The cave was shallow and quiet, half-swallowed by a jagged ridge of stone like the mouth of some ancient beast. Wind didn't reach this far inside. The air was stale, warm with the smell of soot and blood. Just the way Anthony had come to know it.
He crouched near the wall, a large, half-charred rib bone clenched in his hand — jagged at the tip, scorched black at the base.
With a grunt, he scratched another line into the wall's surface. It joined the dozens already there — some faint and sand-worn, others deep and angry. The tallies climbed in crooked rows, a personal graveyard of time.
"To… today marks what… the second year?" Anthony's voice cracked. He wasn't sure if it was from disuse or if he was just forgetting how to speak properly.
He stared at the wall for a long while. Rows upon rows. He'd tried to be organized at first. One mark per day. A clean line every morning.
But time didn't work here.
The sky hadn't changed once. No sunrise. No moon. No stars. Just that same blood-colored void, humming over jagged stone.
So Anthony counted meals. Counted kills. Counted the number of times he passed the same dead rock formation with the three spikes.
Days became guesses. Weeks became assumptions. Months were just hope.
And years? That was something he felt in his body.
His joints popped more now. His left ankle still twinged from the time he landed wrong, dodging a Pyre Dog in his first year. The sword grip had worn down parts of his palm into leather.
He pressed his forehead against the cool wall repeatedly.
"Two years," he whispered, just to hear it out loud. "Two years."
The silence after made it feel more real.
He looked down at the rib bone in his hand, then back at the wall.
"Guess I'm not dead yet."
He gave the wall a soft pat, then let out a humorless chuckle. "Happy anniversary, me…"
The sound of his own voice fell flat against the cold stone, swallowed up by the cave's quiet.
Then came the tremble.
His shoulders hunched inward, the rib bone slipping from his grip and clattering softly to the ground. He pressed his back against the wall and slid down, knees drawn close, arms slack at his sides.
A shaky breath escaped him.
Then another.
And then—
"Happy second anniversary… me." The words cracked halfway through, barely a whisper now.
His chest tightened, throat knotting as the first tear slid down his cheek. He didn't sob. He didn't scream. He just sat there, breaking quietly, salt streaking down soot-stained skin.
His voice echoed through the cave like a cry from something already dead.
"I keep surviving... I keep killing... killing and eating... Killing and eating! Over and over! And for what?!"
His shout bounced off the jagged walls, sharp and raw. Somewhere near the cave's mouth, a low growl turned into a startled yelp, followed by the sound of claws scrambling against stone — one of the Pyre Dogs that was outside retreated, spooked by the sudden outburst.
Anthony didn't even flinch. His chest heaved. His fists trembled at his sides.
"I keep telling myself it's for them," he muttered, voice cracking. "My sister. My mother. My father. That I'm doing this so I can go back to them!"
He lowered his head, breath catching in his throat. The silence swelled, heavy with doubt.
"But… but is that even the case anymore?" he asked, quieter now. Fragile. Fractured.
He slowly slid down the wall again, knees pulled to his chest, hands limp over them. His eyes, once sharp and alert, now stared upward—glassy, dull, empty.
"Can I even go back home?" he whispered.
No answer came.
Except for that screen.
[ The {Chosen One}'s will is critically low. Would the {Chosen One} like to end their own life? ]
It pulsed softly in the dark, casting a pale, clinical glow across the cave wall—illuminating his tally marks, his crude fire, his cracked face.
It always came when he broke like this. Not every night. But enough.
The words weren't shocking anymore. Just… there. A cruel suggestion dressed up like mercy.
Anthony bit his bottom lip, harder this time. Drew a little blood.
He did think about it. Honestly, genuinely.
Two years.
Two years of eating Pyre Dog meat and blood. Of counting time with tally marks with bone. Of dreaming about voices he could barely remember.
His breath hitched.
But then he shook his head — once, hard. Like trying to shake water from his ears.
"No…"His voice cracked, but it carried weight. It was his voice again — tired, worn, but his.
"Even if it's been this long, they're waiting for me, aren't they?" His hands clenched into fists, trembling with something new — not fear. Not despair.
Resolve.
He took a breath that burned going in, that tasted like blood and old smoke, but it filled his lungs just the same.
"I know them. They wouldn't give up on me. They're my family. I know them…"Anthony glared into the hovering screen now, as if it were the one that had ripped him away, the one that locked him here. His jaw tightened.
That thing. That voice. That power pretending to be divine. The one that marked him — "Chosen One" — as if the title meant anything more than suffering.
Chosen for what? For this? To bleed and burn and forget the sound of his sister's laugh?
Chosen to be buried in silence while the world kept spinning without him?
His chest heaved. Anger simmered beneath the surface, then boiled.
He stood.
And the fire behind him flared, as if called to match the fury rising in him.
[ The {Chosen One} has found his will and fighting spirit. In response, strength has been temporarily boosted. ]
The screen didn't vanish this time. It changed — lines of new light etching themselves into view.
[ The {Chosen One}'s will has found the path it admires. The {Chosen One} has become a {Pathstrider} of {Preservation}. ]
Anthony blinked. His heartbeat slowed, as if the world had just shifted under his feet.
[ The {Chosen One}, now following {Preservation}, now possesses more defensive options. ][1]
"P... Pathstrider? Preservation?" He muttered, voice hoarse, staring into the screen like it owed him an explanation. Like it was a priest refusing to speak at the altar.
Nothing. No new prompt. No smug clarification. Just those cold, glowing words — fate etched in light.
He waited another few seconds. Still silence.
Anthony's shoulders rose and fell slowly. Not in disappointment, but in recognition.
Of course. Of course, it wouldn't explain. That wasn't how this place worked. Nothing came easily. No one held your hand.
But something was... different.
Not the surge of power from leveling up. Not the thrill of a new skill. This wasn't in his bones or muscles.
It was in his mind.
It was quiet.
Clear.
The rage was still there—but refined now, like a weapon filed sharp. His thoughts no longer came in scattered jolts of fear or desperation. They moved like water, flowing forward, centered.
He could feel himself breathing again. With control.
Focused, Anthony looked down at his hands. Scarred. Burned. Steady.
"…Alright," he whispered. "If this is the path I'm on, then I'll walk it."
He lowered his hand, the screen flickering out with a soft hum. He turned toward the horizon — same red stretch, same cruel terrain — but now, for the first time, since he gained his last skill, he didn't feel like he was drowning in it.
_________________________________
The beginning of the third year – Thelha Ra'tha
In the first year, Anthony had earned the final skill from the Warrior Tree.
[ Arx: Divide ]
A skill not meant for elegance, or speed.
The technique itself was simple. A vertical strike — from shoulder to hip — driven by his full weight, designed to cleave through anything that dared to stand in his way. Flesh. Bone. Armor. Shield. It didn't matter.
Its passive effect was just as blunt: [ Passive Effect: The more weight behind the blow, the greater the damage. ]
It punished hesitation.
It rewarded momentum.
The first time he used it, he didn't even realize what had happened.
The Pyre Dog had lunged — larger than any before it, flames flaring from its spine, eyes burning bright with something like intelligence — and in one breath, Anthony stepped forward, raised his blade high, and brought it down with everything he had.
No cry. No resistance.
The Pyre Dog just… split.
Clean.
The world seemed to pause with it. Even the winds, forever howling in that scorched crimson sky, fell quiet — as if they, too, understood what had just been born.
The skill wasn't flashy.No flare. No echoing boom. No cinematic sweep of fire or force.
Just a line.
And then came the second year.
The year he changed.
The year the System told him what he was becoming.
A path his will had 'admired,' it claimed.
Anthony still didn't know what that meant. Not fully.
But since that day, something in him had locked into place.
He moved differently. Thought differently. Felt like something sharp had buried itself into the center of his chest and started to twist every time he hesitated.
Motivation, maybe. Or pressure. Maybe both.
And then he remembered the second time he leveled up. He remembered the message that the system had made. Word for word.
[ Upon reaching the final skill tier in the Warrior (Tree), the {Chosen One} will be permitted to create new techniques. ]
Now, here he was—another year older, dirt under his nails, sand forever clinging to his boots, hair matted, body scarred from too many close calls — and staring down a reality that felt more like mockery than reward.
A chuckle rasped from his throat, dry and bitter.
He slumped back against a crooked stone wall, breathing hard.
"I… don't… understand…" His voice came out cracked.
"What the hell does that even mean, huh?" he asked — the wind, the system, the fire. Himself. "Create a skill, like it's something I've done before? Like I've got a blueprint stashed in my head somewhere?"
He stared at his sword. The same one he'd used since day one. Scarred. Reliable. Heavy in his hand.
"I've got a vertical slash. Horizontal too," Anthony muttered, eyes narrowing.
"…But what about forward?"
He stepped back, braced his footing, and drove the blade straight ahead.
A sharp thrust. No flourish. Just intention.
Then he did it again.
And again.
Over and over, each movement cleaner, sharper — tightening the angle, learning the weight shift in his hips, the balance of his heel, the focus in his arm.
Ten. Eleven. Twelve times.
The fire popped behind him.
Then—
[ New skill created! ]
A second screen slid open beneath it.
[ Fera: Pierce — Athrust-based technique that concentrates the user's weight and force into a singular, rapid point. Capable of puncturing hardened flesh, armor, or elemental defenses when executed with proper timing and precision. ] [2]
[ Passive Effect:Repeated thrusts gradually build momentum, increasing speed and penetration with each consecutive strike. ]
Anthony blinked, chest rising and falling with each breath.
"Finally… something I created!" Anthony breathed out, a grin twitching at the corner of his mouth — not joy, not really. But pride. A rare, quiet one.
But before he could even rest his sword—
[ Skill Synergy Detected! ]
His eyes widened as the screen flickered again, brighter than usual.
[ Cruor: Cleave ] + [ Arx: Divide ] + [ Fera: Pierce ] + [ Velo: Recast ] — Compatible patterns identified. Initiating fusion. ]
[ New Skill Unlocked: Excidium: Trinity Line ]
[ Excidium: Trinity Line — A chained, three-form sword technique that merges Cruor: Cleave, Arx: Divide, Fera: Pierce, along with the reaction skill Velo: Recast. Executed in one seamless burst, the {Chosen One} becomes a blur of steel, delivering a slashing arc, a weight-driven cleave, and a piercing lunge in a single breath. Each strike flows into the next, driven by the momentum and enhanced speed of Velo: Recast. ]
[ Passive Effect:Each successful hit enhances the final power and velocity. When executed properly, this skill cannot be reacted to by most living creatures. Its speed is comparable to the blink of a creature. ]
[ Cooldown: One week.This skill demands perfect focus and stable footing. ]
Anthony's breath caught.
His heart thudded slowly — not from fear, or even exhaustion.
Recognition.
He had made something terrifying.
A movement too fast for most creatures to comprehend.
"Most living beings can't even react to it…" he whispered, gripping the hilt of his sword with both hands. "It's as fast as… a blink..."
He'd seen Pyre Dogs react to nearly everything. But now?
He'd move faster than instinct.
The system had called it a synergy skill — a fusion of everything he'd bled for: vertical, horizontal, thrust, and the speed skill. The culmination of years surviving a place that didn't want him alive.
And then came the second screen.
[ Cooldown remaining: 6d 23h 58m ]
Anthony stared at it in silence. This time, he didn't explode with anger — just tilted his head, a crooked breath slipping past his lips.
"…Huh. A timer."
A quiet laugh.
Short. Bitter. But real.
"Finally. You tell me the damn time for once."
It was a far cry from that other ability — [Velo: Recast] — which just disappeared into the void after use, never letting him know when or if it was coming back as the system just said it was entering cooldown. That one drove him insane.
But this?
This was manageable.
A week.
One week for something this fast, this lethal? That was a bargain in a place like this.
Still… his eyes narrowed slightly.
"Wait a second…"
He leaned in, squinting at the countdown.
"…Cooldown remaining?" His stomach dropped slightly.
"I haven't even used it yet!" He waited for the screen to clarify, but it didn't. Of course it didn't.
"No… come on." He rubbed his face with one hand. "You're telling me it started counting down just because I created it? Are you serious?"
He let out a dry exhale — not quite anger, not quite acceptance. Just… tired frustration.
"Not even gonna give me a taste, huh?"
But even so, this was different. It didn't feel like punishment. It felt like… a warning. A leash, maybe, sure — but one he could see this time. One with a ticking clock.
And honestly?
He appreciated it.
"…Guess that means I've got six days to plan how I'll use it." He let his sword rest across his shoulders, walking slowly back to his corner of the cave.
His movements were slower now. Not weak — just careful. Steady.
"I think I deserve some rest…" He said it softly. No drama. Just truth.
The fire crackled behind him, casting faint orange light over the walls. The tallies etched into the stone. The scattered bones. The endless reminders of survival.
He sat down slowly, letting the sword lean beside him.
Just one moment.
Just one breath.
He'd earned that much.
He always did.
[1] The Preservation path is the path of Qlipoth, the Amberlord in Honkai: Star Rail. People who follow the Preservation path are people who have the characteristics of patience, sacrifice, and defensive behavior.
[2] I think it’s time to explain how the skills work.
You’ve probably noticed that I added Latin words, like Cruor in the skill [Cruor: Cleave]. Cruor is Latin for “blood,” which fits since the skill is all about drawing blood with a heavy strike.
Another example is Anthony’s newer skill: [Fera: Pierce]. Fera can mean “beast,” “animal,” or “wild creature” in Latin. That gives you a bit of context; it's a wild, instinctual kind of attack, something raw, like how an animal might strike when it feels threatened.
There’s a pattern: a title or word, then the action. In Chapter Four, “And Thus, The Journey Begins,” Anthony activates skills by thinking the name. That’s how skills work. I added the Latin for flavor; it gives the abilities a more ancient or mythic feel. Saying either the full phrase or just the action is enough to trigger the skill. You’ll see more of these in future chapters. So far, Anthony’s only used them once, but I plan on making them a bigger part of the story.