"...Alright, let's see how can i rebuild this land that I've inherited."
Lucan took a deep breath, the air stale and heavy with dust, and stepped deeper into the half-ruined cabin. The wooden planks creaked beneath his boots, a dull, protesting groan that echoed eerily in the empty space.
Dust hung thick in the air, catching the rays of light that filtered through broken windows like faded memories.
A faint breeze whispered through the holes in the roof, carrying with it the undeniable scent of dried blood, mold, and damp rot that prickled his nose.
Somewhere in the distance, he could hear the wind howling through shattered buildings—like the land itself was sighing in its sleep.
'This place feels like it's been waiting for me… or warning me. And this energy… it's like what I've read about in those old, forbidden texts, a palpable force I can almost taste in the air, a silent hum against my skin.'
He stood there for a moment, soaking it all in—the smell, the silence, the strange quiet energy pulsing in the walls.
It was almost like the cabin itself was breathing, waiting for something to happen.
The screen blinked to life again in front of him.
[Zone Signature Detected. Activate SCAN? Y/N]
Lucan ignored it for a moment, brushing a finger across one of the walls.
To his surprise, he felt a faint thrum beneath his palm—like the heartbeat of the structure itself. Curious, he pressed his hand against it fully.
The rough, crumbling stone felt cold beneath his touch.
Suddenly, the world shifted.
His vision jerked upward and outward, and the cabin seemed to fall away beneath him. He hovered, somehow, staring down at the landscape like a god surveying his dominion.
Before him lay a ruined state with his cabin at its heart, positioned near the center of Fineras.
Clusters of trees, like patchy scars on the land, formed thick borders from northeast to south, marking the true boundaries of the Cursed Lands.
A sluggish, muddy stream wound through the remains of fields from northeast to southwest, dividing the state—on the left, where people once lived, and on the right, the area that if not reclaimed will be Cursed Lands itself. Twisted skeletons of collapsed buildings dotted the landscape.
And to the right side of the stream, in the east, stretched a patch of dark, cursed earth—blackened and pulsing with a sickly aura, scattered with shallow graves. The stream was not large enough to be called a river, but it was wide enough to serve as a distinct border.
Lucan's breath caught. His stomach tightened with a cold dread.
[Status: Tier 1 – Hamlet-Holder]
[Vitality Rating: Critical]
[Threat Level: Low–Mid]
[Population: 6]
'Bigger and worse than I imagined. This is a wasteland, a true grave.'
It was the kind of place that made you pause. Not because it was overtly scary, but because it was so quiet that you could almost hear your own heartbeat in the emptiness.
Lucan wasn't sure if he was ready for this. But then again, was anyone ever ready for something like this?
Still, something stirred in his chest. A flicker of challenge. Of purpose. If he could clean this place up—even just a part of it—maybe it could become something.
His land. Not just some cursed patch of dirt tossed his way like scraps from a table.
He began naming landmarks on the map—the sluggish waterway became First Stream, the collapsed tower to the west Watcher's Fall. As he named each, glowing labels blinked into place.
[Zone Register: Locked – Unlocks after 3+ zones scanned]
Determined, Lucan stepped outside. The sky above was grey with low clouds, casting the land in a dull, lifeless light.
The air was still, heavy with a damp chill that seeped into his bones. Crows watched him from the ruins, quiet and too still, their black eyes like beads of obsidian.
'The silence feels heavier than any monster.'
He walked toward the stream first, mud squelching wetly beneath his boots with each step.
He knelt and dipped a gloved finger in the water, the icy cold shocking him, only to pull it back with a grimace.
"Ugh. It stinks like rot and metal," he muttered, wiping his fingers on his trousers.
As he stood, a shimmer caught his eye. Half-buried in the streambed, nestled between broken stones, was a rusted emblem.
Pulling it out revealed a medallion stamped with an unfamiliar crest—two crescent moons crossed behind a single tower. The metal was warm, despite the cold water, almost comforting against his palm.
'Another lord? Or someone before me who tried and failed? Did they feel this same oppressive silence, this
heavy weight of despair?'
For a moment, Lucan just stared at the emblem. It felt like a connection to the past—a past he barely knew but now had to face head-on.
A thought nagged at him quietly, pushing at the edges of his mind: 'Why did my father send me here? Was it punishment, or something else?'
The silence of this land felt like an accusation. Yet, if this was exile, it was the kind he could turn to his advantage.
He shook off the dark thought.
'I'll prove myself. Not just to him, but to myself.'
Lucan's boots crunched softly on the cracked earth as he moved toward the dense patch of woods near the ruined houses.
He pulled a small hatchet from his belt, its leather grip worn smooth, testing a few trees for decent wood.
The first tree he chopped let out a faint hiss when struck, its sap oozing black and sticky, smelling faintly of decay.
He jumped back, startled. "Not that one."
After several tries, he found a fir tree that, while twisted, seemed healthy enough. He swung the axe again and again, each strike ringing sharp and clear through the quiet air.
The impact vibrated up his arms. Sweat mixed with dust on his brow, stinging slightly.
The wood was heavy and awkward, but he chopped steadily, gathering firewood and small branches.
He tied them into a bundle with rope, the rough fibers biting into his hands, and slung it over his back. The forest felt oppressive, like it was holding its breath, watching him.
'This isn't going to be easy. Nothing worth doing ever is.'
The work was slow and gritty, but there was a strange comfort in it—a kind of simple purpose, a tangible effort in a land that seemed to resist all life.
As he worked, another memory floated to the surface—the soft voice of his mother, clear as if she were standing beside him:
"Whenever you're overwhelmed, Lucan, just build one thing. Start with shelter. Shelter means you're safe. Everything else can come after."
Lucan wiped a bead of sweat from his temple, his grip tightening on the axe handle.
'One thing at a time. That's all I can do.'
Back in the cabin, he opened his satchel carefully. He pulled out the blueprints, a handful of rope, his worn locket with pictures of his mother and himself, a small pouch of gold, and the few clothes he had packed.
His fingers brushed over the locket's cool surface, the metal a familiar comfort.
'I'll make this place something you'd be proud of, mother. I promise.'
The screen in front of him blinked.
[3 Zones Scanned – Zone Register Unlocked]
[New Feature Available: Build Menu]
Lucan opened the menu, eyes scanning the options—blueprints for a basic shelter, a fire pit, and a rain collector.
Each option shimmered faintly, projected as a hologram onto the cabin floor, waiting for his command.
The shelter blueprint caught his eye first—a simple one-room hut made of stone and wood, with a sloped roof and a sturdy door.
The materials needed—stone, wood, rope, nails—were all things he'd have to gather from this cursed land.
He closed the menu and stepped outside, looking around the flat ground near the stream. The dry earth crunched underfoot.
"That's where it'll go. First, shelter. Then a fire. Then water." he murmured to himself, the words feeling heavy with intent.
Lucan knelt and began clearing small rocks and debris from the spot. He gathered sticks and rocks, sorting them by size, methodically building a small pile for later use.
The first task was to build a foundation—slow and steady.
'I just have to keep moving forward. One step at a time.'