Bright, ethereal lights filled the small infirmary.
Everything shifted. Every grain of matter elongated, unraveling into strings of chromatic light. Even abstract concepts seemed to dissolve into this universal language—as the symbols etched into Elion's forearm transformed into radiant, shifting threads.
Wha—!
He let out a startled yelp. It felt like his mind was overloading, drowning under the deluge of information flooding his senses. It was as if he was opening his eyes for the very first time…
Grabbing his head, he tried to will it away, but nothing changed. The pulsing knowledge contained within each string pushed him to the edge. In a final, desperate attempt to stop the pain, he focused all his concentration on a single point: his hand.
Instantly, the strings around him began to fade, and the world reformed into its usual shape. All except his hand—still composed of chromatic light. His fingers were an impossibly intricate weave of luminous threads, each strand flowing into his palm, through his wrist, and up his arm—an infinite lattice of meaning and connection.
He exhaled in relief as the overwhelming force receded. Slowly, rotating his arm, he studied the strings that composed it. Each held something essential, something deeply tied to his very being. When he looked again at the ancient script of the Voice of God, he could almost make sense of it.
The symbols looked like Terask, the main language used in the few remaining texts from the Third Age. He still couldn't read them—not truly. No one could. Terask was a dead and forgotten language. But through the strings, the meaning became almost instinctual.
He narrowed his eyes, squinting at the symbols, then dismissed his ability. The mental strain was too much to sustain for long. More importantly, using abilities consumed the soul. Without stabilization from a First Finger, the risk of unraveling only increased.
Elion sighed and laid back on the bed, eyes tracing the long bars of sterile light across the ceiling.
This… isn't ideal.
It was, in fact, far from it. Surviving the Depths alone, with no combat-oriented ability, was out of the question. He'd need allies—ones he could rely on. But trust was something Elion despised. It always led to disappointment… or betrayal.
Well, it's not like I have to trust them. I just have to make them trust me.
He shifted onto his side, eyes lingering on his right hand.
His bag lay on the concrete floor next to the bed.
His throat was deathly dry. Standing up, he walked slowly out of the infirmary, in search of either water—or Jeff, who would presumably lead him to it. Either would do. The bunker he'd been brought to was located just outside the shrine of the Wretched Hand, built to house newly Unlocked before they were sent off to S33.
Voices echoed from another room. Elion peeked through the doorway, hiding just out of view. The room was sparse, with a table, a couple of chairs, and a couch—a modest resting area. Jeff was speaking to another agent, but Kelly was nowhere to be seen.
Somehow, Jeff noticed him. His eyes darted to the door, his muscles tensed slightly before he let out a small sigh of relief.
"Did you need something, Sir Elion?" he asked, voice steady.
How did he know I was there?
Clearing his throat, Elion replied, his voice still hoarse,
"Uh… yeah. Where's the water fountain?"
The older man standing beside Jeff, gray-haired and wearing a similar long coat, gave Jeff a look—a mix of exasperation and quiet judgment.
The Unlocked coughed lightly.
"Right, forgot to tell you. Just keep walking down the hall. Room on your left—that's the cafeteria."
Elion muttered a quiet thanks and followed the directions.
The hallway was sterile and strictly utilitarian, with no decoration save for the insignia of the Nexus Central Service—a circle with four orbiting dots. Each represented one of the major cities—Mirth, Goreth, Night, and First River. In the past, there had been six dots, including Horis and Urun. But those cities no longer existed. Some of the older installations still bore the original six-dot insignia.
Elion found the cafeteria without trouble. Kelly was sitting at a table, eating a late-night bowl of instant noodles. Her silver hair fell over her face. The kitchen was closed, but several microwaves were still operational along the far wall. She shot him a quick glare, then returned to her food without a word.
Ignoring her, the young man made his way to the fountain and drank deeply, water streaming down his chin as he quenched his burning thirst.
In about ten hours, he'd depart for Goreth. The journey took around two days—the train was slow, heavily armored to withstand possible attacks. Creatures from the Depths often wandered onto the tracks.
Normally, boarding such a train was outrageously expensive; Unlocked were required to guide it safely through the wilderness. But for newly Unlocked like Elion, the fare was covered by the Nexus Central Service.
Returning to the infirmary, Elion sat and studied the symbols etched onto his forearm again:
[Name: Rotten Sun]
[Description: A lost soul finding solace in the study of the past. A peerless existence bound to both good and evil. The streak of darkness that makes the sun rot.]
[Ability: Bearer of Truth]
[Description: You are able to witness the threads that constitute all. Your gaze may unravel lies and expose the nature of things.]
[Status: Unstable — No Fingers]
[Soul Integrity: 98%]
Elion's eyes lingered there. A literal countdown to his death.
[Affinity: None]
[Rotten Sun bears no ties with the divine.]
That wasn't surprising. Only the great families—like the Leaf family—were born with divine affinity. The rest of the Unlocked might earn a connection to a god… or they might not.
Usually, the inscription of a newly Unlocked ended there. But Elion noticed an extra line below the rest. It looked slightly different, like written in another language—its golden gleam was dimmer, almost sickly. The Voice refused to translate it, as if ignoring its very existence.
He squinted. It bore some slight similarities to the Terask language, but they were too few to not be called coincidences. The calligraphy was also different, as though written by another hand. He'd need a clear mind to study it. For now, the small, uncomfortable bed of the infirmary was calling him.
His eyelids grew heavy, and he drifted into sleep.
Unlocked dreams were far more vivid—after all, the soul was the fuel for dreams, and theirs burned brighter than any normal human's.
Someone shook his shoulder, jolting him awake.
Jeff stood above him, emerald eyes locked onto his.
"You're going to miss the train. I presume you know the way to Station Thirteen?"
Elion rubbed his eyes and nodded.
"Good. Here's your ticket."
He handed him a laminated slip of paper, stamped with the Nexus Central Service insignia and his name.
"Thanks…" Elion muttered, grabbing his bag.
"Well then. Farewell. If you survive, come see us again," Jeff called after a moment's pause.
Elion didn't look back. He simply raised a hand in farewell and exited the bunker.
Outside, a soft draft played through his black hair as he walked at an unhurried pace toward the station. Station Thirteen sat on the edge of Mirth. Long ago, massive tunnels had been dug to connect the cities and streamline transport.
Most trains leaving Mirth carried food, grown and processed here, to the rest of Nexus. Each train also had a single passenger wagon, meant for the rare cases of intercity travel. Because the Nexus's influence weakened during the long crossings between cities, few normal humans made the journey. While not impossible, it required different arrangements entirely.
After completing the boarding process, Elion approached the heavily armored vehicle. The tunnel ahead yawned like a massive void, swallowing the light from embedded lamps. It was around three hundred meters in diameter, carved out by Goreth's engineers over a century ago.
Elion took a seat in the passenger car. Most of the travelers were like him—newly Unlocked. Some looked grim, others excited, some tense. A few, like him, appeared calmly indifferent to the situation.
The seats filled up quickly. No one sat beside him, which was what he wanted.
Just as the train was about to depart, heavy footsteps echoed down the platform. A girl burst in—dirty blonde hair falling to her neck, a heavy, clattering bag slung over her shoulder. She paused to catch her breath, then strode down the aisle, drawing glances from the others.
She stopped beside Elion, staring at the empty seat next to him.
"Hey! Can I sit there?" she asked, voice loud and cheerful.
Elion sighed inwardly.
Of course the loudmouth wants to sit next to me…
He looked at her for a moment before replying in a neutral tone:
"Yeah…"
"Great!"
She dropped her bag beside the seat, letting it sprawl halfway into the aisle without a care.
After smoothing out the wrinkles in her black clothes, she turned to him.
"I'm Eshrod, by the way. Nice to meet you!"