Valley of Kings
The mag-lev train was a silver needle, stitching together the disparate fabrics of human civilization.
Inside, Cole sat in a comfortable, climate-controlled cabin, watching the world blur past his window. The journey was a silent, efficient marvel of magitech. For hours, the view was dominated by the ordered geometry of human expansion: sprawling suburbs gave way to vast, grid-like farmlands patrolled by lumbering agricultural golems. Smaller cities, each a cluster of light and magi-crete, flashed by in the distance.
It was a world of safety and predictability. A world built on rules and systems.
Then, the landscape began to change.
The neat grids dissolved into untamed wilderness. The train began to climb, snaking its way through rugged foothills. Towers of magi-crete were replaced by ancient, towering trees. The pristine safety of the core territories faded, and the raw, untamed nature of the world asserted itself. This was the frontier.
The train's final stop wasn't a grand station, but a simple, utilitarian outpost named Grayhaven. It was less a town and more a fortified scar carved into the wilderness. The buildings were squat and practical, made of reinforced stone and timber. The air smelled of woodsmoke, ozone from a nearby ward-stone, and the faint, coppery scent of spilled blood.
This was a town that lived on the edge of the map. It was a launching point for Hunters, prospectors, and anyone else tough or foolish enough to make a living in the wilds.
As Cole stepped onto the platform, his clean, new gear and studious demeanor made him stick out like a sore thumb. He was a library book in a butcher shop. Hard-faced men and women with worn leather armor and the cold eyes of predators glanced at him, their gazes dismissive. They saw a rich kid on a field trip, and they were partially right.
He ignored them. He was not here to make friends. He was here to complete a mission.
He walked through the dusty main street, his eyes scanning everything. He purchased a physical, waterproof map of the region—never trust a terminal when your life is on the line—and a few extra ration bars. Then, without any further delay, he left the relative safety of Grayhaven and walked into the Cinderfall Ranges.
The silence of the forest was immediate and absolute.
The hum of technology vanished, replaced by the whisper of the wind through the strange, rust-colored leaves of the trees. His senses, dulled by a lifetime of urban living, felt raw and overwhelmed. Every snapped twig sounded like a predator. Every shadow seemed to hold a threat.
He gripped the carbon-fiber staff his mother had chosen. It felt solid and reassuring in his hand. He began to walk, following the crude map from the historian's book, which he had cross-referenced with the new one.
His destination was three days' hike away.
The first day was a lesson in humility. The physical conditioning he'd been doing for the past few weeks had saved him from immediate collapse, but it hadn't prepared him for the sheer, brutal reality of traversing untamed wilderness. The ground was uneven, his pack felt heavier with every step, and by nightfall, every muscle in his body screamed in protest.
He made camp in a small, defensible clearing, just as his mother had taught him. He didn't light a fire. Instead, he activated a low-powered thermal rune that provided a small, invisible bubble of warmth. He ate a cold ration bar, the nutrient paste tasting like sawdust in his mouth, and washed it down with purified water.
He was miserable. He was exhausted.
But he was also learning. He was adapting. The project manager in his soul was collecting data, analyzing his performance, and optimizing his strategy for the next day.
On the second day, he found his rhythm. He learned to read the terrain, to conserve his energy on the inclines, and to use the staff as a walking aid. The world began to feel less like an immediate threat and more like a complex system to be navigated. He even began to notice the beauty of the place—the strange, glowing fungi that grew in the shade of ancient trees, the way the ambient mana made the very air seem to shimmer at dusk.
It was on the third day that the system decided to test him.
He was making his way through a narrow ravine, the rock walls rising steeply on either side. The air was cool and damp. He heard a noise up ahead. A low, guttural growl, followed by the wet, crunching sound of bone.
Cole froze. His heart hammered against his ribs. He flattened himself against the rock wall, inching forward until he could peer around a rocky outcrop.
Twenty meters away, a creature was hunched over the carcass of some deer-like animal. It was canine in shape, but larger than any wolf he had ever seen. Its fur was the color of cooling embers, and wisps of smoke curled from its nostrils with every breath. Its claws were long and black, like shards of obsidian, and they tore through the carcass with sickening ease.
A Cinderfang. Peak E-Rank.
This was not the low-level E-Rank beast he had prepared for. The information about Zone Green was either outdated or wrong.
Panic, cold and sharp, tried to seize him. He shoved it back down. Analyze. Don't panic.
He was downwind. The creature hadn't noticed him yet. Its back was mostly to him, distracted by its meal. This was his only advantage.
His mother's words echoed in his mind. "Your best weapon is not getting into a fight in the first place."
He began to back away, his movements agonizingly slow. One step. Then another. His foot landed on a loose pile of scree. The tiny rocks shifted, a cascade of pebbles skittering down into the ravine.
It was a whisper of a sound, but in the silence of the ravine, it was a gunshot.
The Cinderfang's head snapped up. Its glowing, malevolent red eyes locked directly onto his. A low, rumbling growl vibrated through the air, a promise of violence. It abandoned its meal, rising to its full, intimidating height.
Retreat was no longer an option.
Cole's mind went into overdrive. Mid-F Rank vs. D-Rank. Direct confrontation is suicide. Environment? Narrow ravine, limited maneuverability. Equipment? Staff for distance, knife for close quarters. Objective? Survive.
The Cinderfang lunged.
It didn't charge in a straight line. It moved with a terrifying, predatory grace, weaving from side to side. It was faster than he could have imagined.
Cole didn't try to meet it head-on. He did what his mother had drilled into him. He used the staff. He jammed the carbon-fiber end into the ground and vaulted sideways, putting a large boulder between himself and the beast.
The Cinderfang, expecting its prey to cower, overshot its lunge. Its claws scraped against the rock where he had been standing, sending sparks flying. It snarled in frustration, whipping its head around.
Cole was already moving. He didn't run. He created distance, keeping the staff held in a two-handed grip, a barrier between them.
The beast charged again. This time, Cole was ready. He didn't dodge. He stood his ground, angled the staff, and met the charge. The impact jarred his arms to the shoulder, a brutal shock that nearly made him lose his grip. But the carbon-fiber held. He deflected the beast's snapping jaws to the side, its hot, foul breath washing over his face.
For a split second, its flank was exposed.
He didn't hesitate. He let go of the staff with one hand, his other hand already holding the Hunter's knife. He stabbed, not with brute force, but with precision, aiming for the soft spot behind its front leg.
The blade sank in.
The Cinderfang let out a piercing yelp of pain and rage. It twisted, trying to bring its claws to bear. Cole was already pulling back, abandoning the knife, and scrambling away, putting distance between them again.
The fight was not over. He had wounded it, but he had also made it furious. It ignored the knife buried in its side, its red eyes burning with a murderous focus. It gathered itself, its muscles coiling for a final, decisive pounce.
But Cole had bought himself the time he needed.
While the beast was preparing to lunge, he was already reaching into his belt pouch. His fingers closed around a small, glass orb. A low-grade light grenade. A tool for researchers to illuminate dark caves.
As the Cinderfang leaped, Cole crushed the orb and threw it directly at the beast's face.
An intensely brilliant, silent flash of white light erupted in the narrow ravine.
The Cinderfang, with its superior, darkness-adapted vision, was completely unprepared. It howled in agony, its leap going wild as its world was turned to white fire. It crashed blindly into the ravine wall, stunned and disoriented.
Cole didn't wait to see if it would recover. He snatched his staff from the ground and ran. He didn't look back. He just ran, his lungs burning, his legs pumping on pure adrenaline, until the sounds of the beast's pained howls faded behind him.
He finally collapsed hours later, miles away from the ravine. He was bruised, bleeding from a dozen minor scrapes, and trembling with exhaustion and the lingering terror of the fight.
But he was alive.
He had survived his first trial.
He rested for a few hours, his nerves still frayed. As dusk began to settle, he forced himself to his feet. He checked his map. He was close.
He walked for another hour, and then he saw it. The landscape opened into a wide, sunken valley, just as the historian's book had described. The sides of the valley were dotted with the crumbling, eroded shapes of what might have once been statues or monoliths. An aura of profound, ancient silence hung over the place.
This was the Valley of the Sunken Kings.
He spent the last hour of daylight searching, his eyes tracing the patterns on the valley walls, comparing them to the crude map. He found it near the base of a small waterfall, hidden behind a curtain of moss and vines.
A doorway.
It wasn't grand. It was a simple, rectangular opening carved into the rock, sealed by a massive, stone slab. Faint, almost completely eroded runes were carved around its edges.
He had found it. The tomb.
He stood before the entrance, the last rays of sunlight fading from the sky. The weight of his two-year plan, the terror of the fight, the strangeness of this world—it all culminated in this single moment.
He placed a hand on the cold, ancient stone.
The first opportunity was right in front of him. All he had to do was open the door.