Not much time had passed when Narvel found himself standing on a roadside carved into the sides of a mountain. The night remained unbroken, but the stars above this part of the world burned brighter and hung heavier, clustering in swirling bands across the sky.
Their light reflected in his eyes, adding a surreal sheen to the darkness around him. Aside from its stability, this road had the advantage of having street lamps.
They weren't powered by electricity but by flame.
Simple oil lamps mounted atop the wrought iron poles flickered with steady fire, casting warm amber glows along the path. The soft hiss of burning oil whispered against the quiet, and the occasional pop echoed across the mountainside.
Curious as ever, Voidscale climbed up one of the lamp posts, scrutinizing the object.
Ignoring the creature and unable to resist any longer, Narvel pulled up his stat screen. The glowing interface shimmered into view before him.
Name: Narvel Naver Anderson
Age: 19
Race: Human
Gene Fragment: 2 (Sundered)
Level: Awakened (31%)
Class: —
Gene Class: ???
Title: —
Strength: 37
Speed: 30
Stamina: 100/100
Dexterity: 37
Intelligence: 19
Mental: 30
Wisdom: 23
Charisma: 20
Will: 83/83
Attributes: ??? [Mind's Eye] [True Double]
Constitution: ??? [Nebula Field]
Talents: [Telekinesis (Flicker)] [Deep Thought] [Dark Element]
Skills: [Unnamed] [Maddened Fist]
Comprehensions: —
Pet: Voidscale
His eyes scanned over the information and his heart began to race—not because of fear, but from sheer wonder. His stats had all risen, now pushing well beyond the 20s. That alone was notable, but it wasn't what caught his attention the most.
His Constitution had shifted. Where once it had read "RealmRender," it now displayed "Nebula Field."
And more than just a name had changed.
The Constitution hadn't been replaced so much as it had evolved, blossoming into a deeper form. Whatever benefits RealmRender once offered, traces of its essence still lingered, nested in the foundation of this new power. He was starting to suspect it was the key reason he had been able to enter the Crucible with his body.
Then there was the new talent—Dark Element—and the way it pulsed beside the others, like a seed of shadow nestled among stars. He wasn't sure what it entailed just yet, but the name alone stirred something primal inside him.
His excitement built, and he found himself smiling as he reached into his pocket to retrieve the old piece of paper handed to him earlier. Curiosity pulled his attention back to it. This time, he started reading from the top.
A Step Forward
His brow furrowed, confusion giving way to disbelief. "Could it be?" he muttered.
The phrase—A Step Forward—was the exact title of the quest reward he'd received earlier. Back then, it seemed vague, if not entirely useless. He'd assumed the system had played a cruel trick, offering nothing tangible for the hardships he endured.
Now, the connection felt deliberate. Fated. This paper... was the reward.
Before he could read further, a warning flared in his mind. A quiet but urgent alarm. He remembered where he was… still within the Crucible. And here, nightfall didn't just mean darkness. It meant that death stalked the roads and danger prowled in the silence.
Without hesitation, he tucked the paper back into his pocket and took off down the road, his legs carrying him swiftly beneath the oil-lit path.
Somewhere ahead was the Anchor—his way to safety—and he followed the light toward it.
The breeze bit into him as he moved, and only then did he fully notice the state of his clothes. What remained of his attire clung to him like damp paper. His trousers had all but become boxers with pockets, frayed and shredded, and his shirt was a tangle of threads barely hanging onto his form.
As he moved, the sense of danger grew heavier, settling over his skin in a crawling wave. The tingling sensation along his arms and the back of his neck refused to fade. His eyes strained against the darkness ahead, narrowing as he searched the path for any shape or shadow that might be approaching.
Minutes passed. Still, nothing emerged.
No howls, no footsteps, not even the rustle of leaves. It was quiet—too quiet. He began to wonder if he was just being overly cautious. Overreacting, even. 'But when has my intuition ever led me astray?' He reasoned.
The Crucible had taught him to trust that whisper in his gut. After what he had endured in the catacombs, ignoring it would be the real mistake. His trust in his instincts had amplified due to all of this.
Up ahead, tall wooden walls finally came into view, stretching out in both directions and disappearing into the thick night. They loomed like the spine of a great beast, dark and weathered, but reassuring in their presence.
Torches flickered along their upper ridges, held by stationed guards whose silhouettes shifted in the firelight. A small sense of relief bloomed in Narvel's chest, civilization was close.
Then he stopped. Frozen mid-stride. The sensation hit him like a wall.
Imminent danger.
It wasn't loud or overt. It was subtle but certain. Something was watching him.
Just ahead, at the edge of the road, stood an old man. He hunched over a patch of scraggly crops, working away with a rusted sickle. The weeds hissed under his blade.
He was oddly well-dressed for a farmer—clothed in a clean, tailored shirt, dark trousers, and boots that hadn't seen much dirt. A neat, greying mustache clung to his upper lip, and his bald scalp gleamed in the light from a nearby torch. His back was stooped, but not frail. His presence stirred something in Narvel's instincts.
"Young man, what are you doing out here at this time of night?" The old man asked with a calm and crisp voice. "Don't you know monsters lurk beneath the skin of night? Hurry to the Anchor and seek shelter."
He didn't even look up as he spoke, merely continued reaping the weeds with methodical, almost theatrical slashes.
The moment he spoke, the pressure in the air lessened. It didn't vanish, but it eased—as if the thing that had been watching Narvel had decided to retreat. The danger hadn't left; it had simply… withdrawn.
Narvel glanced at the man again, this time with more scrutiny. The timing was too perfect. Perhaps this was a powerful Nova, a guardian from the Anchor ahead. Maybe the unseen threat had recognized him and backed down. That explanation made the most sense to him.
He offered a nod of respect and walked past. The old man gave no further acknowledgment. The road curved, and soon he stood before the immense wooden gates of the settlement.
The Ironwood Anchor.
Before he could call out, a voice cut through the dark.
"Hey, you! Stay right there!"
The clatter of movement followed, and then a long spear with a sharpened wooden tip pointed at his chest. Two more circled from the sides, surrounding him in a triangle of steady weapons and cautious gazes. Narvel slowly raised his hands in the universal sign of peace.
"Who are you?" One of the guards demanded. The firelight from the mounted torches lit their stern and alert faces. All of them stood tall, bodies well-built, and postures practiced. They looked the part of disciplined sentinels.
"I'm a Nova," Narvel said calmly, locking eyes with the speaker. "Just seeking safety for the night."
As he observed them more closely, he sensed their strength. All of them were above the Awakened realm—but not by much. They weren't necessarily stronger than him. That realization made him ease up internally. If they tried to intimidate or mistreat him, he could handle it.
The men exchanged a look before one of them reached into a small sac tied at his side and pulled out a handful of coarse white salt, grains slipping through his fingers and catching the firelight.
"He's an Awakened. If he isn't one of those monsters, he should still be fine," one of the guards muttered. "But his face is obscured by a metal mask."
In response, Narvel lifted the mask and revealed his face. The moment he saw the salt, his gaze narrowed slightly in confusion.
"What's that for?" he asked, voice low but steady.
"It's salt," the guard in front replied. "The city's been getting infiltrated—slowly but surely—by some clever monsters. To prevent more from slipping through, we have to test everyone. If you're still a Nova, you'll be fine and you'll be let in. But if you're not…" He let the sentence hang, finishing it with a cold glance. "Then we'll execute you on the spot."
Narvel's mind immediately returned to the odd old man with the sickle. 'Don't they know there's a powerful presence just outside these walls?' He thought. 'Would any foolish monster dare come this close after sensing that kind of aura? Or are they just trying to be thorough?'
He could tell the guard wasn't lying. His tone was firm, but not malicious. But the reasoning still felt off. Regardless, he gave a silent nod.
The guard raised his hand and blew into the salt. The grains turned into a cloud of fine dust, scattering across the air and coating Narvel from head to toe in a gritty shimmer.
The two guards flanking him immediately stepped back, raising their weapons again in anticipation. Their bodies tensed, and their eyes focused as if expecting his skin to twist or his face to melt away.
But nothing happened.
The salt clung to him harmlessly.
He remained exactly as he was—a human Nova.
A sigh escaped one of the guards to the side. "Seems we overreacted."
"We're trying to stay alive, not be polite," the one with the salt said, his tone defensive. "Those Huskmasks are too dangerous and subtle. We can't take chances." He looked back at Narvel, expression softening. "Friend, apologies for dousing you in salt but—" His eyes trailed down to Narvel's state of dress. The rags barely clung to his frame, torn and stained, more strips than clothing now. "Looks like you've had one hell of a journey."
"I… indeed," Narvel replied, adjusting what little fabric remained.
"Normally, outsiders have to pay a gate fee to enter," the guard continued. "The cost depends on your level. You're an Awakened, so it would usually be three Awakened Gene Fragments for a week's access." He reached into a pouch on his belt and pulled out a wooden token, handing it to Narvel. "But as an apology for the salt and suspicion, I'll waive it. This token will let you come and go freely—for a week."
Narvel accepted the token with both hands and gave a sincere nod. "Thank you," he said quietly, knowing fully well he didn't have a single Awakened Gene Fragment to spare.
Without another word, the guards stepped aside. The tall wooden gates groaned open, and Narvel stepped into the Anchor.