Vortex Origins

Outside stretched a valley of scorched sand and broken earth, where the sun blazed without mercy, like it had forgotten how to set.

In the far distance stood the colossal skull of a long-dead godbeast, half-buried in the dunes. Seven hollow eye sockets stared blankly at the heavens. Bones. Jagged and sun-bleached. jutted from the ground like broken spears around its base.

A flock of pale-winged scavenger birds nested in the hollows of its cranium, feathers stained with dry blood. One of them let out a shriek and took flight, the others following, disturbed by something unseen.

Below the skull, in the shallow basin of the valley, lizard-like creatures moved on two legs, hunched and sinewy. They tore at a carcass. its limbs stretched wide, half of its skull caved in. A few snapped at each other, fighting over gristle and cracked bone. Others chewed without pause, red dripping from their jaws.

Then, one froze. Its head twisted unnaturally to the side.

The ground behind them shifted.

A ripple passed through the sand. Every creature stopped. The two that had been fighting dropped the bone between them.

The sand bulged upward, slow and deliberate. A groan rumbled beneath the earth. A hidden hatch hissed open as sand poured down its rising edges. Then something emerged cold and unnatural.

A thick, metal cylinder rose from beneath the desert like a relic of the gods. Black steel, scarred and ancient, its sides almost look like it was marked with forgotten runes. At its front, a seamless door came into view, smooth like obsidian glass. A pulse of blue light flickered across its surface.

The creatures didn't wait.

They bolted, scattering across the sand like rats from fire. No growls or warning. Like they knew what that thing meant.

A single beep rang out. The door split open with a hiss of pressure.

Ash stepped into the world above.

Heat struck his face like a slap, dry and absolute. A pack hung on his back, strapped tight. He glanced up, eyes narrowed at the sky's burning emptiness.

He inhaled, then grimaced.

Rot clung to the air, thick and coppery. His gaze shifted to the torn bodies left behind by the creatures.

"Damn creatures."

He raised his hand, looking at the metal band wrapped around his wrist. Lights blinked across its surface.

Then his eyes moved to the skull. The size. The silence around it. The weight of whatever it used to be.

He turned away.

Dropped into a runner's stance.

"[Skill: Phantom's Stride]"

Dust burst behind him.

He was gone.

Ash's body was cloaked in red aura.

Hours collapsed into minutes. But for Ash, everything still moved the same. The world didn't slow. he sped up. And he knew what that meant.

He was losing time. No... he was losing five times that time.

The thought crawled across his skull like a cold centipede. But that wasn't all.

The skill triggered on its own when danger pressed in. That was the condition. And Ash sworn to himself never use it again until they found a way to stop the cost.

But now?

Now he was sure he couldn't stop it at all.

The soulroot branded into him—Eye of the Storm—dragged him forward, closer to death's door every time it woke. A curse carved into his soul, dressed like a survival tool.

Still running, Ash reached into his bag, fingers brushing something soft. He pulled out one of the ration gels.

The label stared back at him in bold letters:

ONE

One meal. One day. One less worry.

Ash growled under his breath.

Max swore by these things. Said they were good for the body, ideal for long missions. And he was right. The gel was cheap, packed with just enough to keep a soldier going for a day. No hunger. No cravings. No distractions.

But it tasted like sin made paste.

He wasn't the only one who hated it. The people of Varagos made their own version of the slogan:

"One bite. One gag. One regret."

Still… Max was right. Out here, food wasn't about taste. It was about not dying.

Ash popped the seal and pressed the tube against his mouth. A thick, gray mass oozed out. almost metallic in color, like toothpaste forged in a war factory.

He chewed out of Reflex.

His face twisted.

The gel was thick. Chalky. Warm where it shouldn't be.

The flavor? Like wet sawdust soaked in synthetic broth. Hints of soy dust, boiled oats, and a desperate attempt at "umami." No salt. No sweetness. Just lifeless calories pretending to be nourishment.

It left a film on his tongue, like cling wrap that wouldn't peel off.

Ash glared at the pouch.

Then squeezed out the rest.

"No point wasting it," he muttered to himself, voice low and rough.

And he still kept running because there was no time left to save.

After stuffing down a bit of food, Ash mind wandered to the skill again, what else could he think about after days of nonstop motion?

The voice from his soulspace echoed once more, a calm warning in a stormed mind. Telling him about his soul pool depletion. But Ash ignored it. Just like he had for the past few hours... or was it days? Time felt meaningless now.

He glanced at the band on his wrist. A single mark inched forward like a loading screen.

Ash stared at it. Progress. Whatever that meant. He still didn't know.

His thoughts circled back to the skill. A self-activating trigger, was it really such a bad thing? If it saved his life, even once, it might be worth the price. Sure, he'd lose time. But if he disabled the skill the moment it activated, maybe he'd shave down the cost. Keep the bleed manageable.

A small smile ghosted across his lips.

'Not a solid plan... but it's something.'

He kept running.

Settlements blurred past. Creatures, some weak, others monstrous, lunged too slow to matter. Phantom's Stride carried him like a shadow through all of them.

But Ash was starting to feel it now. not just the hunger, not just the miles. Deeper.

The ration gel had done its job well. Kept him energized through six days of perceived time. But now?

Ash was tired in another way. A soul-deep kind of drain.

Then the soulspace whispered again, colder this time.

"[Soul Pool: 5%]"

He froze. This was the first time he'd ever heard that warning.

Before Phantom's Stride, thanks to his triple Soulcores, his Soul Pool capped at 3,000—a massive reservoir for a Stage One Ascended. He'd never even dropped below 25%. But now?

Now he understood what it meant to feel empty. What others must feel when their energy burns to ash.

The band on his wrist beeped. A sharp sound through the haze.

Ash blinked, his vision smeared and sluggish. A tiny display lit up across the band. not hologram, just a hard-coded screen. This wasn't like the other bands sold across the world. It was different.

And on that screen, two words pulsed:

[Destination Reached]

He looked up.

There. Far in the Distant.

Green.

Actual green.

So rare in this scorched graveyard of a region.

Cinderholt's dying breath gave way to something sacred.

He'd reached it.

The Sanctuary of Black Thorn.