LOTM:pathways of the [everlasting sovereign]

Alistair's gaze swept across the simple wooden structure of his home. The room he had just left—a modest chamber with only a bed, a small desk, and a bookshelf—was mirrored throughout the house. His gaze lingered on the rustic furnishings, and a strange calm settled over him as he took in the surrounding rooms.

The living room was sparse. Two sturdy wooden chairs, their surfaces rough and uninviting, sat near the hearth. A fireplace, though no fire burned within it, dominated one wall, a silent witness to the passage of time. A low table sat between the chairs, its wood warped from years of neglect. Dust clung to everything, a tangible weight of disuse and abandonment.

Next, he entered the dining room. It was functional but cold, a coal pot sitting in one corner beside a small storage area for the blackened fuel. Shelves lined the walls, but they held nothing of significance—just empty space. The most notable feature was the faded curtains that hung by the only window, their fabric fraying at the edges. The lack of warmth here mirrored the sense of isolation that pervaded the house.

The bathroom, if it could even be called that, was little more than a poorly maintained shack attached to the home. A single bucket, filled with murky water, sat in one corner, accompanied by a brittle cloth that looked as though it could tear at any moment. Alistair paused, taking in the grim practicality of it. There was no luxury here, no comfort, only the bare essentials for survival.

Lastly, he entered the bedroom. Clothes, simple and unadorned, were folded neatly on a low shelf beside a small table. A mirror rested on the surface, positioned next to a quill pen, ink, and several sheets of paper. Alistair examined the items for a moment, feeling an odd sense of detachment. These objects, once meaningless, now held a certain weight. His fingers brushed the quill and ink, and he took a few sheets of paper. His thoughts moved like quicksilver—shifting, analyzing, always looking for opportunities, always looking for ways to bend the world to his will.

He left the room, the house seeming even more desolate now that he had seen every corner. The quiet that had once felt oppressive now settled like an invisible hand over his shoulders. His feet led him out of the house, though he did not know why. Perhaps it was a need to find answers, perhaps a desire to know what lay beyond these walls. Whatever it was, he had a sense that the answers were out there, waiting for him to discover them.

The village outside was nothing like he had expected. Houses, crumbling and run-down, lined the narrow, muddy streets. Their roofs sagged under the weight of time, and windows were broken or boarded up. The air, thick with the stench of decay, hung heavy with an unspoken oppression. Sparse figures moved about the streets, all wearing what appeared to be collars—metal bands tightly fastened around their necks. Their faces, hollow and vacant, revealed nothing of the life they once had. They moved like cattle, slow and resigned, eyes fixed on the ground, bodies bent in submission.

Alistair felt a pang of somethi—it was not anger or sympathy more akin to enjoyment towards the Currant state of affairs —but it quickly passed. ,. This world was different from anything he had known, but that only made it more interesting. A new challenge, a new game to play.

He moved through the streets, blending in with the crowd. He activated one of his Sequence 8 abilities, [One with the Crowd], and his form blurred, disappearing into the mass of people around him, which was concealed by the natural environment. At its most basic level, the ability allowed him to blend in with his surroundings and go unnoticed, but his advanced sequence from where the abilities were, combined with the accommodation of the Pathway's uniqueness, gave him a far more potent effect, no longer only hiding his form but also manipulating the sea of collective subconscious, creating blind spots in people's perception, making it so that even Saints would struggle to notice him. His presence blended in with the crowd, becoming indistinct and lost in the sea of faceless souls. He walked unnoticed, his sharp eyes scanning the surroundings and taking in every detail.

As he moved through the village, he noticed a quiet horror that clung to the streets like fog. No one spoke; there were no lively conversations or bustling markets. It was as if the place had been drained of all life, leaving only hollow shells of humanity. However, there was an underlying tension, an unspoken fear that danced just below the surface. This place was enslaved, with invisible chains that no one dared to break.

Alistair's gaze swept across the figures around him. He could feel it—the suffocating weight of their existence, the oppression they wore as a second skin. The collars, the forced submission. His mind clicked through possibilities. The higher race—the ones who had enslaved them—remained unseen. Dragons? Demonic wolves? Some god-faction? He would need to gather more information, and this village might be the perfect starting point.

His attention snapped to the side. A commotion. A scream.

He turned, eyes narrowing. In the distance, a girl was struggling against a humanoid figure—a being with pale, white scales adorning its body. A descendant of dragons, most likely. It was a brutal sight, but Alistair felt no surge of sympathy. The girl's plight was not his concern. But her predicament, the struggle, was an opportunity. An opportunity to test his abilities posibly recive his first anchor.

He walked towards them, his steps careful and measured. The crowd parted slightly to let him pass, but no one noticed his presence. He pulled out the quill, ink, and paper from his previous exploration of the house. His fingers moved quickly, with an unsettling precision. The words started to form in a runic format, his hand moving with practiced ease as he wrote, each stroke of the quill imbued with a subtle power, his thoughts spilling onto the page.

The girl's cries became louder and more desperate, but Alistair remained unfazed. The scene was simply a test, an experiment to see how far he could push his abilities in this strange, new world of mysteries.

As the ink flowed, the air around him became denser, charged with a dark energy that gradually permeated the dragon's flesh. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips, and his heart pounded faster.

[END OF CHAPITER]

Last chapter, a mistake was made: the Currant era is the second epoch, not the third.