Elion had his work cut out for him. Finding ingredients would be a challenge—he doubted the kitchen lady would just hand them over for free. But that didn't mean he was without a plan.
He'd known he'd likely end up in Goreth for a long time. And he knew exactly how limited the selection of spices and condiments was here. There wasn't much he could do about condiments—they were heavy, perishable, and needed refrigeration—but spices…
Back in his dorm, he dug through his bag, pulling aside neatly folded clothes until he found what he was looking for: a small black box. Inside were dozens of tiny plastic pouches, each stamped with a label identifying the fragrant spice inside.
Most people would take one look and call him insane.
Elion disagreed.
He was simply prepared.
There was a small kitchen available for general use, though it rarely saw action. Between trainees and overworked staff, few had the time—or motivation—to cook for themselves. Most were perfectly content with the slop from the cafeteria.
Elion shivered just thinking about it.
The real obstacle was ingredients. He had money, sure—but he needed authorization to leave S33. And he couldn't exactly tell them he wanted to go shopping for meat and vegetables.
Maybe if I say I'm Golden Thread's son?
Elion shook his head. It wasn't like it would do much to help the situation, and even if it did, he despised the idea of using his father's authority.
He would do what he always did—negotiate.
Grabbing a clean set of clothes, Elion dressed in his own attire instead of the dull tracksuits issued to every recruit. Those, he reserved for training. Today, he wore a stylish grey shirt tucked into fitted black pants. It wasn't exactly standard military attire—but he didn't care.
He took a quick shower—empty, since most were still eating. After that, he waited for the rush hours of the lunch to be over before going to speak with the "cook" if she could even be called that.
He knocked on the kitchen door, peering through the small round window embedded in the steel. A gravelly voice called out from inside.
"I'm coming, wait a sec…"
Elion took a deep breath.
Eventually, the heavy door creaked open. The large woman who served the food earlier stood in the frame, eyeing him with suspicion.
"Kitchen's closed, kid."
Elion offered a disarming smile.
"I'm not here to eat. I'm here to… acquire some culinary materials."
She frowned.
"What, you think this is a grocery store? Beat it. Don't you have something better to do?"
He'd expected that.
Elion's fingers tightened around the bills in his pocket—NCs, short for Nexus Currency. Printed by the Central Service, they were the primary means of exchange across the four cities.
"I can pay."
She raised an eyebrow, arms still crossed.
"I'm sure you can… but I'm not allowed to sell you anything."
"I can pay for that too."
A silence settled between them as her eyes locked onto the money, something sharp and hungry lurking behind them.
"…You trying to bribe me?"
"I wouldn't call it that," Elion said, smile holding firm despite a twitch in his eye. "Think of it as a gift. For all your hard work."
It was obvious she would accept.
Her rough appearance, the burns on her arms—less like kitchen accidents and more like chemical exposure—made it clear. S33 sat right next to the slums, after all. When running a facility on a tight budget, recruiting from there was the most practical choice. And this woman checked every box of someone who'd grown up in that kind of place.
Her gaze flicked left and right, checking for witnesses.
"How much?"
"Enough. Trust me."
That was all it took.
Soon, he walked away with fresh meat, onions, spicy peppers, and a generous bag of rice. It had cost him more than he'd like, but if he survived the expedition to the First Finger, this amount would seem laughable in hindsight.
Back in his room, two other trainees were already there.
One, short with long brown hair and dark eyes, lay on a bed in disarray, eyes glued to his phone. The other, taller with close-cropped black hair and a sharp gaze, had a nasty bruise around one eye, but it did not diminish his handsome face. He was reading on the bed that had clearly been made in a hurry.
They looked up as Elion entered. The brown-haired one introduced himself as William. The other was Joart.
They seemed fine. William talked a bit too much for Elion's liking.
After some brief conversation, the young man collapsed onto his bed and refocused on what truly interested him—his ability.
He activated it cautiously, keeping his attention on his own hand. The threads glowed as they always did, but his focus was on the writing—those strange glyphs burned into his forearm by the Wretched Hand.
He stared at them. Alien, yet somehow instinctual. Like he was on the verge of understanding… if only he had a little more context.
After several minutes, frustrated with his lack of progress, he changed targets. He glanced at Joart and activated his ability again, bracing for the headache.
Suddenly, Joart's body lit up like a web of woven threads—each strand pulsing with light, interconnected in impossible ways. It was overwhelming.
Some threads, especially those around his bruised eye, were dimmer. Other dim spots marked injuries elsewhere, both internal and external.
So, I can see damage. Physical for sure… maybe mental too? If I were a doctor, this would be amazing. Too bad I'm not.
Another useless application in combat.
Deceptions on top of disappointments with this ability huh.
Noticing Elion's gaze, Joart raised an eyebrow.
"What?"
He looked away quickly.
"Nothing… Uh, that black eye—how'd you get it?"
"Training. Took a good hit."
"Yeah," William added, perking up. "You should've seen what happened after. Joart destroyed the guy who hit him."
Joart, uninterested in elaborating, returned to his book.
Elion followed suit, opening his laptop and doing his best to ignore William.
He returned to his study of Third Age writings in Terask. They remained frustratingly opaque, though he was able to cross-reference certain words using the translations from the Voice of God and the script on his arm. His roommates gave him odd looks as he traced the symbols like a mad scholar.
Even then, the sentences made little sense.
Take the word "sun" for example.
The grammar was off. The word just didn't fit with the rest of the sentence.
Unless…
A thought struck him.
What if the words had multiple meanings depending on context?
Sun, light, illumination.
Yes. That makes more sense.
The term sun might also mean light.
His eyes widened slightly.
Which means the Voice of God's translations might not be entirely accurate…
His own title, Rotten Sun, could potentially be interpreted as Rotten Light.
And those were two very different things.
If that's true… what else has it mistranslated? How many Unlocked walk through life bearing titles they don't truly understand?
Elion groaned and rubbed his face.
This is getting too complicated.
He glanced at the time in the corner of his screen—and jolted upright.
"Shit, I'm going to be late!" he blurted.
William was gone, off doing who-knows-what. Only Joart remained, silently watching from his bed.
Elion grabbed the bag of ingredients and his black spice box before rushing out the door toward the communal kitchen. He expected it to be empty.
It wasn't.
Inside, a tall girl with long, wavy black hair was crouched in front of the oven, silently watching its contents bake. She wore a black tank top paired with loose white trousers, a light hoodie draped over her shoulders, unzipped. She looked to be around his age—likely another newly Unlocked.
Elion paused. Something about her felt… familiar. She had the same quiet intensity as Shera, the woman who'd escorted them to S33.
Noticing his stare, the girl turned to look at him—expression unreadable—then returned her gaze to the oven without saying a word.
I like her. No questions. Minds her own business. Like everyone should.
Elion dropped his bag onto the counter and rummaged through the cupboards until he found a cutting board and a half-decent knife. He got to work slicing the meat thin, chopping onions into long julienne strips, and preparing the peppers.
From the corner of his eye, he noticed her watching. She was frowning slightly—curious, maybe even confused—but still silent.
Is she shy or something?
He ignored her and focused on prepping the ingredients. Once the pan was hot, he added oil and tossed in the meat, onions, and peppers, then opened his spice box.
At the sight of it, her face twisted in disbelief. She exhaled sharply—almost a laugh—but again, said nothing.
The sizzling filled the air. The scent of searing meat, softened onions, and aromatic spices began to fill the small kitchen. The rice was boiling quietly in the back. A small smile tugged at Elion's lips.
It didn't take long for the ingredients to cook through—the meat browned, the vegetables softened, and the spices bloomed beautifully. He plated two portions, adding a mound of rice beside each.
If Eshrod doesn't like this, she's just lying to herself.
Speaking of which… she was late.
Why am I even surprised? Of course she's late.
The silent girl was still watching, now with open envy in her eyes. Something felt… off. Elion glanced at her, then activated his ability.
The threads of light formed across her body—but hers weren't like the others he'd seen. In her head, several strings weren't just dim… they were broken and totally black. Severed in multiple places.
It's not that she doesn't want to speak—it's that she can't…
Just then, footsteps thundered in from the hallway. Eshrod burst into the kitchen, panting.
She inhaled deeply.
"Whoa, that smells amazing!"
Her gaze flicked from Elion to the silent girl.
"Who's she?"
"No idea. She was here when I arrived."
But Eshrod was already distracted by the food. She stepped up to the counter and took a quick bite, not even bothering to sit.
Her eyes widened.
Her mouth curled into a grin.
"Damn, this is really good!"
She grabbed her plate and sat down at the small table beside the black-haired girl. Elion followed with his own plate.
Eshrod demolished the meal in record time, then glanced over at the girl sitting beside her.
"So, who are you?" she asked, mouth still half-full.
The girl shifted slightly, reaching into her pocket.
"She can't talk," Elion said quietly.
The girl turned toward him with a puzzled frown, tilting her head as if asking:
How do you know that?
Elion didn't answer. He just kept eating, pretending not to notice the question in her eyes.
Finally, she pulled a small, folded piece of paper from her pocket and held it up.
In neat handwriting, it read:
My name is Farha.