Chapter 1: The Weight of Red, The Promise of Pink
Riot — Age 40 (Old World)
The scent of antiseptic clung to him. It was a familiar ghost. Hospitals had always smelled like this. A thin veil over the metallic tang of fear, the sweet rot of failing life.
He lay on the crisp, white sheets. His body was a map of tubes and wires. Each one a thin thread tethering him to a life he'd never quite grasped.
Cancer. The doctors had said the word softly. He had simply nodded. There was no tremor in his hands. No quickening of his pulse. He listened to their prognosis as he would a weather report. Detached. Clinical.
He had always been like this. Born without the vibrant colors of emotion. A blank canvas in a world saturated with feeling. Joy was a concept. Sorrow, a distant echo.
His childhood was a lesson in mimicry. He watched others. Learned their expressions. Their reactions. He categorized emotions like ingredients. A pinch of anger. A dash of happiness.
This quest for understanding led him to the kitchen. Cooking. It was a language he could speak. A way to translate the vibrant spectrum of human feeling into something tangible. Something delicious.
He found solace in precision. The perfect cut of a vegetable. The exact temperature of a searing pan. The delicate balance of flavors that made people weep with pleasure. He could craft a dish that evoked tears, laughter, nostalgia. He could make others feel.
And through their reactions, he learned. He observed the warmth in a shared meal. The comfort in a familiar taste. He was a silent conductor, orchestrating symphonies of sensation for others.
Then Mio arrived. Like a storm in a quiet room.
She was all vibrant pinks and chaotic reds. Her laughter echoed too loudly. Her movements were too bold. She would sneak into his pristine kitchen, her hands finding his in the chaos of service, a quick, illicit squeeze.
She had been a whirlwind. A challenge. He was the quiet, precise chef. She was the wild, unpredictable socialite. Their marriage, everyone assumed, was one of convenience. A quiet man for a woman who needed a stable anchor.
They were both wrong.
She sat beside his hospital bed now. Her pink hair, usually styled in playful twin tails, was slightly dishevelled. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but a determined smile fought its way through her grief.
"Don't you dare leave me," she whispered, her voice teasing, even now. "Who else will cook me meals that make me believe in magic?"
He turned his head slowly. It took effort. Every movement was a struggle against the growing lethargy.
He reached for her hand. His fingers, thin and pale, felt cold. Hers were warm. Alive.
He couldn't feel the electric spark others described. Not the sudden jolt of passion. But something resonated within him. A deep, quiet recognition. Like a fundamental truth.
"I love you," he said. The words tasted strange on his tongue. He had rarely said them aloud. But he knew, with a certainty that defied his emotional emptiness, that they were true.
She leaned down, her warmth enveloping him. Her lips met his. A soft, tender touch. And in that moment, for the very first time, something bloomed within his chest.
It wasn't pain. It wasn't fear. It was a gentle, spreading warmth. A quiet, undeniable peace.
Then, the world went silent. The humming machines faded. The scent of antiseptic vanished.
Just the warmth. And then… nothing.
Mio — Age 50 (Old World)
The silence after Riot was deafening.
He had been the quiet one. The calm center to her storm. Yet, his absence roared through her world.
She tried to fill it. She travelled to exotic lands. Danced in glittering ballrooms. Laughed with new acquaintances. But the laughter felt hollow. The joy, superficial.
She dated. Tried to find connection. But no one else truly saw her. No one understood the quiet ache that had settled in her bones.
Food became tasteless. She would sit in fancy restaurants, pushing around gourmet meals. The explosion of flavor that Riot had taught her to appreciate was gone.
Because he wasn't there. Not watching her reactions. Not smiling that small, secret smile as if he'd just solved a complex riddle. Not pretending he didn't feel the same joy he crafted for others.
The truth of their marriage had been selfish. She had married him to hide. Her family, prominent and traditional, struggled with her wild spirit. Her affections, often directed towards women, complicated their conservative world. Riot was safe. Unthreatening. A gentle shield.
She had planned to use him. But instead, he had quietly, painstakingly, taught her to truly be seen. To be loved without judgment. He had given her a peace she never knew she craved.
Ten years had crawled by. Each day an echo of his absence.
At fifty, she found herself in their old kitchen. The stainless steel gleamed. The knives lay organized. A ghost of his presence lingered in the air.
She tried to cook one of his signature dishes. She remembered every step. Every ingredient. Every precise movement.
It was technically perfect. The aroma was inviting. The plating, artful.
But it had no soul.
Because he wasn't there to measure the silence. To share the moment. To complete it.
A soft, sad laugh escaped her lips. "I'm coming, idiot," she whispered.
She went to bed that night. His favorite chef's knife lay on the counter, a silent sentinel. Her heart, so strong and vibrant for fifty years, simply… stopped. As if it had known. As if it had been waiting.
Darkness, then light.
Riot — Birth (New World)
Cold.
A sudden, shocking blast of cold air. It assaulted his tiny lungs. He gasped. His first breath in this new world was a burning fire.
Sound. A cacophony. Too loud. A shrill, piercing cry escaped him. His own.
He could feel. Raw. Intense. Every sensation was amplified. The pressure of hands on his tiny body. The bite of the air against his skin. The blinding glare of a light above him.
It hurt. His chest ached with each desperate inhale. His eyes stung. He screamed again.
It hurt. And that was… incredible.
He felt.
He blinked. Everything was a blurry kaleidoscope of shapes and colors. He tried to focus. He saw a flash of vibrant red. His own hair.
He didn't understand. Yet, understanding wasn't what mattered. Feeling was.
He cried. He laughed. He screamed. It was all too much. Overwhelming. Glorious.
He was lifted. Gentle hands. Voices murmured above him. Soft, unintelligible sounds.
"Another orphan," a woman's voice sighed. Resigned.
He was wrapped in a rough cloth. Carried. The cold wind bit at him again. He could feel it. Feel the chill. Feel the faint pressure of the fabric.
He wanted to reach out. To grasp. To feel everything.
Through a small window, he saw them. Massive stone walls. Towering. Indomitable.
Bastion 10.
Mio — Birth (New World)
She laughed. A tiny, gurgling sound.
The midwife gasped. "Why is she smiling?" she whispered.
Mio wasn't sure why either. But a deep, unshakeable joy pulsed through her tiny body. A memory of laughter. A warmth she couldn't place.
Pink hair. Two small tufts already distinct. Her eyes, wide and bright, took in the world. Softer. Kinder. Less harsh than… than something she couldn't quite recall.
She was small. Fragile. But beneath her skin, a faint hum. A tremor of something powerful. Waiting.
She moved her tiny fingers. A spark. A whisper.
Silk sheets. Marble ceilings. The scent of incense and old money.
She was born into comfort. Into power.
Her father stood over her. The City Lord of Bastion 10. His presence was formidable. His core, she vaguely registered, glowed faintly. A deep, rich blue. Light Blue. The pinnacle of known power.
"Strong child," he murmured. His voice was deep. Respected. Feared.
She grinned. A wide, toothless grin. She didn't know why. But she felt a purpose. A thread pulling her towards something important. Something crucial.
She was here. And it felt… right.
Riot — Age 5
The orphanage was a harsh world. It smelled of boiled gruel, damp stone, and desperation. Life was a constant, low-level ache.
Children were a mirror. Cruel not out of malice, but out of their own empty bellies. Their own small fears.
Riot felt everything. Every taunt. Every shove. Every bruise on his thin frame burned with an intensity that fascinated and pained him. The cold flagstones beneath his bare feet were a constant sting.
He had learned to be quiet. To observe. His red hair was perpetually messy, falling into his eyes. And those eyes—when he focused, when he tried to parse the raw data of this new world—his pupils resolved into faint, burning X-shapes. A mark of something beyond. He didn't know what. Not yet.
He was thin, but wiry. His gaze, even at five, held an unusual intensity. He remembered flashes. Tastes. Sounds. A woman's laugh. A quiet kitchen. But they were fractured, fleeting.
On his fifth birthday, the world shifted. A faint pulse beat within his chest. A warmth spread through his small body.
His left wrist glowed faintly. A mark appeared. A swirling tattoo. His status.
His core. Black. The starting point.
And then, something more. Something only he saw.
A translucent interface flickered into existence before his eyes. It shimmered, like light on water. Text appeared. Clear. Concise.
> Innate Technique: Skill Creation
> [Life Points: 0]
> [Create] [Fuse] [Recycle] [Give]
>
He blinked. No one else reacted. The other orphans shouted with excitement about their own awakenings. They compared core colors. They boasted of faint glows.
Riot stayed quiet. He stared at the floating interface. He felt a lock click open in his mind. A vast, unexplored chamber.
And with that click, the memories flooded back. Not flashes. Not fragments. A torrent.
The hospital room. The soft white sheets. The bitter scent. The kiss. The warmth.
Mio.
His chest tightened. A sharp, unbearable ache. Grief. He had never felt grief like this. It was a physical blow. It ripped through him, raw and profound.
It was awful. It was beautiful.
That night, the older boys found him. They were angry. He was different. Quiet. And his eyes were strange. They beat him. Not hard. Just enough to assert dominance.
He curled into himself in the corner of the dormitory. Bleeding from his lip. Crying. Not silently. Not with the dry, emotionless tears of his past life.
Openly. Loudly. Because he could. Because it hurt. Because he felt.
Mio — Age 5
The Ceremony Hall of Bastion 10 was a spectacle. Polished marble floors reflected the light of a hundred glowing orbs. Nobles, draped in fine silks, watched from ornate balconies. Her father, the City Lord, stood tall and imposing behind her.
She placed her small hand onto the cool, smooth surface of the Awakening Stone. A faint tremor ran through it.
Her core pulsed black. Then stabilized. A faint glow pulsed beneath her breast.
Then, the true awakening.
Her status tattoo shimmered. The words appeared.
Innate Technique: Luck
The room rippled with murmurs. Luck users were rare. Unpredictable. Some revered them. Others, like her father, regarded them with a cautious, analytical gaze. Luck was power, but it was uncontrollable. A wild card.
She grinned. A thrill shot through her.
And then—like a sudden explosion, delayed by five years—the memories hit her.
The kitchen. The gleaming steel. The scent of herbs. The quiet intensity of Riot's gaze.
The hospital. The stillness. The chef's knife on the counter. The unbearable silence.
Riot.
Her knees buckled. A sharp, visceral gasp escaped her.
Her father caught her, his strong hands steadying her. "Are you hurt, Mio?"
She shook her head. No. She wasn't hurt. But the memories… they overwhelmed her. The grief. The love. The terrifying clarity of it all.
He had died. She had died. And now…
She was here. In Bastion 10. The same city.
Why here? Why now?
Her innate Luck tingled faintly beneath her skin. Like a whisper. A soft, insistent pull.
Go.
That night, sleep was impossible. A restless energy coursed through her. An invisible thread pulled her. Towards the lower districts. Towards the orphan quarter. Towards something small and hurting.
Riot — Same Night
It hurt to breathe. His lip throbbed. He pressed his face into his knees, trying to stifle the sobs.
He didn't want to be weak. He wanted to understand this Skill Creation. He wanted to build. To grow strong. To survive.
He wanted…
The dormitory door creaked open. Soft footsteps. He didn't look up. Just burrowed deeper into the shadows.
"Hey."
That voice.
He froze. Every muscle in his body locked.
Slowly. Very slowly. He lifted his head.
Pink twin tails. A shock of vibrant color in the gloom. Five years old. Standing in an oversized noble's night cloak, far too large for her tiny frame.
Her eyes, wide and shimmering, met his. A faint, soft smile touched her lips.
His breath stopped. His heart, still aching from grief, stuttered.
She stared at him, her own eyes trembling.
"Idiot," she whispered, her voice thick with unshed tears.
And then, she was moving. A blur of pink and purple cloak. She threw herself at him.
He didn't know how to react. His arms, bruised and stiff, came up instinctively. He simply held her.
Because this time—
He could feel.
Her warmth. Her small, shaking shoulders against his chest. Her hot tears soaking into his tunic.
"You died," she said, her voice muffled, angry, heartbroken.
"So did you," he replied, his own voice cracking.
They both laughed. A choked, tear-filled sound that mingled with their sobs. The other children in the dormitory stirred, staring in confusion at the strange noble girl and the bruised orphan.
Mio pulled back, her face serious, tear-streaked. "Stay here."
She untangled herself, pushed him gently back into the corner, and ran.
Mio — Moments Later
She burst into her father's study. The two guards stationed outside scrambled to block her, but she zipped past them, a pink blur.
Her father, the City Lord, rose from his massive oak desk, a scroll still in his hand. "Mio? Why are you out of bed? It's far too late—"
"I want to adopt someone," she declared, interrupting him, her chest heaving.
Silence.
Her father blinked. Slowly. "Mio. That is not how adoption works in Bastion 10. It's a lengthy—"
"I don't care," she cut him off again, stamping her small foot. "I want him. Now."
He sighed, running a hand over his tired face. "Mio, you're being irrational. Who is this child?"
"He's strong," she insisted, her voice fierce. That caught his attention. He paused, his gaze sharpening.
"Strong?" he repeated, his tone laced with a new interest.
She nodded, fiercely. "His core is black, but it's stable. His instincts are sharp. He survived… he survived a lot. And he—" she hesitated, searching for the right words, her small hand pressing against her chest. "He matters. He really, really matters."
Her father studied her carefully. Luck users were a mystery, even to him. But he knew this: when Mio fixated, when her Luck truly hummed, things tended to happen. Often, against all odds.
"Who is this child, Mio?" he asked again, his voice now calm, probing.
She swallowed. Took a deep breath. "His name is Riot."
The City Lord of Bastion 10 leaned back in his chair, slowly. He had cultivated a Light Blue core. He was a master strategist. A survivor of three brutal beast surges. He did not believe in simple coincidence. He also did not ignore powerful patterns.
His daughter rarely asked for anything with such raw, desperate conviction.
He nodded once. A decisive, almost imperceptible movement. "Bring him."
Riot — Adoption
He stood in the grand study, trembling faintly despite himself. He had been cleaned, his lip bandaged, his red hair awkwardly brushed. His X-shaped pupils, usually hidden in the gloom, were faintly visible in the soft candlelight.
The City Lord, a man who radiated quiet, immense power, examined him. His gaze was piercing. Analytical. Riot met it without flinching. Not out of defiance, but a strange, quiet self-possession he didn't quite understand.
The silence stretched, heavy and palpable.
The Lord's core hummed faintly, a deep, resonant light blue beneath his fine robes. Riot could feel its pressure. Its immense power. Its potential.
"Why him, Mio?" the Lord asked, his gaze still fixed on Riot.
Mio stood beside Riot, her small hand firmly gripping his. She didn't hesitate. Her voice rang with absolute certainty. "Because he's mine."
The Lord almost smiled. The corner of his mouth twitched. Instead, he simply returned his gaze to the small, bruised boy. Something about his eyes. His composure. It felt… structured. Deliberate. For a five-year-old.
"Very well," the Lord said finally, his voice resonating through the large room. "From today onward, you are Riot of Bastion 10. My adopted son."
Riot bowed awkwardly, his head dipping in a motion he vaguely remembered from a forgotten life.
Mio squeezed his hand tightly.
He squeezed back. Not because he felt an obligation. But because he wanted to. Because the warmth of her small hand in his felt like coming home.
In that profound, quiet moment, beneath the towering, fortified walls of Bastion 10—a city built to survive the terrifying five-year beast surges—two reincarnated souls stood reunited.
A world divided by vast continents. A brutal cultivation system. With whispers of legendary peaks no one had ever reached.
And somewhere in that immense, dangerous hierarchy—
Two five-year-olds had just found each other again.
One who held the power to engineer skills. One who could bend probability with a thought.
The world did not know it yet. But Bastion 10, the impenetrable fortress, had just shifted its destiny. Quietly. Under candlelight. With a crying orphan. And a smiling girl who had once died of a broken heart.
But outside the walls, the earth began to tremble.