The world fell away, then snapped back into focus. Alvian landed hard, boots disappearing into a sodden carpet of dead leaves. The air was a hot, wet blanket smelling of rot and flowers too sweet to be healthy. Above, the sun was a forgotten rumor, choked out by the black canopies of giant trees. The forest floor lived in perpetual twilight. Multi-legged insects whined past his ear. A wet, dragging sound echoed from the deeper shadows, the kind of noise that builds things you don't want to see in your mind.
He was inside the Beastwood.
A ghost of Archon Titus's voice, stripped of all warmth, slithered in his memory. One month. Survive. Your token is your life. Taking another's is… discouraged for the incompetent. The final, poisonous promise hung in the air. Slay an Alpha. Its core is worth fifty tokens. A guaranteed path to victory, or a spectacular death.
Alvian's hand found the hilt of his sword, a familiar anchor. The plan was a simple, brutal thing forged in the Crucible. Avoid the others; they were chaos in a bottle. Hunt. Not for fame, but for fuel. He needed Essence Points. He needed to feed the blade. The pathetic Rank II aura he wore was a useful lie, a cloak of mediocrity. A stronger sword was the truth.
Nyx. Anyone close? he thought into the quiet cold of his own mind.
A silken, liquid thought answered. The teleportation cast you all like sand. Nothing for miles. But the Aether here… it's feral. Thrumming. Your training dummies did not have teeth like this.
"Good," Alvian breathed, the word a plume of steam in the humid air. A sliver of a smile. "Let's get to work."
The clumsy "rich kid" dissolved. For three days, a phantom moved through the undergrowth. Aether-glow tusks exploded from the gloom; a flurry of lightning-fast strikes left a pack of Razor-backed Boars steaming on the forest floor. A Serpent-Vine, a master of mimicry coiled for an ambush, was bisected at its root node before its trap could be sprung. Each kill was a whisper of efficiency, the lucky strike of a talented Rank II. No firestorm. No hint of the hurricane he kept leashed inside.
The system was a faint, familiar chime in the oppressive quiet.
A whisper of [+8 Essence Points!]
Another, [+12 Essence Points!]
[Sword Proficiency Increased.]
On the fourth day, he found his sanctuary. He sat within the hollow of a petrified giant, eyes closed, and poured the accumulated power into his weapon.
[Essence collected: 1,500/1,500!]
[Upgrade Available for [Level 4 Arc-Edge Blade].]
Yes. The command was a shard of ice.
A torrent of refined Aether bled from his core, a searing river down his arm into the steel across his lap. The blade's faint blue edge did not glow; it detonated. A blinding flare of golden-white, the birth of a small sun. The metal itself seemed to unmake and remake, growing impossibly dense, luminous. Sun-flare patterns etched themselves along its length, pulsing with a soft, internal heat. It felt heavier, realer, humming with a power that vibrated up to his shoulder.
[Upgrade Complete! Arc-Edge Blade -> Level 5 Sun-Forged Blade!]
[System Alert: Primary Objective [Upgrade Weapon to Level 5] of Crucible Escape Protocol… Retroactively Fulfilled.]
[Protocol Rerouting… Host parameters exceeded. New Prime Directive calibrating…]
[New Long-Term Objective: Ascend.]
A jolt, sharp and electric. Ascend. The system wasn't just a tool. It was a taskmaster. The upgrade was a key in a lock. A bottleneck in his own cultivation shattered. A wave of potent energy washed through his Aether pathways, a cleansing fire.
[Congratulations! You have advanced to Rank VI Aether User!]
He opened his eyes. Power settled deep in his bones, a comfortable weight. Stronger. Safer. He curled his fingers around the hilt, the balance perfect, known. Now, the hunt could truly begin.
That's when the scream came.
It wasn't a pathetic wail. It was a sharp, defiant cry, cut short. Then the shriek of an Aether-charged blade cleaving the air, followed by the guttural, clicking snarls of many things at once.
The survivor's logic was a cold stone in his gut. Ignore it. A tangle now is a death sentence.
Another cry, this one frayed with exhaustion. It dredged up a memory—the smell of mud, the weight of a boot on his back, the sound of laughter. A helplessness he had sworn to bury. A feeling he could not watch be inflicted on another.
This is a foolish indulgence, little one, Nyx's thought was a shadow in his own. Emotion is a beautiful poison.
Maybe, Alvian thought, already a ghost drifting through the trees. But not today.
His new strength made him impossibly light. He crested a moss-slicked ridge and peered into a small clearing, a theater of desperation.
A young woman fought for her life. A practical braid of silver hair whipped around her as she moved, a dancer in a storm of claws. Her weapon, an elegant rapier, shone with an azure light as she darted between attackers. She was cornered, her back against a rockfall, her breath tearing from her lungs.
Six Shadow Stalkers, panthers made of night with claws that dripped corrosive saliva, circled her. They moved with a chilling, predatory intelligence, a pack mind patiently disassembling her defenses.
Alvian drew his Sun-Forged Blade. Its golden light was an affront to the gloom. He was about to move, to intervene, when a flicker of motion in the trees opposite caught his eye. He froze.
Alexios Vane. He leaned against a tree, arms crossed, flanked by two of his lackeys. He wasn't tense. He wasn't concerned. A cruel, lazy smirk played on his lips. They were watching. Waiting. Vultures with a sense of theater.
The cold certainty hit Alvian. This wasn't a random encounter. It was an execution. They had herded the Stalkers, driven this girl into the trap, and were waiting for both sides to bleed out. They would claim the token and the cores from whoever was left standing.
It was a coward's gambit. It made his blood feel like ice and fire.
A Stalker found its opening. The girl parried a lunge from her left; another beast shot in from the right, claws extended like razors. She couldn't possibly turn in time.
Alvian stopped thinking.
He didn't leap. He fell. A silent rush of displaced air as he dropped from the ridge, his Rank VI speed a distortion in the dim light. To the girl, to Alexios, it was as if the world had stuttered and produced a man from nothing.
His Sun-Forged Blade, glowing with an unassuming yet intensely pure Aether, swept out. A low, golden crescent. Not at the beast's armored back, but at its legs. The blade met sinew and bone and passed through them as if they were mist.
SHHNNK!
The lead Stalker shrieked, its front legs severed, and crashed into the dirt. Alvian's motion was a single, unbroken sequence. He pivoted, the golden blade a whirlwind, and met the charge of two more. A deflection that was also a cut. A sidestep that became a fatal thrust. His economy of motion was so brutal, so absolute, the beasts seemed to be throwing themselves onto his sword.
In the space of five heartbeats, three of the six were dead or dying. The remaining three skidded to a halt, their pack-mind shattered by the sudden appearance of this silent, golden-eyed predator. With a final, frustrated hiss, they melted back into the shadows.
Silence crashed down on the clearing. The only sounds were the girl's ragged breathing and the wet whimpers of a crippled Stalker.
Alvian flicked black blood from his blade. He didn't look at the girl. His gaze was locked across the clearing, a flat, cold weight on Alexios Vane.
The arrogant smirk had vanished, replaced by a mask of raw fury. His perfect, simple plan, ruined by some nobody.
"You," Alexios spat, the word dripping with contempt. "The little rich boy. You have a death wish, interfering in things that don't concern you."
Alvian said nothing.
"You've just made a powerful enemy, commoner," Alexios snarled, his hand tightening on the gilded hilt of his sword. "This forest has a thousand ways to die. I'll enjoy helping you find one."
He gave one last, hateful glare, then he and his thugs were gone, swallowed by the trees.
Alvian let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. He'd saved her. And he'd just painted a target on his soul. He turned, a dozen excuses ready on his tongue.
She was staring, rapier still angled defensively. Her chest rose and fell in shuddering breaths. Her eyes, the color of a stormy sky, held him fast—a mix of suspicion, exhaustion, and a hundred unspoken questions.
"I don't know who you are," she said, her voice raw but unbroken. "But you saved my life. And you just made an enemy of House Vane."