Silas crouched behind a mound of broken stone, narrowing his eyes at the grim scene unfolding before him.
Three figures remained before a monstrous hound, their bodies clad in clothes little more than rags stitched together from mismatched scraps of leather, cloth, and rope.
The beast that faced them was no ordinary dog. Its shaggy flaxen fur was matted with grime, hanging in filthy tufts that swayed with each heaving breath. Standing nearly as tall as a grown man, its frame radiated menace. Long strands of drool dangled from its slavering maw, dripping onto the rubble-strewn earth with wet slaps.
Two of the patchwork-clad survivors already lay crumpled in grotesque ruin; one head reduced to a mangled mess inside the beast's jaws, another torn clean through the torso, their insides staining the ground crimson.
The last one, a woman coated in dust and sweat, had only a heartbeat left. Silas watched as her mouth opened in a scream, raw terror bursting out into the air, cut short as claws raked across her body, splitting her open in a spray of blood. She collapsed in silence, limbs twitching briefly before stillness claimed her.
Silas's eyes narrowed further. 'Well, looks like I was a bit too late. But…'
His gaze lingered on the sprawled corpses. Though lifeless, they proved something crucial: he had finally encountered other humans, alive once, at least. That meant a settlement might exist nearby. And with it, answers. Supplies. Clues.
'And, it's not like I need to confront the beast directly.'
Bending down, Silas picked up a jagged stone. With a flick of his wrist, he hurled it into the shadows of a half-collapsed wall. The rock clattered noisily, the sharp sound echoing off the ruined structures. At that same instant, he conjured an illusion: a mirror image of himself burst into existence at the source of the noise, bolting in the opposite direction.
The hound's head snapped toward the phantom. With a snarl, it lunged after the fleeing figure, claws raking through rubble as it thundered away.
Weariness tugged at Silas's mind, a faint pressure behind his eyes. He hissed under his breath. 'So I was right… my ability burns through some kind of energy, something tied to Spirit. That's what left me drained before.'
He shoved the thought aside and sprinted toward the fallen bodies. His hands moved quickly, rummaging through what little they carried. A serrated dagger was pried from one corpse's slack grip. A dirt-stained satchel was pulled from another's shoulder.
When he reached the woman, he dug into her torn robe. Soon, his fingers brushed against folded sheets tucked close to her chest. Tugging them free, he found them smeared in dust and blood.
Without hesitation, Silas stuffed the papers into the satchel, slung it over his shoulder, and scurried off into the ruins before the beast could return.
Crunch!
Crunch!
Silas's boots pressed into the carpet of leaves, each step releasing a sharp crackle as the scent of damp earth filled his lungs.
"Heugh…" He exhaled heavily, panting as he trudged along. "Who would've thought… that outside the city would be…. another forest. Haaah… It feels like I've been thrown back into some primeval forest."
Nevertheless, in contrast with the Demi-Plane, this forest held a gentler air. The only creatures he had encountered so far were rodents darting between roots and insects humming beneath the undergrowth. Unfamiliar, yes. But dangerous, it was not.
Then—he froze.
A sound teased his ears. Faint and rhythmic.
'Running water?' Excitement sparked in his chest. He quickened his pace, weaving through the trees until the sound swelled into a rush. His eyes lit up as the foliage broke away, revealing a narrow stream.
Crystal-clear water coursed over smooth stones, catching flashes of sunlight that pierced through the canopy. Along its banks, small critters dipped their snouts to drink. The gentle burble of water mixed with their soft rustling, painting a scene almost untouched by the horrors he had faced.
But as Silas stepped forward, the spell shattered. The animals startled at his approach, bounding away into the brush with startled squeaks. He paid them little mind. His focus was fixed on the water.
He dropped his satchel onto the grass, crouched by the bank, and plunged his hands into the cool stream. Bringing the water up, he cupped it to his lips and drank deeply. The chill flowed down his throat, washing away the dryness that had scraped at him since leaving the city.
"I'm not even sure if this water's safe to drink…" He let out a long sigh. "… but it's better than dying of thirst."
Still, there was comfort in the sight of the animals earlier. If they had drunk from this stream and lived, then perhaps he had little to fear. Running water was safe… usually.
Nevertheless content, Silas walked back to where he had set his satchel and leaned against the bark of a tree. He slid it open and began inspecting its contents. A serrated dagger, faintly rusted. A small stack of loose, weathered pages. And a single book.
He set the dagger beside him and pulled the book into his lap.
Its cover was a dull, faded blue, scuffed by wear and tear. Across its surface, in embossed golden letters, a title gleamed faintly:
Silver Covenant.
"At least I can recognise the language…" Silas muttered. Then, with a curious gaze, he cracked open the book.
He traced the words on the page with his hands as he read them aloud.
"When the sky fell, they gleamed above us.
When the heavens shattered, they endured in silver.
We named them stars, yet they were greater—
Eternal lights, unbroken hands in this dying night…"
Time passed, as Silas flipped through page after page. Perhaps due to his increased Spirit attribute, his speed in reading and rate of absorbing information was exponentially higher than before.
Thud!
The sound cut through the air, as Silas shut the book, massaging his weary brows.
He had hoped to find some important information in it, yet he soon realised that this was simply some sort of bible. A bible for some cult that worshipped the stars.
"What a waste of time…"
With disappointment, he put the book away in the satchel as he dug out the papers littered inside.
As he held them in his hand, straightening out the creases, his eyes narrowed as he realised what they were.
Maps.
Maps that showed a world very different from the one Silas had known. His gaze drifted to the corner where the date was scrawled:
Made in 157 A.R.
"If everyone still considers a year 365 days… does that mean at least a hundred and fifty years have passed since I got on that train?" Silas scratched his head, an uncomfortable emotion rising in his chest.
He knew what it was. Or rather, what was supposed to be there.
Sorrow.
An emotion he had long lost. Yet, the void it left behind in him tugged at him.
Flickers of memory intruded. His mother's laughter at the dinner table. The warmth of his father's hand on his shoulder. Birthdays. University acceptance. Each scene fractured, incomplete, carrying not nostalgia but a gnawing emptiness.
'Am I really even, Silas at this point? Am I really just that simply university student? Even yet, am I still… human?'
Biting his lip, Silas dragged his gaze from the date to the map, forcing his thoughts elsewhere. His eyes locked onto the markings of the nearest civilisations. Countries no longer stood, only city-states helmed by whatever factions survived the Rapture.
New Breton.
Stormhold.
Theolis.
Frankum.
He could guess New Breton was raised upon the corpse of old Breton. And, similarly for Frankum.
On the other hand, the other two were mysteries, their names offering no hint of what they truly were.
"Hah…" Silas exhaled, voice heavy with contemplation. "It seems New Breton would be the safest place to head to. At least I can hazard a guess at its origin and nature."
He let his body relax against the tree trunk, staring out at the stream. At the crystal-clear dew rolling in it. At small silhouettes darting beneath its skin, like living silver.
Silas found it serene. Too serene for a world that had shifted so far beyond his understanding.
He didn't belong here. Not to this age, nor to the lives that had risen from its ruins.
He was out of place. And, out of time.
[Beep!]
[New Mission Issued!]
[Mission: Find Civilisation in the City-State of New Breton]
Details: Seek out your compatriots in this alien world. Through them, you may uncover truths about the Rapture—and the strange virus you carry.
[Reward: Knowledge Unlocked—Development of Illusion Evolvers]
Before Silas could so much as groan at the intrusive notification, a gleaming white arrow cut into his vision, floating steadily no matter how he blinked.
"…and here I was wondering how I'd find my way there." His voice was flat, a sigh hidden beneath the words.
With a reluctant shake of his head, he pushed himself upright, scooping the satchel from the dirt before following the arrow into the unknown.
At the mouth of the forest trail, a band of scruffy men crouched in ambush. Their weapons were as ragged as their clothes, their postures as crass as their demeanour.
Stone axes bound with fraying sinew, clubs studded with bits of rusted iron, and bows that creaked with every pull, their strings no better than twine.
"Boss, it's been days. Those scavengers we saw heading to that Old Era city have probably already bitten the dust," muttered a thin man with a wiry beard.
"Stuff it!" The gruff man beside him snapped. "So what if they don't come back? There's plenty of others out here to rob! This isn't New Breton—here, we make the rules."
His barked words failed to stir the men. Instead, they looked at him sidelong.
Finally, the wiry-bearded man cleared his throat. "What do you mean, plenty of others? Who else besides scavengers are worth hu—" He cut himself short, eyes widening. "Y-you can't mean…?"
The boss's grin split his scarred face, revealing a set of piss, yellow teeth. "Of course I mean Evolvers." He clapped the thin man's shoulder, the gesture as much a warning as a reassurance. "Trust me, they're not what they're cracked up to be. So what if they're a bit special? That's all it is, luck. Strip away their shine, wait till they're worn out and bloodied from a mission, and they die like the rest of us. One blade across the throat—" his lip curled, the words almost spat, "—and those high and mighty Evolvers are nothing but corpses. Don't fool yourselves, they're just mortals… like you and me."
Before doubt could spread, the boss lifted a hand, signalling silence. A short, squat figure crept out from the undergrowth.
"Oi! Gray Rat. Did you find anyone? How many of them are there?"
The stout man's body twitched nervously as he approached, his narrow face pinched and sharp, nose too long, teeth protruding slightly when he spoke. True to his name, he looked more vermin than man.
"I only saw one," Gray Rat rasped out.
"One?" The boss's eyes gleamed. Only an Evolver would dare to travel so openly. That or the last remaining survivor of a scavenger group. "Are they injured?"
"I-I don't know. He's scuffed up, clothes torn, dust and blood all over. Hard to tell if it's his or not. But…" Gray Rat swallowed, hesitating until the boss's fervent gaze pinned him. "He's wearing Old Era clothing. No doubt 'bout that. Carrying a satchel too."
The boss's grin widened until it nearly split his face. "Looks like a fat sheep!" he chuckled darkly. "On your feet. Get into position."
The men shifted, some stringing their crude bows, others tightening their grips on clubs and axes. The forest soon grew quiet.
As soon as a silhouette emerged from the shadow of the trees, the boss's arm shot up, watching the figure trudge closer, dust caking his form.
Then—
The boss dropped his arm.
From the trees and thickets flanking the trail, a ragged volley of arrows hissed through the air.
He watched in open anticipation as the arrows struck true in his mind's eye — their tips piercing flesh, red blooming outward like roses unfurling in the spring. A perfect kill.
At least, that was how it was supposed to play out.
Instead, the figure ahead dissolved before his very eyes, vanishing the way dust scatters and disappears when caught in a sudden gust of wind.
The boss's jaw slackened, but he was given no time to make sense of the trick. A strangled scream tore through the undergrowth.
"Gray Rat!" He bellowed, eyes bulging as he turned.
The man who had been skulking at his side moments ago now lay sprawled in the dirt. A deep gash appeared at his abdomen, entrails threatening to peek out.
His rat-like face, once alive and twitching, was now frozen in a mask of terror, a single rivulet of blood slipping through his lips.
The boss's heart thundered in his chest, threatening to leap out of the confines of his rib cage at any given moment. Sweat streamed down his temple, stinging his eyes as he whipped his head frantically from shadow to shadow.
'One, two, three…' He tried to count, but his tally slipped through his mind like sand.
Every time the forest whispered, his men fell. One after another, they toppled, collapsing with wet thuds, gutted or strangled before they could even cry out.
Their unseen murderer stalked them like some predator teasing its playthings, striking and vanishing, leaving only corpses in his wake.
The boss's hands trembled, his bravado rotting into fear.
"Damn it! Damn it! DAMN IT!" the boss roared, spittle flying as his voice cracked with fury. His knuckles whitened around the chipped handle of his machete, while his other hand clutched the side of his head, as though he could squeeze the terror out by force.
But he soon realised something, as his eyes bulged.
The forest was silent.
And, it was silent for too long.
He spun in a sudden whirl, blade slashing the air in a wide arc, hoping to catch his stalker by surprise. But the clearing was empty, nothing but shadows and trees swaying silently, mocking his desperation.
Shliiick!
A wet sound slithered into his ears. His body stiffened. A heavy weight bloomed in his gut, sinking him like stone. With trembling disbelief, his eyes dragged downward.
A dagger, blood-slick and merciless, jutted out from his chest. His machete clattered from numb fingers.
Thud!
A savage kick launched him backward, his body crashing to the dirt. Warm crimson gushed beneath him, dyeing the earth in harrowing shades of scarlet.
He fought to keep his eyes open, lashes fluttering as the world tilted and blurred. Through the haze he glimpsed only tatters of cloth — dirtied, frayed, stained in battle. A fleeting silhouette of the figure that had butchered his men.
"...Mon…ster…" he croaked, blood bubbling at his lips, each word weaker than the last.
Darkness swallowed his vision, and the forest reclaimed its silence.
Silas walked through the idling streets of New Breton in his new attire, the rough spun tunic and patched trousers he had borrowed from the bandits still smelling faintly of smoke and earth.
He ignored the pop up in front of his eyes stating: Mission Accomplished. Instead, his eyes roamed the scenery around him.
Massive stone walls ringed New Breton, scarred with patchwork repairs, their bulk dwarfing even the tallest buildings inside. Timber watchtowers jutted from the ramparts, with guards pacing atop the battlements. Some held crossbows. Some held guns. And, some, none at all.
Inside the city, narrow streets wound in twisting paths, pressed on both sides by houses built of salvaged stone and brick. Some were little more than mud-daubed shacks leaning against sturdier structures, while others reached higher, patched with scavenged metal sheets, beams, and coloured glass that glittered like fractured jewels in the afternoon sun.
Crowds thrummed through the arteries of the city, some hawking rusted tools or devices from the Old Era, children darting barefoot between merchants' carts, and armed patrols pushing through with little regard for those in their path.
Above it all loomed the heart of New Breton: a grand parliament of reinforced stone and steel, rebuilt again and again across the decades, its crooked spire serving as a reminder of the city's survival in a dying era.
'I can't believe it's been two hundred years since the Rapture descended…' For a moment, two silhouettes flickered across his mind. Vague and indistinct, their faces blurred, like smudges on wet paper.
Even so, they lingered long enough to stir that hollowness in his chest before he shook his head to scatter them.
At least he had learned much from the memories taken off the dead. Scavengers, he now knew, typically hailed from the slums: desperate men and women venturing into Old Era ruins in hopes of salvaging a relic, just like the trio he had found in Westershire. Their lives were cheap, and their deaths cheaper.
And he had learned that clothing mattered here—far more than he expected. His original garments, reminiscent of Old Era elegance, would have painted him as a fat sheep ready for slaughter.
The upper class in cities like this still indulged in gaudy designs and silks, flaunting wealth while those below counted themselves fortunate just to cover their skin in scraps of cloth.
'Regardless…' Silas narrowed his eyes at the milling people around him, then fixed his gaze on a building in the distance, sturdier than the rest. 'I need an identity.'
With the memories he had stolen from the souls of the bandits, Silas already knew what that looming building was.
The Guild.
A loose organisation found within the borders of New Breton binding together the myriad Evolvers within. It worked hand-in-hand with parliament, designating missions in exchange for wealth, power, status… and even knowledge of Evolvers themselves.
That last detail gnawed at him. 'How do they obtain such knowledge? It isn't something they can discover and learn of all willy nilly.'
After all, he needed Charon, a being that had devoured souls across countless dimensions on its journey to the afterlife, just to scrape together what little he knew.
And yet here, in this hall, scraps of it were apparently handed out like coin.
Silas stepped inside.
The moment the heavy oak doors swung shut behind him, the noise of the street seemed to vanish, replaced by a calm murmur. Sturdy stone walls were lined with notice boards plastered with mission slips, and Evolvers of varying strength and status lingered in small groups.
Silas walked straight to the counter, where a young woman with auburn hair looked up from her ledger.
Despite his dirtied appearance, not even a ripple of surprise appeared in her striking green eyes.
"I'd like to register as an affiliated Evolver," said Silas.
For a moment, surprise flickered in her eyes as she heard him speak, before she offered a polite smile. "That depends on your classification. May I ask what type of Evolver you are?"
"Lightning Type." Silas replied, his face betraying not the slightest bit of guilt.
Illusions were a valuable power. One that he would like to keep close to his heart. After all, as with any magic, once you know the trick, its wonder was lost.
"Very well," she nodded. "Step over here, if you would."
She led him to a tall obsidian pillar etched with faint runes that pulsed rhythmically. "Place your hand on the Resonance Pillar. It will measure the flow of Primordial Energy through your body."
Silas obeyed, pressing his palm to the cool surface and soon purple energy flickered from it as the pillar responded, glowing faintly in recognition.
"Confirmed," the receptionist said with a nod, returning to her desk and jotting something down. "You're officially registered as a Lighting-type Evolver. As for rewards, they are tied to your contribution points, which can only be earned by completing Guild missions. With them, you can exchange for wealth, technology and even information."
Silas followed after her, his eyes glowing at her mention of information. That was his goal here after all.
Still, he couldn't help but sigh. 'Contribution points, missions, rewards… is this similar to the capitalistic hellscape I would've faced if I'd just graduated university normally? This time its a corporate nightmare dressed up with monsters and magic?'
He shook his head, dismissing the thought. "Then show me the available missions. And tell me how to secure accommodation."
"Accommodation can also be rented through the Guild, also in exchange for contribution points."
Silas closed his eyes, a muscle in his jaw twitching. 'So if I don't want to sleep on the streets, I'll have to finish a mission first.'
The receptionist must have noticed the way his shoulders stiffened. Her lips curved into a gentle smile as she slid a stack of papers across the counter. "These are suitable for new Evolvers. Beginner missions, to give you a foothold in the Guild."
Silas thumbed through them, eyes scanning over bounties, collection tasks, and guard postings. Then one page made his brow rise. His hand stilled.
"Well," he murmured, the corner of his mouth quirking. "Looks like my curiosity about this world may not go unanswered for long after all…"
Elsewhere in New Breton, within the hushed confines of a large council chamber, sat a gathering of figures cloaked in shadow. The round table at the room's centre seemed to absorb the faint lamplight from nearby.
The individuals seated around it varied in size and posture: one leaned back languidly in their chair, hands clasped behind their head; another sat hunched forward, both elbows planted firmly on the wood; a third absentmindedly tapped gloved fingers against the armrest.
Creak!
The slow groan of the opening door shattered the silence, and the atmosphere grew taut, every head turning toward the newcomer.
A man shuffled in, a pudgy figure whose cheeks sagged heavily, his skin flushed pink. His small eyes glistened beneath folds of fat, and the way his nostrils flared with every breath lent him the appearance of a pig, waddling nervously into a den of wolves.
One of the shadowed figures tilted their head, their voice dripping with disdain.
"Oh, look who decided to show up. Tsk!" They clicked their tongue. "Come on then, out with it. You needn't waste any more of our time."
The pudgy man gave a nervous chuckle, his jowls trembling as he cleared his throat.
"Ah? Y-yes, sir." His voice cracked slightly before he steadied it. "They have agreed to our proposal. So long as we facilitate the spread of the virus, we will receive more of the serum… along with advanced knowledge regarding Evolvers."
At once, the atmosphere softened. Several figures leaned back, shoulders relaxing as low chuckles rippled around the table.
The man who had spoken first leaned forward, the shadows peeling back to reveal his features. His hair was slicked back, streaked with grey, and deep tear troughs marked his weary countenance.
Still, his sharp eyes glinted with cruel amusement, and a callous smirk tugged permanently at his lips.
Tap! Tap! Tap!
His fingers drummed against the table in slow.
"Good job, Davis!" He said, voice rich with approval and mockery in equal measure. "You've done well. Rest assured, you'll have our full support in the oncoming New Breton election."