warped.
This one was whole.
And when I looked into it…
I didn't see my face.
I saw three children.
One with golden eyes and a broken smile.
One with a glare sharp enough to cut the sun.
And one—
With eyes that death refused to claim.
"Do you see it?" I asked.
Neither of them answered.
Because in that moment, the ruin collapsed.
Not physically.
Spiritually.
The walls shattered into dust.
The ceiling split open like a wound.
And suddenly—
We were outside.
Back on the cliff.
The ruin was gone.
No trace. No entrance. No echo.
Just grass. Wind. And silence.
We didn't talk about the ruin after we left.
Not because it didn't matter.But because it did—too much.
Sometimes silence is the only shield you have when truth cuts too deep.
Orin cracked half a joke about "ghost dungeons" on the road back to Valdari, but even he didn't push it. Arra walked ahead most of the way, fingers brushing the handle of her blade like it was the only thing keeping her grounded.
Me?
I kept seeing the mirror.
Not the reflection. Not the faces. Just the feeling it left behind:
Like something was waiting for me to finish the sentence it had started writing centuries ago.
We returned to the Slanted Horn two nights later.
The usual noise filled the walls. Drunken laughter. Plates breaking. Someone yelling about a rat the size of a dog.
Home, in its own weird way.
But the moment we stepped inside, I knew something was wrong.
The noise didn't pause.But the eyes did.
Half the room looked at me—too long. Too focused.
One man stood up and walked out. Fast.
Arra noticed first.
"We've been flagged."
Orin glanced around, frowning. "There's a difference between being stared at and being targeted."
"Exactly. And this isn't staring."
She nodded to the bar.
A poster hung behind the counter. Fresh ink.
[BOUNTY NOTICE]Name: UNKNOWN (Alias: "The Boy With The Black Pulse")Description: Age ~14. Dark hair. Pale eyes. Wears silence like armor.Status: EXTREMELY DANGEROUSReward: 20,000 coin. Dead only.
My mouth went dry.
Orin whistled low. "Wow. You didn't even get a wanted alive option."
Arra's jaw clenched.
"Who put this up?"
The barkeep didn't answer.
I turned slowly. Locked eyes with a hooded figure in the corner.
He raised a mug. Smiled.
And vanished.
Just... gone.
We left through the back.
No words. Just fast steps.
Orin cursed under his breath. "What the hell did you do?"
"I don't know," I said truthfully.
Arra stopped. "This is coordinated. Someone's watching. Someone with reach."
We ducked into an alley.
Found a crumpled piece of paper under a brick.
Orin picked it up, unrolled it.
His voice changed as he read:
"You're not who they think you are.But they'll fear you anyway.If you want answers—come to the Lantern Festival. Midnight. No masks."
The handwriting was old. Elegant. Almost... delicate.
The festival was that night.
Of course it was.
Of course.
By the time night fell, the streets of Valdari had transformed.
Lanterns floated through the sky like drifting stars. Music rang from every corner. Children danced with ribbons, and old couples clung to each other like they were still young.
Colors everywhere.Magic in the air.And something dark crawling underneath it all.
I should've been afraid.
But I wasn't.
Because this?
This was adventure.
Real, raw, and dangerous.
We split up to blend in.
Orin vanished into the crowd, probably flirting with someone twice his age. Arra stuck close, pretending not to care. I walked slowly, eyes on the sky.
And then I felt it again.
The pull.
Not from magic.
From intent.
Someone wanted me here.And they weren't hiding anymore.
A figure stood beneath the largest lantern tree at the heart of the festival.
Hooded. Still.
When I approached, they didn't move.
"You left the note," I said.
No answer.
Then:
"You've seen the mirror, haven't you?"
My blood froze.
"How do you know about that?"
The figure chuckled. "You're not the only one being written."
And then—
A scream cut through the air.
The festival exploded into panic.
And above us, floating over the square—
A new obelisk lit up.
Not for rankings.
For hunts.
Lanterns fell like dying stars.
Screams rose as music turned to chaos.What was once a festival became a hunt, and I was the one being hunted.
Orin reappeared beside me, breathing fast, eyes wide but alive.
"Okay, so I flirted with the wrong noble's wife and now we're being murdered. This is not my fault—"
"Orin."
"—unless it is my fault, in which case—"
"Orin."
He blinked. Saw my face. Shut up.
Good.
Arra was already moving through the crowd—slipping between shadows like she'd trained for this her whole life. She shouted over her shoulder:
"East alley! Go—NOW!"
I grabbed Orin's arm and ran.
Behind us, the first assassin landed—silent, masked, blades like smoke in his hands. He didn't chase. He just walked. Calm. Patient. Like he already knew how this would end.
They weren't here to fight. They were here to collect.
And I didn't intend to be collected.
We ducked into the alley, boots slapping wet stone. The lantern light didn't reach here. The air felt wrong.
"I swear," Orin panted, "if this ends with me dying in a trash heap—"
"Shut up and run."
"But like… dramatically or literally—"
"ORIN."
We didn't make it far.
They were waiting.
Three of them. Masked. Still.
Each one held a short, curved blade that shimmered like oil on water. Magic laced the metal—silent enchantments. No flair. Just death.
Orin stopped cold. "I take it back. This is where I die."
"Not today," I said.
I stepped forward.
Their eyes met mine.
And I felt the shift.
They hesitated.
Even without meaning to, the air thinned around me. Their feet shifted. Their grips tightened.
They didn't know why.
They didn't need to.
True Fear didn't announce itself.
It bled into the moment.
Arra appeared behind them like a blade in the dark—dagger in hand, fury in her eyes.
"Move."
The assassins did—faster than I expected.
But Orin?
He moved faster.
He grabbed a loose pipe from the wall, swung it like a blade, missed entirely, and fell into a crate of fish.
"…Did I help?" he wheezed.
"No," Arra and I said at the same time.
The fight wasn't clean.
It wasn't pretty.
But it was ours.
Blades rang. Sparks flew. One assassin screamed before vanishing into smoke. Another tried to stab Arra—only to catch a boot to the chin and a pipe to the ribs, courtesy of Orin.
The last one didn't run.
He looked at me.
Like he wanted to understand something that couldn't be understood.
Then he whispered:
"You're the one writing it, aren't you?"
…
"Writing what?"
But he was already fading.
Like he was never real to begin with.
Silence returned.
Broken only by Orin groaning in fish guts and Arra dragging him out by the collar.
"You're disgusting."
"I'm brave."
"You smell like defeat and bad sushi."
I couldn't stop myself from smiling.Just a little.
Even in the dark—these two never let go.
We made it to a safehouse above the market district.
A place Arra claimed "didn't exist," which made it all the more perfect. One room. Three cots. A single cracked window with a view of the burning festival below.
No one spoke for a while.
Orin peeled fish scales off his shirt.
Arra cleaned her dagger with shaking hands.
I stood by the window.
Watching the flames.
The city burned behind us.
We didn't leave quietly.
The moment the sun rose, Arra kicked open the back door of the safehouse, snapped at Orin to stop complaining, and told me—firmly—that if I slowed down again, she'd knock me out and carry me herself.
I didn't argue.
Orin brought up the rear, dragging his boots and muttering about how fish guts should be banned by the gods.
We were fugitives now.Every gate had eyes.Every road whispered our names.
But we didn't run because we were guilty.We ran because the world decided we were dangerous.
And maybe… they were right.
Three days into the wilds.
The path curved through forest and fog. We moved off the main roads, into the roots and teeth of Avarion's land.
It was beautiful. Wild.
Mountains in the distance like sleeping titans. Rivers wide as cities. Trees that glowed softly when the wind touched them.
Even Orin stopped talking sometimes.That's how you knew the world was working.
Then came the stranger.
We found him sitting at the edge of a broken statue—half-covered in vines, moss growing across the shattered eyes of some forgotten warrior-king.
He was sharpening a blade.
Not a sword.Something older.Shaped like bone and fire.
His eyes lifted before we even made a sound.
"You shouldn't be here," he said calmly.
Orin blinked. "We get that a lot."
"I mean it," the man replied. "You've crossed into hollowed ground. The things that sleep here don't dream gently."
He stood.
Tall. Not young, not old. Scar across his throat like someone once tried to silence him and failed.
His armor wasn't from any empire I recognized. Etched symbols, runes that felt more like wounds than design. His left hand glowed faintly.
Vael's heartbeat slowed.
There was something off about this one.
Not hostile. Not welcoming. Just… knowing.
"I know what you are," he said, looking at me.
Orin stepped between us. "Buddy, if you're here to monologue and then try to kill us, can we at least eat first?"
The man chuckled. A dry sound.
"I'm not here to fight."
Arra didn't move, but her grip on her blade tightened.
"I've seen your kind once before," he continued. "Long ago. Before this world was named."
Vael frowned. "My kind?"
He pointed to his chest.
"Your pulse. It doesn't hum like ours. It doesn't echo. It drags."
He stepped closer.
"There was a boy. Like you. A thousand years ago. Born under the same stars. With a trait that didn't belong to this world."
I didn't speak.
Because I could feel it now too—this man wasn't lying.
Whatever he was… he had touched something deeper than any Ranker, any knight, any mage.
Orin shifted beside me. "Okay, this got weird fast. Can we skip the cryptic backstory and get to the part where you tell us what's after us?"
The man turned to him.
"Everything," he said.
Then looked back at me.
"And maybe even you."
He left us with a warning.
"Go north. Past the Singing Stones. There's a woman there. She knows how to read the echoes of traits—all traits."
"And why would we trust her?" Arra asked.
"You shouldn't," he replied.
And vanished into the trees.
That night, we camped under a shattered cliff where the stars felt too close.
Orin tried to light a fire with one match and a lot of confidence. Arra eventually took over before he burned his eyebrows off.
I sat quiet, watching the sky shift from black to violet.
The forest welcomed us like a lullaby whispered through leaves.
After everything—the burning city, the assassins, the bounty, the ruin—we finally found stillness. No monsters. No watchers. Just silence. Real silence.
The kind you feel in your chest.
The kind that doesn't demand anything from you.
We walked slowly.
Not because we were tired, but because this place asked us to.
The trees here weren't trees—they were living pillars, towering high with silver bark that shimmered under the lazy sunlight. Their roots curled above ground like giant serpent coils, creating natural archways we ducked under without speaking.
Above us, flocks of soft-glowing birds weaved through beams of gold light that pierced the canopy like stained glass.
The air smelled of green things. Moss, rain, old wood, and some flower we couldn't name.
It didn't feel like walking.
It felt like drifting.
Orin was the first to break the silence.
"This place makes me want to confess things."
Arra groaned. "Please don't."
"No really," he said, voice lower than usual. "Like… I used to fake injuries at training just to get out of sword drills. One time I pretended I had mana poisoning so I could sneak off and watch a traveling circus."
I smiled. Couldn't help it.
Arra didn't look at him, but I saw her lips twitch.
"You'd lie to avoid getting better?"
"Not lie," Orin said. "Creatively redirect expectations."
The path curved around a glowing pond.
Tiny firefly-like creatures hovered just above the surface, casting shifting light that danced across our faces. A frog the size of a melon blinked at us, utterly unbothered.
Arra knelt at the water's edge, dipped her fingers in.
"…This place doesn't feel cursed," she said quietly.
"Not everything ancient is cursed," I said.
She looked back at me. "Most things are."
I didn't disagree.
But this land was different.
It didn't feel like something made by gods.
It felt like something older.
The ground turned soft with flowerbeds—crimson, silver, violet—spreading like spilled paint across the earth. The wind picked up, carrying petals through the air like snowflakes with purpose.
We stopped walking.
Just stood there.
Breathing.
This is what I asked for.Not power. Not titles. Not even answers.Just this—moments where the world lets you feel it.Where the pain doesn't go away, but it sits beside you like a friend instead of a blade.
Orin sat on a flat rock and pulled out a chunk of dried meat.
"I name this place… Orin's Meadow."
"No," Arra said instantly.
"Yes."
"Absolutely not."
I sat down next to him.
He tore the meat in half and handed me a piece.
"You've been quiet," he said.
"I'm always quiet."
"Yeah, but now you're thinking quiet. That's different."
I didn't answer at first. Then:
"…You two are good at making things feel normal."
Orin blinked. Then grinned.
"Don't give us too much credit. We're disasters, Vael. We're just disasters who decided not to be alone."
Arra sat beside us.
She didn't say anything.
But she didn't need to.
Later, we made camp beneath a tree that curved in a perfect crescent, as if nature had built a cradle into the forest just for travelers like us.
Orin tried to cook again.Burned half of it.Still insisted it was "smoky on purpose."
Arra rolled her eyes.Took over.Sighed like she hated us both—then added extra seasoning to mine when she thought I wasn't looking.
When the stars came out, they were closer than I remembered.
The trees glowed faintly. The breeze whispered lullabies through the leaves.
And I thought—
If the world ended tomorrow, I'd be okay remembering this.
Not the ruin. Not the bounty. Not the weight in my chest.
Just this: the laughter, the bickering, the smell of food, the fire's warmth, and two idiots who don't let me disappear.
Tomorrow, we'll keep walking.North, toward the Singing Stones.Toward more riddles. More chaos. More danger.
But tonight?
We're just here.
Together.
Alive.