Chapter 6: The New World
At first light, Azazel broke the tense silence.
"Hey. What's the plan now?"
Reginleif,already sharpening her dagger on a stone, didn't look up.
"We go north. To the fortress city of Korvath. It's the only stronghold in this region that hasn't fallen or sworn fealty to the Brotherhood."
They set out,moving with a caution that felt foreign to Azazel's usual confident stride. Within an hour, they spotted a patrol of five Brotherhood soldiers blocking the forest path ahead.
"Lay low.Sneak past them," Reginleif whispered, melting into the undergrowth.
Azazel followed,his modern clothes snagging on branches. They were almost clear when a soldier with a pronounced, twitching nose suddenly halted.
"I sense something...in that bush. People," the soldier growled, his hand going to his sword hilt.
"Cover's blown.Run!" Reginleif hissed.
They burst from the foliage and sprinted.A volley of arrows whistled past their heads, thudding into trees.
Then, one of the soldiers barked a guttural incantation.
A searing red orb of energy materialized in his palm and shot forward, exploding a massive oak trunk into splinters.
Shit! That's fucking magic!Azazel's mind screamed, a new kind of fear icing his veins. Don't get hit by that.
More orbs followed.Reginleif skidded to a stop, spinning and throwing out her hands. A gust of wind deflected one orb into a hillside. With another gesture, she whipped up a thick screen of dust and leaves, creating a momentary blindness.
"Now!Go!" she yelled. They didn't stop running until the shouts of the soldiers faded into the distance.
---
After ten grueling hours on foot, the fortress city of Korvath rose before them—a grim bastion of grey stone built into a mountainside, scarred by fire and siege but stubbornly standing.
At the gate,two weary-looking guards in mismatched armor barred their way.
"Identification? Purpose?" one grunted, eyeing Azazel's strange attire with deep suspicion.
Reginleif stepped forward,her posture shifting to one of weary nobility. She negotiated in low tones, and Azazel saw the flash of two gold coins passing from her hand to the guard's. The gate creaked open just enough to let them slip through.
"City's seen better days,"Azazel muttered, taking in the soot-stained buildings and the pinched, fearful faces of the citizens.
"It has,"Reginleif agreed flatly. "The Brotherhood has tested these walls a dozen times. They've always failed. This place... it has a name for being unbreakable. It's why we came."
Yeah, and it took forever to get here,Azazel thought, his body aching. Weirdly lucky there were no monsters, though. I figured a fantasy world would be crawling with them. Maybe that's the one break I get.
They found a rundown inn called The Guttering Candle.
Reginleif paid for a single room with a single, narrow bed, a practical decision that made Azazel raise an eyebrow but say nothing. The room was cold, drafty, and smelled of old ale.
"So,"Azazel said, dropping his few possessions on the floor. "What's your plan after this?"
Reginleif sat on the edge of the bed,her shoulders slumping for the first time. "I don't know," she admitted, her voice hollow. I just lost everything back there. I have no home, no unit. I truly do not know. She looked at him, her sharp eyes assessing. "And you? What is your... deal?"
Azazel let out a harsh,humorless laugh. "I don't know, man. I'm completely lost. Out of my depth doesn't even cover it. In other words... I still need somebody's help to get by. A guide."
Reginleif studied him.I thought he was a slave, but there's no brand, no crest. His clothes... they look like an assassin's garb from some distant, strange land—black, formless, tactical.
But his eyes... he looks genuinely lost. Like he fell out of the sky.
"I guess I'll help you,"she said finally, the decision made. "Until I figure out my own next move."
"Thanks,"Azazel said, the word feeling genuine. "I appreciate it."
Alone with his thoughts, Azazel's mind raced, inventorying his catastrophic situation.
Yeah, no shit I need help. This world runs on bullshit magic and swords. There's no technology. No guns. The only "knowledge" I have is from a bunch of comic books—sorry, manga—I barely paid attention to because I was too high to give a shit.
He started mentally constructing a survival list,his broker's instinct for information kicking in.
Alright. Step one: knowledge. Need books. History, geography, how this magic crap works. Step two: weapons. Can't fight armored guys with my fists forever. Need a blade, and need to learn how to use it without getting killed. Step three: money. Those gold coins won't last. How do you make money in a medieval hellscape? Mercenary work? Theft?
He looked down at his clothes—black hoodie,sweatpants, the bandana in his back pocket. A uniform from a world that no longer existed.
What else am I missing? Everything. I'm missing fucking everything.
– – –
The gnawing problem of survival took priority. "Hey," Azazel asked Reginleif over a bowl of thin gruel.
"Any ideas on how we make some actual money?"
"Of course,"she said, as if it were obvious.
"We join the Adventurers Guild."
Of course,Azazel thought, the term clicking into place from a hundred hazy anime memories.
The guild. A hub for quests, monster slaying, escorts... a fantasy freelance agency with a ranking system and probably a bar where everyone broods in the corner.
"Okay,"he agreed. "We can join together. Tomorrow."
"Fine.But you're going to need new clothes and a weapon. What you're wearing is... strange.
It marks you as an outsider."
Azazel looked down at his hoodie."Yeah. You're right."
---
The next day, Azazel woke with a strange, dislocated feeling, as if the passage of time itself was slightly off here. He shook it off—he had bigger problems.
Reginleif took him to a market stall and picked out practical,worn leather trousers and a sturdy tunic, adding a short, travel-stained cloak to help him blend in. At a blacksmith's stall, she pointed to a barrel of used weapons.
"Check there. Find something that feels right."
Azazel rummaged through the pile of dented swords and notched axes.His hand closed around a hilt, and he pulled out a weapon with a distinct, recurved blade—a kukri. It was a brutal, efficient tool for close-quarters slashing, without the fancy guard of the other swords. It felt familiar in a way the straight blades didn't; it was a fighter's weapon, not a knight's.
"Good choice,"Reginleif nodded. "Unconventional. It suits you."
---
The Adventurers Guild hall was a loud, smoky cavern of a building, filled with the clank of tankards and the boasts of scarred men and women. Azazel felt a wave of surreal vertigo. This is a trope. I'm living a trope.
The guild receptionist was a cheerful girl with soft,brown dog ears twitching atop her head.
Azazel stared,his last internal anchor to a sane reality slipping away. Dog ears. Actual, moving dog ears.
"Azazel,you okay?" Reginleif asked, nudging him.
"Ya,"he managed, forcing his gaze away. "I'm cool." Okay. That's it. Final confirmation. I am in a whole other fucking world.
The receptionist handed them parchment forms."Please add your name and your primary Mythic!" Reginleif wrote her name and,without hesitation, Wind.
Azazel's pen hovered.Mythic? Is that what they call magic? I don't have a "Mythic." His mind raced. He needed to put something. With no other frame of reference, he thought of the first thing that sounded plausible and wrote down: Plant.
The receptionist barely glanced at it."Welcome to the Adventurers Guild! You are both now Copper rank! Good luck!"
Their first quest was straightforward: clear a burnt-out brewery on the edge of town that had become a nest for giant rats. Between Reginleif's wind blades and Azazel's vicious, close-work with the kukri, it was over in minutes. The payment was meager, but it was coin in his pocket.
---
Instead of celebrating, a deep unease drove Azazel to the city's public library—a quiet, dusty hall of scrolls and leather-bound books. He couldn't ask Reginleif. She thought he was just a strangely dressed, oddly skilled foreigner. Revealing he was from another world was a vulnerability he couldn't afford. He had to lie, even to his only ally, and find the answers himself.
He pored over maps and historical chronicles,his broker's mind seeking patterns. Finally, in a section titled
"Arcane Foundations," he found a heavy tome: "On the Nature of Mythic: The Qliphoth and the Seed."
There it is, he thought, a thrill of grim satisfaction cutting through his anxiety. I knew they had to have it written down.
He read, and the world's true shape began to crystallize into something vast and terrifying:
The Tree of Qliphoth is the dark reflection of the divine, a root system of broken divinity from which all Mythic power flows.
To wield power, one must awaken a Qliphoth Seed within the soul—a fragment of a fallen sphere. These seeds grant power at a cost: Corruption or Ascension. The user climbs this inverted tree, sphere by sphere, drawing closer to oblivion or godhood with each step.
Every wielder's power—their Mythic Origin—resonates with one Qliphoth Sphere, defining their abilities and their inner struggle.
"Qliphoth is the forbidden soil. Mythic is the seed that grows from it."
Azazel closed the book, his mind reeling. Oh, for the love of fucking god. This shit is so complicated.
A cold,practical thought followed the overwhelm. I wrote 'Plant' on that form. But I don't feel any seed. I don't feel a connection to any 'Sphere.' Do I even have a Mythic? Or am I just a guy with a sword in a world of magic?
He had a thousand more questions,but the daylight was fading. He left the library, the weight of the book's knowledge heavier than any sword. He had to meet Reginleif. And he had to keep lying.