The road stretched empty.
For the first time since they left, the truck was quiet.
They had driven far—miles of cracked concrete and dry grass behind them.
The world outside had gone still again.
Noah sat cross-legged, faint light pulsing under his skin as he absorbed the core.
He would need an hour, maybe two.
Ethan leaned back, one boot hooked over the dashboard, one hand resting loose on the wheel.
The engine hummed low, steady, almost peaceful.
Damian finally let himself breathe.
His body still ached from the fight, but the silence pressed heavier than noise.
Bad luck from the start.
Three waves already, and they hadn't even reached the site—mutant beasts, zombie herds, then the Hellspikes.
Maybe the Overlord was right.
He'd said it straight: Don't go.
Damian turned his head.
The silver-haired youth sat beside him, arms folded, shoulders drawn in, eyes fixed on the floor.
His brows were tight, lips pale.
For once, he looked his age.
First time outside the wall, and the world had already tried to eat them alive.
At least now he showed what a kid should look like—nervous, human.
Damian looked away.
Everyone in this truck had fought too hard to still look young.
To be born, to awaken, to survive long enough to see the wall from the other side—none of it came easy.
They were the lucky ones among the unlucky.
No names, no backing, no protection.
Only the strength in their hands and the will to keep breathing.
His thoughts drifted.
No one really knew how the Great Cataclysm began—only that it ended the old world.
Some said the dead rose first.
Others said energy came first, and the dead followed.
No one cared anymore.
What mattered was what came after.
Energy filled the air and twisted everything alive.
Humans, beasts, corpses—each learned to evolve or die.
Now all three hunted the same food: crystal cores and blood.
Inside the cities, people fought a quieter war—against extinction.
The great houses filled their records with children, hoping to produce stronger heirs.
The poor did the same, praying one of their kids might awaken and change their fate.
Only half of all Espers showed talent at birth.
The rest looked ordinary until years later.
But no one had time to wait.
So the unwanted were left behind.
That was why every city overflowed with orphans—children abandoned by both the rich and the poor.
Damian had been luckier.
His parents had wanted him, not a weapon or a ticket upward.
Two soldiers. Two men. They'd loved each other, and that was reason enough.
The others in this truck hadn't been so lucky.
They were the ones left behind, the ones no one came back for.
They'd learned to live, fight, and awaken on their own.
They were the unclaimed, the unforgotten, the ones who remembered what it cost to stay alive.
Damian's gaze softened for a moment.
Every scar in this truck had been earned.
No one here owed their life to anyone else.
The road ahead shimmered with heat.
Dust curled from the tires.
Inside the cab, no one spoke.
Then a sound—soft, strained.
Damian turned.
Ratty's hand was pressed against his head, the other over his stomach.
His face had gone white, breath coming short and sharp.
The faint tremor in his shoulders spread down his arms.
Something was wrong.