The night had settled thick across the ruins, darker than any shadow Tom had ever known.
The ruined plaza was silent now, most of the group huddled in corners of broken arches.
Tom stood near one of the collapsed pillars. His pack light and his resolve heavy. He had been waiting for the moment when the camp's noise faded, when the weight of tired bodies gave him cover to move.
Grace noticed first. She always did. Her foxlike Face came up visible behind her. Its presence turned softer than usual, as if mirroring her own unease.
"You're leaving?" she whispered, stepping closer. Her tall figure casted a long shadow in the moon's light.
Tom gave her a small, calm smile. "For now." His voice was firm. "There is something I have to do. Something only I can chase. Stay with them. Follow whatever Elior says. I'll return right after the event ends."
Her brows drew together, eyes worried, but she nodded, accepting his words without pressing. "Then.… come back alive."
Tom inclined his head in respect. "I promise."
He turned then but a few others noticed his leaving. A timid boy clutching his cloak too tight, one older man who said nothing but simply nodded in solidarity. They, too, would leave, though not with him.
Their paths diverged into the darkness, claiming their own chances of survival.
Tom stepped out of the plaza walls. The night air bit cold against his skin, carrying a silence so deep it pressed at his chest.
Just the soft clicker of his own footsteps as he moved outside of the ruined city.
The map in his menu remained, pulling him toward the Endless Black Ocean.
20 Minutes Later....
The night lengthened vast and unkind. The sky seemed like a whirl of black and red clouds that rolled above like restless waves.
Tom trudged forward. His shirt and cloak clinged to him, as the hush of dust whipped into his body with every gust.
He had torn a strip of fabric from his hem and tied it across his mouth and nose.
Shadows blurred in the wind and more than once he thought he glimpsed figures paced just beyond reach of phantoms, or hallucinations of his restless eyes. He walked on. He couldn't afford to stop in the open desert where anything can attack him at anytime.
At last, after what felt like hours, storm began to slacken. Wind broke into him. Through the thin soil, he spotted a jagged outcrop of stone.
A fractured wall from some forgotten building, hollowed beneath like a crude shelter.
Tom ducked under the overhang, lowering his pack. His eyes scanned the ground until they found a bundle of acacia tree branches.
He set them together with practiced care, striking sparks until the brittle leaves caught.
Flame licked upward, golden and small but enough. Warmth spread slowly through the rocky nook, driving the chill from his skin.
The firelight painted his face in sharp lines.
His map still pulsed faintly in the corner of his menu, locating the Endless Black Ocean.
But warmth was heavy and the night was long. Sleep claimed him before he could fight it. He laid down under a broken stall.
....
Azmaik sat perched on a chunk of broken pillar. His long coat whipped in the breeze as if he'd placed himself there purely for effect.
Around him, five of his closest followers crouched in a half-circle, waiting for his next proclamation like eager pupils.
He rubbed his jaw slowly, eyes narrowed on the faint fires that marked where Elior's people slept in the plaza.
"Those rascals think he is a leader because he got a pretty speech and a pair of shiny daggers, Fools! Leadership isn't about talk. It's about fear. You make people fear you, they follow. End of story."
One of his men short, pudgy, with a nose that had clearly been broken more than once nodded vigorously. "Yes, boss. Fear. You're terrifying. Really terrifying."
Azmaik glanced at him with an unimpressed stare. "You said that like you're trying to convince yourself."
The pudgy man stammered. "N-no, I mean it! Sometimes I can't even look you in the eyes. Gives me stomach aches."
The others snickered, and Azmaik sighed, dragging a hand down his face. "Pathetic, and you lot are supposed to help me carve a new order."
A tall woman leaning against the rubble smirked. "Hey, boss, you could always not kill everyone. That might earn loyalty too."
Azmaik's glare snapped to her, sharp as a blade. "Mercy is weakness. The weak rot this place. If they don't bow, they will tomorrow become the reason for the chaos."
Another follower cleared his throat. "But boss.… what if they don't bow?"
Azmaik's expression softened into a grin that was anything but comforting. "Then they must see themselves getting executed. Don't worry, you have time. I like you all too much to gut you…. yet."
Nervous laughter fluttered among the group. They weren't sure if he was joking. Azmaik liked it himself that way.
As the night deepened, his grin lingered. Soon, Elior and his sheeps would see the difference between words and power.
....
Tom woke with the pond of ash fading behind him. The fire had died to faint embers and the storm outside had left a thin coat of dust across his cloak.
He stretched, stiff from the cold stone, then pushed himself up and stepped out from the shelter.
The land ahead was silent, gray with the remnants of night.
His stomach groaned, aching for food. With a thought, he pulled up his menu and tapped the small loaf stored in his item slot. It made up into his hands, warm and real.
He broke it in half, chewing slowly, letting each bite fill his stomach. It was dry, plain but it gave him some energy. The other half he broke, kept back in the slot.
Now, he was feeling more energetic and stronger than before. He thought something for a minute....
The begun to run here and there like a kid chasing a dog. It was an unknown enjoyment only he would understand.
Tom walked slowly across the fallen earth, each step crunching against the loose sand. His mind stayed on the pulsing map hidden in his menu. Showing him the path further way.
But then, his boot struck something solid beneath the grit. A sharp click rang out and he stunned.
Looking down, he brushed the sand aside with his heel until a faint circle came into view.
A rune, etched deep into the ground. Its lines pulsed faintly with yellow light.
Very clear and sharp against the dull landscape.
Tom crouched low, staring patiently. His hand hovered near it. Though he dared not touch. "What is this….?" he whispered. It didn't look like coin, relic or relic-fragment. It was too deliberate and mysterious looking.
A hum flowed through the air, tugging at his chest like an recall of something vast.
Tom's eyes narrowed, thoughts racing. Was it a trap? A sign? Or the first step into the mystery of this World?