The floor—if floor is the right word—is a flawless sheet of cream-white parchment the size of a parade ground. A faint shimmer ripples beneath its surface, as though the page is being rewritten a hair's breadth below my boots.
The first thing I notice is heat.
The second is pain.
My forearms throb where the calligraphic brands appeared during the fall, glowing ember-orange from wrist to elbow. Somewhere deeper, a *tick-tick-tick* echoes against my ribs, as if someone jammed a pocket-watch between heartbeats; every eighth beat the clock hesitates, then catches up.
I file that under Problems for Later and push to my feet.
The "room" spreads out like an indoor stadium stripped of walls.
Pillars of black ink spiral upward and vanish before they ever meet a ceiling.
Between them drift island-tables folded from manuscript pages; their edges flap in a wind I can't feel.
Scores of aspirants mill about—some pacing, some praying, most pretending not to be terrified.
Floating above every skull: two ghostly numbers.
Mine reads nice and ...
...
Humiliating.
[ 0 / 100. ]
Back home ten tin strokes would equal a single HUD stroke, so technically I'd shown up in debt. Great start.
Metal shrieks somewhere to my right. A bloke swings a cleaver that keeps morphing mid-arc—his Mark warming up.
Most name-tags glow pewter-grey **RAW**; a handful shimmer iron-red **IRON**.
Nothing higher.
Prism was right—nobody starts with bragging rights.
I flex my fingers; the brands flare warmer. Curiosity itches.
Curiosity wins—I drag one fingertip across the parchment, half-hoping nothing happens.
A hair-thin fissure of *nothing* opens beneath the touch, pure white canceling the page.
The arena judders.
Agony slams up my arm—numb to the shoulder—while my guts plummet as though I sprinted a kilometre on an empty stomach.
Black motes prickle the edge of my vision.
I jerk my hand away. The cut seals, but the after-shock hammers on.
Glyph-light spider-webs across my sight—an involuntary HUD.
—————◆—————
[ MARK ABILITY REGISTERED — "NULL-SCRATCH" ]
[ Function: Localised erasure of *non-living* matter at point of contact ]
[ Radius: 30 cm (scales with Rank) ]
[ Cooldown: 5 s ]
[ Metabolic Cost: ≈ 120 kcal / cm³ erased ]
[ Side-effects: neuropathy, sensory haze, potential syncope ]
[ Warning: Self-target erase = *terminal narrative collapse* ]
'120 kcal / cm³ ? What am I?'
'A bloody mathematician?'
The text fades, but the last line burns on:
—————◆—————
[ Erase the world, pay in hunger. ]
[ Erase *myself*—curtain call. ]
Hand still tingling, I steady my breath.
Lesson one: this trick isn't free; it's a loan-shark.
⊹˚₊‧──────────────────── ＿〆(..)ˎˊ˗
'You look peaky, mate.'
The voice belongs to a lad of maybe fourteen, freckled, shivering in an oversized coat. RAW rank flickers above his head along with the tremble of single-digit strokes.
I see myself from three years ago: belly rumbling, eyes darting for escape routes.
'Just bad breakfast.' I offer the lie with a smile. 'Name?'
'They called me Chalk, back home.' He rubs his arms. 'Figure it fits.'
'Inkless,' I say, though the name still feels like a borrowed coat. 'Stay close, Chalk. First rooms eat strays.'
Chalk's grateful nod is cut short by a swaggering shadow that steps between us.
The newcomer stands a good head taller than me, shoulders like scaffold poles. His skin bears iron-red latticework tattooed into geometric armour.
Above his name—CRAG—shines the IRON sigil.
He cracks a grin lined with silver fillings.
'Look what washed up. A gutter-born and his pet runt.' Crag thumbs a folding baton that hisses with latent power.
'Orientation says friendly sparring's encouraged, yeah? Why not warm up?'
Chalk wilts. I shift sideways, drawing Crag's attention.
'Fight someone your class,' I tell him.
Crag barks a laugh. 'Iron outranks Raw, friend. Hierarchy's the law.'
'Hierarchy's only law when everyone agrees.'
My pulse drums but my voice stays level. I tip my chin at a nearby column where half a dozen aspirants, bored and curious, watch.
'You want to waste energy bullying children, be my guest. But you'll broadcast weakness to anyone scouting partners.'
That lands. Crag's nostrils flare; calculation swims behind his eyes.
Still, backing down now would bruise the ego he wears thicker than skin. He steps close enough that I taste iron on his breath.
'Tell you what. I'll let him walk if you entertain me instead. Quick rank-check bout. First spill on the parchment loses.'
The numbness has faded from my arm; hunger gnaws where Null Scratch drained me.
Perfect timing. I nod.
'No lethal Marks. No permanent harm. Deal?'
Crag answers by springing back, baton telescoping into a steel stave.
The parchment beneath his boots ripples, flexing like canvas.
Crowd parts in a neat circle. Somewhere high above, a bell clangs—some cosmic referee marking the challenge.
He lunges.
For a mountain of meat, he's fast, bringing the stave in a sweeping cut aimed to sweep my knees.
I skip over the arc, letting momentum carry me inside his reach.
Street lesson: big weapon equals slow recovery.
My elbow hooks into his ribs. Pain blossoms across my bone—his inky lattice behaves like a partial plate—but the jolt staggers him a step.
Crag snarls and flicks a wrist.
The stave liquefies into chain links, snapping around for a backhand.
I duck too slowly; links rake across my shoulder, tearing cloth and skin.
Heat floods the wound—blood or ink, can't tell.
He presses, chains whirling. Crowd cheers.
I need an edge. Just a sliver.
I twist aside, palm brushing the parchment.
The Null Scratch answers with a pin-prick glow. I carve a stroke no longer than a matchstick where Crag's leading foot will land.
The instant heel meets Scratch, the chain dissolves into smoke—erased mid-swing. Crag overbalances, armaments gone, weight sailing.
I shoulder-check him, add my hips, and he slams onto his back, wind knocked out.
The Scratch fades.
My vision blurs, a yawning hunger caves my belly.
I stagger but stay upright.
Chalk's eyes are as wide as market saucers.
Crag claws for purchase, disbelief twisting his face. The IRON halo flickers, as though ashamed.
Before words can ignite Round Two, a siren-note whistles overhead.
A scroll the length of a banner unrolls in the air between us. Its parchment is translucent, ink flowing across like animated diagrams.
Gold icons flare, rearrange, and settle into a stylised ladder:
—————◆—————
[ RAW → IRON → BRONZE → SILVER → GOLD → OBSIDIAN → MYTHIC ]
Below, a line in red handwriting appears, scrawled as though by an impatient teacher:
Most bleed out in RAW and BRONZE; few glimpse GOLD. Plan accordingly.
A second panel blossoms, showing a silhouette broke into glowing nodes—Mark, Stroke pool, Attributes.
Arrows point to weak spots, then blossom into question marks.
Teaching through puzzle rather than sermon. Smart.
Chalk studies it, awed. Crag's lip curls; education is clearly beneath him.
A soft clap echoes from behind. Conversation dies as Sister Ravel glides into the circle.
She commands attention without even trying.
Her habit is obsidian silk cut daringly low, cinched at the waist with scripture-sketched ribbons.
Curves like hourglass sculpture challenge the modesty I thought clerics upheld. Violet glyphs drift over her skin, half-illumined under the habit's edges.
Ravel's eyes—ancient and amused—pivot from Crag to me.
'Children squabbling on the anvil before the blade falls,' she says, voice a velvet riddle. 'How quaint.'
She trails a finger through the air; threads of ink coil around her nail, knotting into a tiny origami raven.
It flits onto Chalk's shoulder, caws once, then bursts into motes.
'Sister Ravel,' Crag mutters, half-bowing. The IRON bull knows enough to show deference.
'Spare me ceremony.'
Her gaze lingers on my forearm brands.
Warmth spikes where she looks, as though the tattoos recognise her.
'You, ink-less boy. What do you call the Stitch between Something and Nothing?'
I fish for an answer; land on honesty. 'Haven't decided.'
'Best keep it nameless till the Realm writes truth in you.'
She smiles like that's both a joke and a prophecy.
'Ink remembers every lie, after all.'
She saunters away, hips swaying like the pendulum of some decadent clock.
Aspirants track her progress—most in awe, some in unholy admiration.
Rumour says the cleric order regulates the Waking Realm's soul economy. If that's true and she's their envoy, we've just seen a bank vault walk past in human form.
Crag's pride reignites now that the threat's gone. He shoves upright, pointing at me. 'We're not done, Rat.'
'We never started,' I answer over a building wave of dizziness. 'Go train. You need it.'
He bares teeth but stalks off, grumbling threats I stop listening to.
I sat next to Chalk on a folded-paper bench. He gawps like I juggle lightning.
'How did you—'
'Trade secret.' I rub my dead arm, feeling pins-and-needles creep back.
'Rule one, Chalk: never reveal your full deck before the game.'
Especially when the card turns limbs to jelly and guts to emptiness.
A low chuckle rolls from a mezzanine ledge high above. I tilt my head. An old man lounges in the shadows, cloak stitched from mismatched inks, grin shining like broken glass.
His laugh carries the jagged joy of someone who's found fresh inventory.
Faction recruiter?
Slaver?
Either way, I've been clocked. He fades from view before I can mark details.
Great.
Drums thunder across the lobby, shaking parchment sheets loose from tables. Everyone stills.
Twin gates at the far edge unfurl like theatre curtains.
They're immense—thirty metres tall—ink black with veins of molten crimson. Glyphs crawl over the surface in slow, hungry orbits.
The air grows ion-thick.
A crystalline voice, neither male nor female, flows from the threshold:
'First Trial ready. Aspirants assemble. Order irrelevant; outcome absolute. Ink remembers every lie you've told.'
The gates hinge inward.
Blinding light gushes out, spilling over us like flood water about to break.
I rise on unsteady legs, taste copper-penny fear, and step toward the glow.