"Anchor of Varshmil?" Nerith's voice echoed through the room, audible than he expected it to be.
His mouth fell open in disbelief, because the newly discovered Anchor originated from the only piece of memory he held on to.
GhostTown.
Nerith glanced at the various figures present in the room, distraction evident on their faces like silent accusations. Were they telepaths? Shifters? Elementalists? He could only guess.
"Please proceed." He mumbled to the team lead, shifting his gaze to the corner before crossing arms tightly to regain focus.
The team leader, a woman with white hair dressed in a tactical jacket and netted skirt that accentuated her smooth thigh, extended her hand towards the illustration whiteboard. It sprang to life, revealing a vortex of swirling energy as dark as living ink.
"As I was saying," she continued. "This Anchor possesses the capability to generate monstrosities beyond human comprehension, which is why we require Essence wielders like you…"
Curse these paper gods. Always seeking to use us like worthless dolls.
Nerith forced his gaze at each Essence wielder in the room, an unexpected curiosity clouding his thoughts. The Essence coursing through their bodies appeared… wrong compared to his. Seamless, bright, and radiating with assured auras. In contrast, his own felt silent and entwined with a dull gloom like a corpse awaiting the afterlife.
Perhaps that was the truth. He was fractured. The only subpar wielder lacking a proper Awakening.
A scoff escaped his lips at the thought before redirecting his attention to the indistinct words floating around the room:
"...each Anchor is assessed based on their spatial deviation, temporal drift, Essence saturation, and casual hostility." The woman added, her eyes scanning each person in the room, seeking confirmation that they understood, which seemed otherwise.
"What's the purpose of all this information?" One of the ability users—a bald man sporting an unusual mustache—sprang up, eyes wide with frustration. "Let's just confront this Anchor, slay whatever monstrosity you mention, and earn our freedom."
A few others roared in agreement, their deep voices sending shivers down Nerith's spine.
Somehow, he felt no urge to protest, as he sat in the back row of the gathering anyway, perfectly distanced to evade unnecessary arguments. No doubt the prisoners could be powerful and skilled, far superior to him in many respects, yet they seemed to lack one vital aspect:
Insight.
"I'm afraid that is not—"
"Sit down, you muck-brains. " Donna's voice sliced through the tension like a whip as she moved forward. Her steel-gray eyes daring anyone to dispute her authority.
The bald man sank back into his seat, stroking his mustache with half-closed, intrigued eyes.
"The Anchor of Varshmil poses a new danger to our survival. Your survival. And that of every Aurelian who draws breath. If you fail to retrieve the artifact and provide usable intelligence before the day concludes, none of you will live long enough to enjoy your freedom."
A hush enveloped the room, broken only by murmurs and whispers.
A fleeting smirk appeared on Nerith's cracked lips, as if he found it fascinating.
Who claimed women couldn't manage chaos in its purest form?
"If you're that eager to meet your end, I'll gladly assist with your wishes," she remarked, casting a fleeting glance at the guards. "Secure them! Perhaps some actions will prompt your dull minds to think. More information will be relayed as you advance in your mission."
"At last," someone muttered, but Nerith didn't care to identify who it was.
He struggled to rise and took his place in the line at the side of the room, the cuffs pulsating with a sickly green light he wished he could gnaw off his wrists.
A massive prisoner stood before him, his thick muscles straining against his soaked ill-fitting prison attire. Standing so close, he could feel the weight of the man's Essence against his face. Although the cuffs restraining them were designed to suppress their abilities, Nerith knew if this inmate wanted to break free, he could do so without a sweat.
The heat radiating from him. Is he an Elementalist? Why hesitate when freedom is within his grasp?
No answer crossed his mind. He took a few steps forward as the line progressed to the exit, gazing occasionally at the wall LEDs illuminating the room.
"Make your way to the Glided Cell and brace yourself for your most terrible fears. Food will be provided, so be sure to gather enough strength." Donna finished, striding past him as her fragrance overwhelmed his sense of smell.
What a strange woman.
***
A satisfying click erupted from Nerith's wrist as an officer released him of his cuffs. Cracking his knuckles, he exchanged a long stare with the officer like one with a grudge before walking off.
In a secured area of the Glided Cell, Nerith discovered a wooden bench nestled in the shadows, the dim light barely illuminating the spot. He had just turned his gaze away from the other inmates who had begun to compete over meals at the central table.
Tsk. Irksome creatures.
He noticed another table near the wooden bench with simple food items: a can of soda, a smoked meat, and a steaming bowl of soup that looked promising. At least that would be sufficient to satisfy a gnawing hunger.
He clutched the soda first, and with a quick twist, its lid popped open as he approached the bench.
As always, the bland flavor burned his throat like flames sizzling in cold water. He had no room to complain, given that this might be his last meal before his descent into an unknown Anchor.
Looking back at the distance, the prisoners were joyfully laughing and sharing moments of happiness, but Nerith felt empty inside. His grip on the can tightened, with some of its contents dribbling down his fingers. Why wasn't he like them? Why does he feel so different?
GhostTown.
The name stirred his thoughts once again. His birthplace. That was all that he could recall of it alongside the repeated sounds of footsteps, a twin bloodmoon, and a child's laughter. His grip on the can tightened further, its remaining contents soaring into the air as he strained to capture the smallest detail he could remember.
Nothing.
"By the Lights!" He exclaimed, throwing the crumpled can into the air.
Do not search what eludes your sight. The voice rumbled.
"Shut it," he yelled back, eyes closed as he clutched his long, silky hair like he could tear it out without delay.
At that moment, Nerith sensed a profound silence in the room as though he were completely alone. No laughter. No whispers. No wind. Even the can he had tossed into the air seemed to had defy the pull of gravity.
Curious, he cautiously opened his eyes.
Everything stood an overwhelming shade of white, devoid of wind and life. Except for one figure. A scowling man standing a few meters away, donned in the same prison garb as him.
"Where are the others?" Nerith asked, tilting his head to survey his surroundings simultaneously.
He attempted to stand but felt as though his feet were immobilized, as if he were stuck in place.
"You've killed us all. You're a monster," the man accused, trembling as he gestured towards him in fear. "You deserve to die, you beast of—"
Before he could finish his sentence, a shadow within the white emptiness suddenly came to life, wrapped around his neck, and began to suffocate him. Pain mixed with saliva distorted his face as Nerith could only watch in horror while the man struggled for breath.
Soon enough, his efforts weakened, and he fell down without life.
The shadow turned its gaze towards Nerith with an empty stare. A chilling smile began to form on its dark visage as it asked a question, its voice faltering to sound even remotely human:
"Do you welcome death, Berserker?"
Nerith swallowed hard, beads of sweat rolling down his frightened face as he sat frozen in place, unable to respond.
Behind him, a swirling gust of wind surged towards his back. He couldn't discern its nature, yet it felt as if it were attempting to pull him into something. Soon enough, a black monstrous hand seized his foot and, with a force that defied logic, dragged him into oblivion.
He managed to catch a fragment of the shadow's words as his destiny slipped into the unknown:
"You do not belong in the Light."