The rain had come overnight, scrubbing the Hollow Field clean of ash and blood.
Orin barely noticed it at first — lost somewhere between exhaustion and dreamless sleep. When he finally stirred, the world felt... muted. Heavy. Real.
He opened his eyes to the dim gray of early morning.
Above him: cracked wooden beams. A broken shack, half-swallowed by the wilderness, its roof barely holding together. Shelter. Temporary, but better than nothing.
He pushed himself upright slowly, testing his limbs.
No sharp pain shot through his ribs this time. No overwhelming dizziness when he sat up. His muscles ached, sure — but it was the clean ache of use, not the sickly gnaw of injury.
"I'm healing."
He flexed his fingers, studying the faint trails of golden-red energy that still pulsed under his skin. Not visible to the naked eye — not unless he focused — but there. A current. A heartbeat beyond the human.
The System pinged lazily in the back of his mind.
"Chaos Synchronization: 21%."
"Physical Recovery: 68% Functional."
A soft, grim smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Guess I'm not dying today."
Orin rose to his feet, carefully. His boots — still those strange, sleek red-lined ones — gripped the wet, mossy floor of the shack with surprising ease. He took a few slow steps, testing his balance.
His body responded better than he expected.
Still a little stiff, but stronger.
More... aligned.
Like the Chaos energy was weaving him back together piece by piece.
He glanced around. The shack was little more than a ruin — collapsed furniture, rusted tools, vines crawling through the broken windows. Some kind of old maintenance hut, maybe. Whatever it had been, it was his now.
Home.
For the moment.
He grabbed the battered backpack he'd found nearby — salvaged supplies stuffed inside: a cracked canteen, some dried-out food bars, a half-decent blanket. Survival gear. Enough to keep moving.
Orin sat back down, slowly, cross-legged on the floor.
He needed to think.
To plan.
Because the thing he fought... it hadn't been random. He knew that now.
The rift hadn't just vomited up a monster by accident. It had targeted him.
Drawn to him.
To the Chaos energy he was carrying like a beacon.
"I'm a lighthouse in a world full of shipwrecks," he thought grimly.
And if the rifts were growing — if more things were coming — he couldn't afford to stay this weak.
He closed his eyes and focused inward.
It was easier now to find the energy inside him — a golden-red sea just beneath his skin, swirling with chaotic potential. Raw. Untamed. Waiting to be shaped.
And more than that...
He could see it.
Not just feel it — see it.
A flickering overlay appeared in his mind's eye: a vague, transparent map of his own body, glowing with thin veins of Chaos energy. Like nervous systems made of fire.
A new system prompt blinked into existence:
"Energy Status: 27% — RECHARGING."
"Projected Full Recovery: 18 Hours."
"Stability: Improving (Minor energy leaks detected.)"
He smirked slightly. "Minor leaks, huh? Feels about right."
He could feel the fractures — the little gaps where the energy slipped away, inefficient, messy. It wasn't a clean flow yet. Not like it would be for someone born to it. Someone like... Shadow.
At the thought, a ghost of that vision returned:
Gunfire.
Maria's voice, a cry in the dark.
The helpless fury boiling in someone else's veins — Shadow's veins.
Orin shivered, the memory sharp and foreign in his mind.
Was he tapping into Shadow's memories somehow?
Or was the Chaos energy just showing him what it knew?
He didn't have the answers yet.
But he knew this much:
This world wasn't going to wait for him to figure it out at his own pace.
Another rift could open at any time.
Another monster could tear its way through reality.
And next time, he might not be lucky enough to survive on instinct alone.
He had to grow faster.
Stronger.
Smarter.
Orin opened his eyes and stood up fully. His muscles burned, but it was a good burn.
He took a breath, then raised his right hand — focusing, gathering a thin thread of Chaos energy.
A small, shaky Chaos Spear formed at his fingertips.
Not enough to fight with yet. Not really. But cleaner than before. The energy didn't whip around wildly like it had during the first fight. It listened now, more obedient, more willing.
He dispersed it with a thought, the spear fading into harmless sparks.
"Alright," he muttered to himself. "Training arc it is."
He needed to master Chaos Spear first — not just throw it wildly and pray it hit. Precision. Control. Efficiency.
And after that?
He thought of the way Shadow moved — teleporting, warping space in an instant.
Chaos Control.
The idea felt impossibly distant.
But not impossible.
The System pinged again, almost in response.
"Skill Progression Unlocked: CHAOS CONTROL (Locked)"
"Requirements: Synchronization 35% / Chaos Stability High."
Orin let out a low whistle.
"Thirty-five percent."
He was at twenty-one right now. Not even close.
But he wasn't going to sit around waiting.
If he wanted to live — really live — he had to fight for every single percent.
He slung the battered backpack over his shoulder and stepped out into the rain-soaked wilderness.
The Hollow Field stretched out before him, scarred and battered but slowly healing — grass already beginning to regrow in the blackened trenches left by the rift fight.
A thin mist clung to the ground, swirling in slow, lazy patterns. The air smelled fresh, clean, alive.
Despite everything, Orin felt a surge of hope in his chest.
This world was broken.
Corrupted.
But so was he.
And maybe — just maybe — if he could piece himself back together, he could find a way to fix both.
Or, if nothing else, tear a hole wide enough to escape before the whole thing collapsed.