The hallway air is stagnant, a wall of trapped heat that was never a good welcome. I take the stairs two at a time, the familiar burn in my legs reminding me that this body is weak.
Untrained.
Outside, the sun is a physical weight.
The neighborhood is a yellowish photograph of what it used to be. The lawns are scorched pale scars. Across the street, a man is "washing" his windshield with a dry, gray rag, his face covered by a bandana to filter the grit.
The air shimmers with heat haze, smelling of melting asphalt.
I walk to the bus stop, shielding my eyes.
My hand unconsciously drifts to my chest. There's a cold, heavy sensation there. Like I swallowed a stone that refuses to warm up. The Codex is there—I felt it bind.
The bus ride is a sweaty purgatory. I spend the last of my cash on the fare.
Forty minutes later, I'm standing in front of the District 4 Clinical Center.
It's a fortress of white concrete and humming air conditioning, guarded by heavy government security. The line of people waiting for a "Hydration Voucher" wraps around the block—hundreds of hollow faces hoping for a gallon of clean water.
I ignore the line and walk straight to the "Symptomatic & Priority" entrance.
The guard steps forward, hand on his baton.
"Back of the line, kid."
"I have the Thirst," I say. My voice rasps, dry as the pavement. It's not a lie. The burning in my marrow is getting worse by the minute. "I need the Pearl Test."
He studies my eyes—probably the dilated pupils, maybe the cold sweat—then steps aside, trying to hide his grimace.
Clearly, he doesn't want to touch me.
The Black Thirst isn't contagious, but the stigma against new divers is real.
Inside, the air is freezing. The antiseptic smell reminds me how scared I was the first time.
I go to the reception, fill out the digital form with practiced boredom.
Name: Dryden Sands.
Age: 18.
Symptoms: Acute dehydration, burning sensation.
Residence: North suburbs of District 4, house 81.
"Room 3," the nurse says without looking up. "Technician is waiting."
I walk in. It's a small room, sterile and cold, vibrating with the low hum of heavy voltage.
Two distinct machines dominate the space, looking less like medical equipment and more like excavated artifacts bolted onto steel tables.
A technician in a hazmat suit is wiping down the first device: a pedestal where a dark, jagged sphere sits trapped inside a cage of sensors and fiber-optic cables.
The Reentry Pearl.
In Thirstfall, it's a lifeline used to return. Here, stripped of its dignity, they've rigged it into a glorified Geiger counter.
"Hand on the sphere," the technician drones, sounding bored. "Don't move. If it glows red, you're clean. If it turns black..."
I don't wait for the speech. I slap my hand on the cold surface.
Instantly, the sphere doesn't just turn black. It seems to suck the artificial light out of the room. The shadows in the corners stretch toward it violently.
The technician flinches. The monitor above the pedestal flashes a warning red.
"What the hell?" he blurts out.
I'm just as shocked as he is.
[POSITIVE: STAGE 5]
[TIME TO FORCED ENTRY: 00:10:05]
"Ten fucking minutes?" The technician stammers, checking his clipboard, confused. "Usually, early detection gives a month. You... you are already drifting."
"I know," I lie.
Internally, I'm reeling. The first time around, I had eight days. Ten minutes is a death sentence.
I wipe my hand on my jeans. "Let's get the Aptitude over with."
I move to the second station before he can stop me.
This is the one that decides your fate. The Aptitude Mandala.
It's a heavy disk of Rainbow Quartz embedded in the wall. Rune lines are carved into the crystal, separating it into colored sectors: Red for Combat, Blue for Spirit, Green for Support, White for Labor.
Ten years ago, I touched this and it glowed a pathetic, dull White.
Cartographer. Mule. Bait.
That was my label. That was my coffin.
"Wait, I need to calibrate—" the technician starts.
I ignore him. I reach out.
I already know the result. But this time, I have a plan to work around it.
Come on, I think, focusing on the cold weight in my chest.
I know it's White. A desperate, peaceful White. But I can work with White.
My fingertips brush the quartz and for a heartbeat, nothing happens.
Then, the hum starts. A low vibration that rattles the teeth in my skull. The technician drops his stylus.
The light doesn't start in the Red or Blue sectors.
It starts in the center. In the dead space where the quartz axel holds the Mandala together.
A vein of liquid Gold fire erupts from the core.
It doesn't fill a sector. It crawls over the lines, ignoring the boundaries. The gold light spreads like a virus, overtaking the White, consuming the Red, drowning the Blue.
The quartz begins to whine, a high-pitched scream of material stress.
"Stop!" the technician yells, shielding his eyes. "It's going to overload!"
I try to pull back, but I can't. The energy isn't coming from the machine; it's being pulled out of me. Or maybe the Codex is feeding on the crystal.
The golden light intensifies until it's blinding, and then—crack.
A hairline fracture shoots down the middle of the Mandala.
The light dies instantly.
Silence crashes back into the room. Smoke curls from the quartz.
I pull my hand back. My palm is smoking, but unburned.
The technician is staring at the machine, then at me, his face pale behind the visor.
"What..." he whispers, trembling. "What color was that? That sector doesn't exist."
I look at the fractured crystal. It wasn't White. It wasn't even Combat Red.
A nervous smile touches my lips.
"I think I passed," I say, turning to the door. "When is the next transport to the Dive Pods?"
The technician looks from the broken crystal to the red timer counting down on the wall.
00:09:45.
He blinks, snapping out of the paralysis. With a trembling hand, he clumsily shoves his glasses back up the bridge of his nose—they were hanging askew, nearly falling off his face, knocked loose by the sheer shock of the blast.
"T-T-Trans… Transport?"
He lets out a sharp, hysterical bark of laughter. It sounds broken, bordering on panic.
"Kid, with that clock? You don't need a transport. You need a miracle."
I don't answer. I just grip the door handle.
"It's not White…" I think, my heart pounding with the urgency of his words.
And this isn't the beginning I remember.