The Archiverse world series [Wild drafted]

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Chapter : The Camp Arc Begins

It was dawn. A pale hush blanketed the land as the first rays of the Lux Star crept over the horizon, casting golden fingers through the Elorian skies. The star's light shimmered across the trees and danced along the surface of the nearby lake, scattering brilliance like a million molten coins atop the gentle water.

The scent of pine, damp dew, and smoke from dying campfires wafted through the Woodland Leaf Woods—a place wilder and greener than the more trampled Stonebark Expanse where most Travelers began their journey. Here, in this clearing stitched between towering birches and sprawling moss beds, a peculiar camp had risen—crude but alive, brimming with voices, clangs, and the flutter of new beginnings.

At the center of it all stood Riven Blackstone, unmistakable.

Black-haired and tall, his figure cut sharp against the light, clad in a deep blue woolly hat and matching coat over black underclothes. He wore his signature smirk—crooked, confident, and just slightly sardonic—as though he knew a joke the world hadn't caught up to yet. Around him, the village buzzed, the people he'd gathered moving with purpose, even if none of them quite knew where they were headed yet.

On a makeshift bed within one of the large tents, Aurelia Dawnmere dozed under furs, her golden-blonde hair spilling like sunlight. Curled beside her was Goldie, a catkin demi-human spiritual force girl with sharp ears and an even sharper when awake—currently purring lightly in her sleep, her tail flicking with passing dreams.

Clang! A loud metallic thud startled a pair of nearby bluebirds.

"Ah—blasted pipes!"

From behind the main hut, Garrick Ironhart roared, wiping soot and sweat from his thick arms as steam hissed into the air. He stood beside a broken heating valve, water spraying directly into his face, his thick leather apron and. His eyes squinted as he cursed and reached for his tools with practiced rage.

Meanwhile, Hale Eryndor, lean and broad-shouldered, swung a hammer overhead, driving planks into support beams with rhythmic precision. His red hair glinted copper in the sunlight, and with every impact, he brushed strands from his face with the back of a dusty glove. His expression was calm—focused—not just on the wood but on the idea of something sturdy, lasting.

Out near the forest perimeter, a flicker of fire caught the eye.

Nico Finnikin Faelwyn, the foxkin scout, stood poised in the underbrush, his flaming spear illuminating low-hanging branches. His sharp eyes scanned the trees as he searched for Joules Berries, rare glowing fruits that awarded points for trade and upgrades. His tail swayed as he crept along silently, more predator than prey.

Throughout the clearing, other Blue-Ranked Travelers—all between levels 7 and 9—were hard at work. Some huddled in groups, discussing theories of skill evolution and map fragments. Others stacked logs, fashioned tents, or practiced combat stances with wooden weapons. No one here was elite. Not yet. But in their blue tags and stubborn sweat, something was forming.

A movement.

A society of strays.

Then came footsteps—quiet but firm.

Oliver had arrived.

His white mask obscured his face save for his sharp, attentive eyes. A green hoodie covered his dark hair, his form lean and prepared. Tied to his side, a simple iron sword rested in a leather pouch—unpolished, but reliable.

He stood at the camp's edge, watching it all unfold: Riven's people, the makeshift homes, the half-born ambition in every hammer stroke and whispered plan. His eyes narrowed.

What was Riven planning?

This wasn't just a camp. These weren't just drifters. The disabled, the unemployed, the outcasts, the failures—they weren't supposed to matter. And yet… here they were. Building. Breathing. Belonging.

Riven turned toward him without missing a beat.

"About time, Oliver," he said, voice lazy but piercing. "I was wondering when you'd show up. You ready to help me prove the world wrong?"

And just like that, the Camp Arc began.

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Chapter : Ripples After Clash

The lake was still, save for the occasional ripple where the wind whispered across its glassy surface. The sun hung lower now, past midday but not yet threatening dusk, its reflection stretched like molten silver along the water's edge.

Oliver sat at the lakeside, his mask removed, resting loosely in his hand. His breath was steady, yet his gaze was distant, watching but not seeing. The air carried a quiet hum of life from the camp behind him—voices, laughter, the rustle of leaves—but here, at the water, it felt muted, almost far away.

The soft crunch of footsteps came behind him.

Fern appeared, as silent and steady as ever. The Druid Guide's presence was always composed, an aura of moss and morning mist clinging to him. His robes of muted greens and browns blended effortlessly with the wild.

"You're awfully quiet today, Oliver." Fern's tone was even, not accusing, just observant.

Oliver didn't turn. He rolled the mask in his palm. "I'm fine. It's nothing."

Fern's gaze lingered. "You always say that. Yet, it's July twentieth. The air's calmer now. Even after the Sector Six Clash, peace has settled in." He walked closer, standing beside Oliver as his eyes scanned the lake. "Red Team's minding their own, Orange Team's licking their wounds, Green's back to farming... and Blue—" Fern gave a sideways glance, "—Blue Team's busy collecting berries or stuck to their phones. Though, I heard about Nico's stunt."

Oliver's lip tugged upward, a subdued chuckle. "Yeah. Nico always has a knack for trouble."

Fern gave a rare smirk. "Garrick wasn't amused."

A brief silence followed, comfortable yet heavy. Then, a new voice cut through.

"Yo, if it isn't Mr. Lone-Wolf himself."

Oliver's head turned.

Yotel approached with his trademark swagger—dark-skinned, his mop of white dreads bobbing slightly with every step. He wore a white buttoned sleeve shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and black fitted pants that seemed too clean for camp life. The sun caught the glint in his half-lidded eyes as his easy smirk widened.

"Didn't expect to find you brooding by the lake. You're always so dramatic when things slow down," Yotel teased as he leaned back against a nearby boulder, arms crossed.

Oliver's eyes widened slightly. "Yotel. You've been ghosting for weeks."

Yotel shrugged, unfazed. "Needed to breathe, you know how it is. Place was too uptight before. Heard things got spicy with Caine and the Player King stirring trouble."

"Yeah," Oliver muttered, his tone light, though his eyes sharpened, "Caine and his teenage rebellion didn't exactly make things simple."

Yotel chuckled, that cool nonchalance never leaving him. "And how's camp life after that mess?"

Oliver leaned back on his hands, exhaling slowly. "Not much. People are relaxed now… or trying to be. The teams are keeping to themselves for once. Feels... weird."

Fern interjected quietly, "Temporary peace is still peace, Oliver."

Yotel smirked. "Temporary, sure, but peace is boring. That clash made things interesting. You don't get players like Caine every day—kid's got fire. Stupid, reckless fire, but fire nonetheless."

Oliver's expression softened, his lips twitching into a faint smile. "You haven't changed, Yotel."

"And you still pretend you're fine when you're not." Yotel pushed off the boulder, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve. "But hey, you got time. No one's rushing you to play hero. For now, just... enjoy the calm before we all get thrown into another sector war."

Oliver stood, mask hanging at his side. "Yeah. For now."

The three of them stood by the lake's edge, the afternoon breeze rustling their clothes, as the quiet murmur of camp life carried on behind them. No alarms. No enemies. Just the silence of a day in between storms.

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