Steam rose from the cup before Ryke, carrying the warm aroma of barley tea. The morning rush had barely begun, but Old Crane's shop was already filled with customers and the sound of utensils, showing the reputation of his shop.
Ryke was sitting by the counter, watching as the old man worked with so much energy for someone of his age. Crane's hands moved methodically honed with decades of experience—pouring, stirring, frying—until a plate came in front of Ryke.
"Here boy, Same as always," Crane said smiling, as the wrinkles in his face became more pronounced.
Ryke gave a small nod. "You remembered it..Huh!"
"Of course I did ya. The boy who eats a soldier's ration regularly, it was hard to forget ya know."
Ryke chuckled, breaking the soft loaf of bread and dipping it into the thick stew. The warmth filled his chest, as the taste of it bloomed in his mouth.
While Ryke continued his breakfast, Old man Crane talked with him about various subjects— about the weather, about the new power regulations in the city, and about the rumours that Auralith Academy's next batch would be the largest in years.
Crane had opinions about everything but for wisdom, it was about nothing in particular, yet Ryke found himself listening to him anyway to pass his time.
When he finished, he bowed slightly in thanks. "I'll be late if I stay further. The weapons hall master doesn't tolerate the late comers."
"Okay go, go ya. Learn to swing that sword before someone swings it back at ya, hahaa..," Crane said jokingly, while waving him off.
Ryke rushed from his building towards the south block as the training compound lay at the southern edge of Varinholt— an open complex where recruits tested their limits under the hum of Aeonic pylons. The air carried the slight smell of oil, as the clang of steel against steel echoed in the background to show the discipline of the wielders.
Ryke signed in for it, his name already was listed from yesterday's registration. He went ahead to a blank place registered for him, then step towards the weapon sack, to choose a weapon for practice.
He started at simple from the beginning— a staff. His body remembered the moves from his previous life's martial arts, but this one had a strange weight.
As he asked instructors about it, instructors called it an "Aeon-threaded rod,"—built to conduct energy when one's Threads were attuned. Though to Ryke, it just felt like a heavy stick with good weight balance.
He practiced it for sometime— a swipe to the bottom to swing towards up, then a downwards slash from the opposite side. His staff started to flow from one movement to another, although crude at first but regularly got better as time passed.
After a while he stopped swinging the staff, then went ahead to keep it in the weapon sack.
There he picked up another weapon— a short sword. Swift, precise, without the large movement like from the Staff. Although too light for his liking, he still practiced it.
Unlike staff, he didn't have any prior knowledge on it, but he tried. And as he practiced, his body guided him to find the proper balance, proper moves for it. A swift thrust using leg, a slash using bodily chain then followed by a proper two swift slash at the end.
As this he tried many weapons available in the sack to get a proper feel for these weapons.
The dagger— efficient, but too reliant on the speed.
The whip— chaotic and hard to master. He almost laughed at himself when he almost whipped himself with it for the first time.
As the time passed and by noon, his shirt clung to his back from the sweat as his arms ached little. While he was doing his weapon practice, he also heard some comments about him from other students, from complimenting to mocking.
"Doesn't stick to one weapon,",
"Maybe he's testing himself,",
"Or maybe he's lost," a snicker from farther back.
Though he didn't mind any of them.
At that time the instructor— the same one to whom he asked about the staff came to him. She was a tall woman with cropped silver hair and with a body that many would kill to have in his previous world, her voice was like silk wrapped around steel, passed him by. "Is it ambition or confusion?" she asked, not unkindly.
Ryke straightened, still breathing hard. "Just testing compatibility." He answered.
She paused, before nodding once. "Fair. But don't test forever. A blade that doesn't become part of you will end up cutting you instead."
Her words lingered with Ryke as he switched to a polearm after taking a quick lunch— an elegant halberd glowing faintly along its edge. The weapon felt heavy yet balanced in his grip.
By the evening, he was sore from these constant practices, but he was satisfied. Before he left the weapon hall, he bowed to the instructors and washed at the hall's fountain, then walked towards home under the artificial dusk.
Back in his apartment, he showered again, changed into loose and casual clothes, and sat cross-legged on the floor. His breath slowed, and the noise of the city dimmed into background echoes, as Ryke began to meditate.
He began to trace the Threads of his existence that were now aligned with the other two.
Faint lines of color shimmered inside him—his own essence, interwoven with the Nexus. He could feel them for now: one pulsing bright and sharp, another calm and muted, while the others were as faint and shifting like the memories in water.
Yet when he tried to discern which Thread defined him— the dominant ones and truth of him—they blurred together, with no separations.
A quiet frustration tugged at him. "Not yet," he whispered, opening his eyes.
He rose from the seat and ordered food through the holo-interface, after it arrived, Ryke ate without much taste, and fell asleep soon after—his body worn and his mind carving a rest.
And like that another four days passed in the rhythm.
Morning training, weapon trials, brief chatter with other students, and ending it with a quiet evening of meditation. Each dawn brought him a little more clarity, and each night a little more serenity for him.
A full week since his arrival, Ryke felt almost… settled. The world that had once been fiction for him, now had a texture... the gritty smells, the metallic taste of the filtered air and the faint hum of pylons beneath the ground.
That morning, he practiced with a long polearm— almost like a battle-axe in design, its head forged from a shimmering alloy that pulsed faintly with each swing. His movements were now steady, controlled, though his arms ached from repetition, but his super human body still held.
Then suddenly a sharp, blaring siren split the air. Each time raising the fears in the minds of those who heard it.
Ryke froze, lowering the weapon as the compound lights shifted from white to blinking amber. Instructors began barking orders, and students turned toward the loudspeakers.
"THIS IS NOT A DRILL," a voice echoed across the field. "ALL STUDENTS ARE TO RETURN TO THEIR REGISTERED RESIDENCES IMMEDIATELY. THE WAVE IS APPROACHING. REPEAT, THE WAVE IS APPROACHING."
Ryke's grip tightened on the weapon. The word Wave struck something deep in his memory— an event in the game. A cycle of destruction that occurred every four months in TAQ, when the Aeonic creatures surged toward human zones to get the threads essence, testing the Dawnshroud Wards.
He looked toward the city, where the red-tinted sky seemed to tremble faintly.
"So, it's starting already," he muttered, setting the polearm aside.
With one last glance at the training field, he turned and began the rush toward his apartment— unaware that this "Wave" would mark the true beginning of his story and the stage prepared by the world for him.