The patch burned in his pocket like a compass.
Daniel checked it constantly, fingertips brushing the stitched eye, half starfield, half crimson scar. He didn't know what it meant, didn't know who had worn it or why, but he knew one thing for certain: it wasn't from this world.
It was human.
And that was enough.
The days stretched into a blur of green and silver. Daniel kept moving, keeping to streams and ridges, marking his path when he could. Hunger gnawed at him constantly. His military rations were long gone, and Lyra's gifts had been eaten days earlier.
So he hunted.
Snares caught small rodent-like creatures, their meat stringy but edible. Once, he speared a bird with crimson feathers and a hooked beak, roasting it over a low fire. Each bite was a victory.
He resisted using his ability at first, terrified of draining himself when predators might be near. But exhaustion and hunger wore him down.
On the fifth night, when his traps failed and his stomach cramped, he gave in.
He pictured a simple protein bar—something small, manageable, not a weapon. His body burned, vision going white, and when he opened his hand, a dented foil-wrapped bar sat in his palm.
He tore it open with shaking fingers and devoured it, the taste of chocolate and soy hitting him like a memory from another life.
Afterward, he collapsed beside the fire, hollow but alive.
"Every two days," he whispered to himself. "That's all I get."
The deeper he went, the more signs he found.
Charred fire pits. Snapped branches cut clean with blades, not claws. Even a rusted tin can, crushed under moss but undeniably machine-made.
Each discovery set his blood rushing. He wasn't chasing ghosts. Someone had been here. Maybe still was.
On the ninth day since leaving the elves, Daniel found tracks again. Human. Barefoot, but unmistakably human in shape. Smaller than his boots, lighter. A child, maybe.
His throat tightened. "A whole village?"
The tracks led south, winding along a riverbank, past cliffs carved with strange symbols. Daniel followed, his rifle tight in his grip, nerves stretched thin.
By dusk, smoke curled above the trees.
Not fire from battle. Not burning huts.
Cooking fires.
Daniel crouched at the treeline, heart hammering. Ahead lay a clearing carved into the forest, ringed by wooden palisades not unlike the elves'. But inside, the structures were different.
Simple wooden houses. Stone chimneys. A well at the center. Fields of grain rippling in the breeze.
And people.
Human people.
Daniel's breath hitched. Men carrying tools, women hauling buckets, children chasing each other through the dirt. Their clothes were roughspun but familiar—shirts, trousers, boots. Some wore stitched cloaks against the wind. Their laughter carried across the square.
It was the sound of home.
Daniel's throat closed. His vision blurred. After weeks of wolves, shadows, cages, and fire, the sight nearly broke him.
He wasn't alone.
Not anymore.
Daniel stood frozen at the treeline, staring at the impossible.
Humans. Real humans. Not elves, not monsters, not shadows. Men and women with familiar faces, hauling buckets from a well, tending fields, mending fences. Children chased each other through the square, their laughter echoing in the evening air.
The sight nearly broke him. His chest tightened, his throat constricted. After weeks of cages, fire, and nightmares, here was proof he wasn't alone.
But relief was quickly replaced by dread.
How will they see me?
His uniform was torn, bloodstained. His rifle gleamed like alien metal in the fading light. He'd already been mistaken for a monster once. He couldn't afford another mob.
Still, hiding wasn't an option.
Daniel stepped slowly from the trees, hands raised high, rifle slung across his back.
"Hello!" His voice cracked with exhaustion. "I'm… I'm not here to hurt you!"
The children froze, laughter cutting short. A bucket clattered to the ground. Adults turned, eyes wide, staring at the stranger who'd emerged from the forest.
A woman screamed.
Men grabbed tools, pitchforks, and crude spears, rushing to shield the children. Shouts rang out in a language Daniel didn't know. Fear and suspicion rippled through the clearing like wildfire.
Daniel's stomach sank.
They didn't know him. He didn't know them.
This wasn't a reunion.
This was first contact all over again.
The shouts grew louder as Daniel stepped closer.
Men armed with crude spears and axes rushed to the palisade, positioning themselves between him and the women pulling children away. Their clothes were patched and homespun, their weapons iron-forged but rough. They weren't soldiers, but there were a lot of them—and they were terrified.
Daniel froze a dozen yards from the gate, raising both hands higher.
"I'm not your enemy," he said, his voice breaking on the words. He tapped his chest. "Daniel. Human. Friend."
The response was a wall of angry voices. Words he didn't understand, spit out sharp and fast. Their eyes darted to his rifle. Fear sharpened into rage.
One of the men—a tall figure with a scar across his jaw—snarled something guttural and hurled a spear.
Daniel's instincts screamed. He dove sideways, the weapon whistling past his head and burying itself in the dirt. He rolled, came up on one knee, rifle already in his hands, barrel rising.
Gasps echoed from the wall. Mothers clutched their children tighter.
Daniel's finger hovered on the trigger, heart pounding, training warring with desperation. One squeeze and I'll survive. One squeeze and they'll never trust me.
He forced the rifle down, teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached. "Don't make me do this!"
The standoff dragged, heavy and suffocating. The villagers shouted, Daniel shouted back, but the words meant nothing. The language barrier was a wall neither side could climb.
And then, a boy stumbled forward. Barely ten years old, he had tripped running from his mother's arms. He hit the dirt hard, too close to the gate, right in front of the men with spears.
A shadow flickered in the trees. Daniel saw the movement before anyone else. His stomach dropped.
Crimson eyes.
Not wolves. Not bone soldiers. But something smaller, quicker—dog-sized beasts with needle-like legs and dripping maws. They darted from the underbrush, silent but fast, straight toward the boy.
The villagers screamed. Spears shifted, too slow.
Daniel didn't think. He moved.
He pictured what he needed most: a flashbang. Non-lethal, disorienting, a tool to save lives without killing.
The burn ripped through his body, searing hot. His vision blurred. He screamed through clenched teeth as light and weight bloomed in his palm.
A cylinder. Pin.
Daniel yanked it free and hurled the device at the charging beasts.
BANG!
Light erupted. Sound cracked like thunder. The beasts shrieked, tumbling in the dirt, legs flailing as their senses shattered.
The boy was thrown back but alive. Villagers staggered, covering their ears, eyes wide with terror as the smoke cleared.
Daniel stood in the center of it all, chest heaving, hand still smoking from the effort.
Every eye was on him.
He'd saved the boy.
But he'd also revealed what he was.
The villagers whispered furiously, their fear now mixed with something else—wonder. Some pointed, making the sign of protection Daniel had seen before. Others shouted angrily, spitting on the ground.
The boy's mother rushed forward, dragging her child back into her arms. She looked at Daniel with wide, terrified eyes before retreating into the crowd.
The scar-jawed man barked orders, pointing at Daniel. Spears leveled again.
Daniel sagged, body trembling, vision still hazy from the effort. He raised his free hand, forcing his voice steady.
"I'm not here to hurt you. I swear."
But the words were useless.
The crowd wasn't ready to decide if he was their savior—or their doom.
The gates creaked open just enough for an older man to step through. His hair was white, his clothes patched but cleaner than the others. Authority clung to him. He raised a hand, silencing the mob with a single word.
His eyes locked on Daniel's, calm but sharp, like he was measuring every breath the stranger took.
Then, in halting, broken English, he said:
"You… come inside. Now."
The crowd parted uneasily as the elder led Daniel through the gates.
The palisade creaked shut behind him, cutting off the forest and the crimson-eyed predators still lurking beyond. Daniel's rifle was slung across his back, but every muscle in his body buzzed with tension. He could feel the eyes on him—dozens, maybe hundreds, full of suspicion, fear, and something sharper.
The small village smelled of smoke, earth, and bread. Wooden homes leaned against one another, patched with bark and stone. Chickens scattered as he passed, children clutched tight by their parents. Every villager stared like he had dragged the storm in with him.
The elder walked without hurry, his white hair catching torchlight. He didn't look back to see if Daniel followed—he didn't need to.
They entered a long hall built of heavy logs. Inside, firelight danced across rough-hewn benches, hunting trophies on the walls, and a great table scarred by decades of use.
The elder gestured for Daniel to sit. Two men with axes lingered at the door, their eyes never leaving him.
Daniel lowered himself slowly, his legs aching. He set his rifle across his lap—not pointing, but not surrendering either.
The elder sat across from him, fingers steepled, eyes sharp. He spoke in his own language first, low and deliberate. Daniel shook his head.
"I don't understand you." His voice cracked. He touched his chest. "Daniel. Human. Soldier."
The elder frowned, studying him. Then, with halting care, he switched to broken English again.
"You… from where?"
Daniel froze. The question struck deeper than a blade.
"I… I don't know how to explain it." He rubbed his face. "Another world. Far away. I shouldn't be here."
The elder's gaze didn't waver. He tapped the table. "Power." He gestured to Daniel's hands, then mimed the flash of light from earlier. "Danger."
Daniel clenched his fists. "Yeah. Danger. To me, mostly. Every time I use it, it damn near kills me."
The elder tilted his head, silent for a long moment. Then he said softly: "Gift… or curse."
The doors burst open. Villagers crowded in, voices sharp and angry. Some pointed at Daniel, shouting, spitting on the ground. Others argued back, gesturing toward the child he had saved. The hall filled with chaos.
Daniel sat stiffly, heart pounding, every instinct screaming to grab his rifle.
The elder slammed his fist on the table. The noise cut the room in half.
He barked a string of orders. Slowly, reluctantly, the villagers backed away, though their eyes still burned holes in Daniel.
The elder leaned forward again. "You… stay. Tonight. Then… we see."
Daniel exhaled shakily. "Fine. Tonight."
They gave him a small hut at the edge of the square, little more than a single room with a straw mattress and a clay lamp. The door had no lock, but two guards stood outside all night.
Inside, Daniel collapsed onto the bed. He was too tired to care about comfort. His body ached, his head throbbed, and his chest felt hollow from using his ability again.
Still, he ate the food they left—dense bread, thin stew, bitter herbs. He drank water until his stomach hurt.
And for the first time since waking in this world, he slept without firelight at his side.
But peace didn't mean safety.
Even in dreams, he heard whispers. Villagers outside arguing. Some calling him savior. Others calling him cursed.
And above it all, the elder's words lingered like smoke:
Gift… or curse.
Morning came with the sound of hammers and chickens.
Daniel sat on the edge of the straw mattress, rubbing his eyes, watching slivers of sunlight creep across the clay floor. The stew had left him with a sour stomach, but food was food.
Outside, the guards shifted restlessly. He could hear villagers speaking, laughing, arguing. Their words were a constant reminder of his isolation. He caught fragments—tones of anger, suspicion, even amusement—but no meaning.
When one child peeked in, staring wide-eyed before being pulled away by her mother, Daniel's chest tightened. He wasn't part of them. He was still the stranger at the gate.
And unless he broke the language barrier, he always would be.
They allowed him into the square later that morning, under escort. Villagers scattered from his path, though some lingered at a distance, whispering.
Daniel forced himself to study them like an intelligence briefing. Their lives were simple but ordered. Men repaired fences and sharpened blades. Women carried baskets of grain or tended to fires. Children chased each other through the dirt.
No signs of advanced tech. No vehicles. No radios. But the stitching on their clothes, the shape of their tools—it was too precise for elves. Too familiar. Humans had been here a long time. Long enough to build lives.
But not long enough to lose fear of outsiders.
Every glance reminded him: without their words, he was just another monster in uniform.
That night, back in the hut, Daniel lay awake staring at the ceiling beams. His chest still ached from the flashbang. His body begged for rest. But his mind wouldn't let him.
What if I could make it?
He clenched his fists. The ability had answered him every time before. Rifle. Knife. Grenade. Food. All things he could picture clearly. But language wasn't an object. It was a concept. A bridge. Could the ability give him that?
The thought scared him. More than bullets, more than beasts.
Because if it worked, he wouldn't just be surviving anymore. He'd be changing.
He sat up slowly, crossing his legs on the floor.
"Alright," he muttered. "Just one try. Something small. No explosions. No weapons. Just… understanding."
He closed his eyes, focused on the sound of villagers outside, on the memory of Lyra teaching him words, on Kaelen's sharp voice, on the elder's broken English. He imagined their words unfolding like pages, reshaping into meaning.
His hands burned. Not like fire this time—like static crawling through his veins. His skull throbbed, ears ringing. He gasped, gripping his head, but forced the thought tighter.
I want to understand them.
The pain peaked. Light flared behind his eyes. He screamed, collapsing forward onto the floor.
And then—silence.
When Daniel woke, the fire had burned low. His body trembled with weakness, but his ears buzzed strangely.
Outside, two guards muttered. And for the first time, he understood.
"…still dangerous. We should have killed him at the gate."
"Elder says wait. Elder says maybe he is needed."
Daniel's breath caught. He staggered upright, pressing his palms to the wall.
It had worked. God help him, it had worked.
The next morning, when the elder summoned him again, Daniel listened with pounding heart as the old man spoke to his people.
"We will hear him," the elder said. "But we will also watch him. He is not ours. He is not proven."
Gasps rippled through the hall when Daniel answered—not in English, but in their tongue.
"I understand you now." His voice was hoarse, but steady. "I can speak with you."
Shock froze the room. Villagers muttered, fear sharpening into fresh suspicion. Some crossed themselves with the warding sign. Others whispered words like "sorcerer" and "curse."
The elder's eyes narrowed.
"You have power," he said slowly. "Too much power. Speak carefully, stranger."
Daniel swallowed hard. "I don't want to rule you. I don't want to hurt you. I just want to live. And to find others—others like me."
The hall filled with silence.
For the first time, the villagers could hear his truth.
But truth wasn't always enough.
The elder leaned back, his gaze sharp as flint. "Then tomorrow," he said, "you will prove if you are curse… or gift."
The crowd erupted in whispers. Daniel's stomach sank.
Another test. Another trial.
And this time, there was no hiding what he really was.
The elder's words echoed through the hall.
"Tomorrow, you will prove yourself."
Daniel sat rigid on the bench, his fists clenched in his lap. Around him, villagers muttered fiercely. Some spat on the floor. Others looked at him with cautious hope. But the message was clear: if he failed, he wouldn't leave this village alive.
They gave him no details, only that he was to face "the trial." Guards escorted him back to his hut, their faces grim.
Daniel sat alone in the lamplight, cleaning his rifle with trembling hands. He checked each magazine, each round, every moving part. He had maybe three full mags left. Not enough for a war. Barely enough for survival.
"Prove yourself," he muttered, running a rag across the barrel. "Story of my damn life."
Sleep came fitful. He dreamed of Lyra again—her small hands pressing bread through the bars of his cage, her wide eyes begging him not to go. He dreamed of his squad, their voices lost in static. He dreamed of shadows clawing at him, ripping the patch from his chest.
When dawn came, he was already awake.
The village square was packed. Men, women, and children crowded the fences, their voices buzzing with fear and excitement. A rough circle had been cleared in the dirt.
Daniel was led inside, stripped of his rifle. Only his knife was left.
He stiffened. "Not smart to take my gun."
The guard sneered. "This is our law, stranger. Not yours."
Daniel's jaw tightened, but he let it go. Adapt. Always adapt.
At the far side of the ring, the elder stood with his staff. His silver hair gleamed in the sun, his eyes sharp as flint. Kaelen was there too, arms folded, gaze cold.
The elder raised his voice, and now Daniel understood every word.
"This man claims to be human. He claims to be power and not curse. Today he proves it, or today he dies."
A roar went up from the crowd.
From the gates, two warriors dragged something forward.
A cage.
Inside, snarling and thrashing, was a beast Daniel had never seen before. Its body was lean and coiled, covered in mottled scales that shimmered green and black. Four legs ended in claws like daggers. Its head was elongated, jaws lined with needle teeth, eyes glowing faint yellow. A forked tongue hissed between bars.
The villagers backed away, whispering prayers.
Daniel's stomach sank. "Guess I'm the entertainment."
The elder slammed his staff against the ground. "Survive the beast. Kill it. Or be its meal."
The cage door creaked open.
The beast exploded from the cage with a shriek, claws tearing furrows in the dirt. Daniel barely rolled aside before it slammed down where he'd been, jaws snapping inches from his throat.
The crowd screamed.
Daniel came up with his knife, crouched low. The beast circled, tail lashing, eyes locked on him. Its movements were faster than any wolf, sharper than any predator he'd faced so far.
It lunged again. Daniel sidestepped, driving his blade into its flank. The steel bit shallow, scraping off scales. The beast howled, twisting, its tail whipping him across the chest. He hit the dirt hard, breath gone.
"Goddamn it," he wheezed, scrambling back. His ribs burned where the tail had struck.
The beast prowled, tongue flicking, savoring the hunt.
Daniel tightened his grip on the knife. His body screamed with exhaustion, but his mind sharpened. Predict. Counter. Strike.
It lunged. He feinted left, then rolled right, slashing across its jaw. Blood sprayed black and steaming. The beast roared, thrashing wildly.
The villagers shouted encouragement and curses alike.
Daniel's heart pounded. His knife alone wouldn't be enough.
He could feel it—the itch of the ability crawling under his skin. The fire waiting to burn him hollow.
No. Don't do it. You'll collapse.
But as the beast reared back, jaws wide to snap him in half, Daniel knew he had no choice.
He focused. Pictured what he needed most.
A spear. Long enough to keep distance. Strong enough to pierce scales.
The burn came fast and hard, ripping through him like molten wire. His vision flared white. His scream tore through the square as light spilled from his hands.
And then—a spear clattered into the dirt before him.
The crowd gasped.
Daniel grabbed it, spinning just as the beast lunged. He braced, drove the tip forward, and felt it punch through the creature's chest. Black blood sprayed, hissing as it hit the ground. The beast shrieked, thrashing, claws raking his arm before it collapsed in the dirt, twitching once, then still.
Silence fell.
Daniel staggered, barely able to stand, spear trembling in his hands. Sweat poured down his face. His arm bled freely, his body hollow.
But he was alive.
The beast wasn't.
The crowd erupted—half in cheers, half in furious shouts. Some knelt in awe. Others spat curses, calling him demon.
Daniel dropped the spear, his chest heaving. He looked up at the elder, forcing the words out between gasps.
"Is… that… enough?"
The elder's gaze was unreadable. Then, slowly, he nodded.
"You live. You proved."
Kaelen's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.
The villagers' voices clashed around Daniel—hope and hatred in equal measure. He could feel the divide opening wider with every breath he took.
But one thing was certain: he wasn't going to be ignored anymore.
That night, back in the hut, Daniel bound his arm with strips of cloth, exhaustion weighing heavy.
The villagers were still arguing outside. Some wanted him gone. Some wanted him as protector.
And he lay in the middle of it all, staring at the strange patch by the lamplight, whispering to himself:
"I just wanted to survive… now I'm fighting monsters in cages for an audience."
His hand clenched.
"If there are others out there, I have to find them before this eats me alive."
The village shifted after the trial.
No one ignored him anymore.
Children whispered his name—Daniel—as he passed. Women pulled them closer, muttering curses under their breath. Men eyed him with a mix of awe and suspicion, knuckles white on their tools.
Some bowed their heads as if in respect. Others spat in the dirt when he walked by.
He had become something they couldn't agree on. Protector. Monster. Both.
The village shifted after the trial.
No one ignored him anymore.
Children whispered his name—Daniel—as he passed. Women pulled them closer, muttering curses under their breath. Men eyed him with a mix of awe and suspicion, knuckles white on their tools.
Some bowed their heads as if in respect. Others spat in the dirt when he walked by.
He had become something they couldn't agree on. Protector. Monster. Both.
They didn't cage him. They didn't drive him out. Instead, they let him walk the square, always shadowed by guards. He helped where he could—hauling buckets, chopping wood, patching fences.
At night, he sat in the long hall, listening to their stories. He learned quickly with his new gift for language, piecing together fragments of their history.
The villagers called themselves the Veyra, descendants of humans who had been here for generations. They spoke of ancestors arriving through "the tearing sky" long ago, scattered across this world. They had survived by carving out small towns like this one, hidden from the beasts and the shadow things that stalked the wilds.
But their numbers were dwindling. The shadows grew bolder each year.
Daniel listened, heart sinking. He wasn't the first to fall into this place. And he might not be the last.
His arm throbbed constantly from the beast's claws. The villagers had bound it with herbs and cloth, but infection nipped at the edges. Each night, he peeled back the bandage, staring at the angry red gashes.
He was tired of being broken. Tired of barely holding himself together after every fight.
That's when the thought came.
What if I use it on myself?
The ability had made weapons, food, even understanding. Why not healing? Why not force his body to repair instead of rot?
The risk clawed at him. What if it made things worse? What if it burned him out completely?
But lying awake one night, fever sweat slick on his face, Daniel made the choice.
He sat cross-legged on the floor, breathing slow, focusing on the wound. The burn stirred immediately, eager, dangerous. He clenched his jaw.
"Not weapon," he whispered. "Not tool. Just… heal."
Pain roared through him, sharper than before, ripping down his arm like fire. He bit back a scream, clutching his wrist, forcing the thought tighter. Heal. Not hurt. Heal.
Light flared under his skin, crawling along the gashes. The wound hissed, smoke rising. His vision went white-hot—then black.
When he woke, dawn filtered through the cracks in the wall. His arm no longer throbbed.
He pulled the bandage away slowly.
The gashes were gone. Smooth pink flesh gleamed where torn skin had been.
Daniel stared, breathless.
"It worked."
His laugh was ragged, half-crazed. "Goddamn miracle. It worked."
The next day, he worked harder than ever—lifting, chopping, hauling—to test his body. No pain. No weakness. His strength felt renewed, sharper than before.
But the villagers noticed.
When he pulled the bandage free, showing smooth skin where there should've been scars, whispers spread like wildfire. Some stared in awe, crossing themselves. Others recoiled, muttering "unnatural."
The elder studied him that night in the hall, his gaze sharp.
"You change yourself," the old man said. "This power—dangerous. Every time, it eats you. Every time, you risk death."
Daniel's fists clenched. "I'm not asking for it. But if I don't use it, I'll die anyway. And if I die, your people lose the only thing standing between them and those things out there."
The elder's silence was heavy, then he said: "Perhaps. Or perhaps we invite greater doom by keeping you."
When Daniel left the hall, the patch still tucked in his pocket, he stared at the night sky, stars strange and sharp above.
He flexed his healed arm.
His power wasn't just survival anymore. It wasn't just violence.
It could change him.
And if he learned to control it… it could change everything.
The Veyra village could only hold him so long.
Three days after the trial, Daniel stood at the palisade, pack on his shoulders, rifle across his back. The elder's words still echoed: Gift… or curse.
He had overheard the guards talking one night. Beyond the scattered villages of the Veyra, great kingdoms ruled the land. Cities surrounded by stone walls, armies clad in steel, banners flying from towers.
The kingdoms were not united. Some were at war with each other, others barely holding against the beasts of the wilds. But they were powerful, and they shaped the lives of everyone caught between them.
Daniel had spent his life under the shadow of nations. Governments, armies, politics. Now, in this world, it was no different.
If he wanted answers—about the tearing sky, about other humans—he'd find them in a kingdom.
And if they wouldn't give him answers, he'd take them.
Daniel traveled south, following the river. He hunted with traps and fishing lines, saving his bullets. His body no longer broke as it once had—every few nights, he pushed his power into healing small cuts and bruises, strengthening himself.
But something else tugged at him.
What else could he make?
He'd conjured weapons, food, even language. He'd healed himself. Each use nearly destroyed him, but each time he came back a little stronger.
The thought gnawed at him. If I can heal myself… can I create more than tools? Can I create people?
The idea terrified him. But once planted, it wouldn't let go.
He chose a night deep in the woods, far from villages, with only the stars as witness.
He built a fire, sat cross-legged, and focused. His body still bore faint aches, but his energy hummed stronger than before.
He pictured a soldier. Not someone real, not a memory of his squadmates—just a shape. A human form clad in armor, faceless, obedient.
The burn roared through him instantly, harder than any attempt before. His vision went white. His skin crawled. His chest seized.
Stop, stop, you'll kill yourself.
But he didn't stop.
He screamed as the light tore from him, spilling into the dirt before him. It writhed, twisted, coalesced into shape. His strength bled out, his body hollowing—then the light hardened.
And when the smoke cleared, something knelt before him.
A figure in crude black armor, faceless helm gleaming faint blue, a spear gripped in its gauntleted hands.
Daniel's breath hitched.
It didn't speak. Didn't breathe. But it knelt, head bowed, as if awaiting command.
He staggered forward, reaching out. His hand trembled against cold steel. The figure didn't move except to obey when he whispered, "Stand."
It rose smoothly, towering over him. Not alive. Not dead. Something in between.
His legs buckled, exhaustion threatening to drag him unconscious. But even through the haze, awe burned in his chest.
He had made more than tools. More than healing.
He had made a soldier.
"An army," he rasped. "I could make my own army."
The figure stood silent, awaiting orders. Daniel collapsed back against a tree, clutching his chest. His vision blurred, but a ragged smile pulled at his lips.
The kingdoms had their armies.
Now he could have his.
The figure dissolved into smoke before dawn, vanishing like mist. The power hadn't held.
But Daniel knew one thing: it was possible.
And if he could make one… he could make many.
The kingdoms of this world had no idea what was coming.
The farther Daniel traveled south, the more dangerous his uniform became.
The olive-green fatigues were ripped, bloodstained, and alien to the villagers he passed on the roads. Every glance lingered too long, every whisper sharpened. If kingdoms truly ruled this land, he couldn't walk through their gates looking like a demon soldier from nowhere.
He needed to adapt.
One night by the fire, Daniel stripped down to his shirt, studying the ruined fabric of his uniform. Patches of dried blood, tears from claws, the faded American name tape that meant nothing here.
I'm not Private Mason anymore, he thought. I'm not a soldier in their war. I'm something else now.
He clenched his fists. The burn stirred immediately, like it was listening, waiting.
He breathed deep and pictured what he needed
The pain tore through him, but softer this time, like coals instead of wildfire. Light shimmered across his skin, weaving threads where none existed. His vision blurred, and when he blinked, the old fatigues were gone.
In their place hung a cloak of deep gray, lined with reinforced leather plates at the shoulders and chest. A hood shadowed his face, and gloves of black hide wrapped his hands. His boots were heavier, built for rough stone instead of asphalt.
He stared at himself in the reflection of his canteen.
Not a soldier. Not a villager.
Something between.
He flexed his fingers, testing the weight. The fabric moved like it belonged to him.
For the first time since arriving in this world, Daniel Mason looked less like prey… and more like a predator.
The days blurred into one long march. The forest thinned, giving way to open hills and fields of tall grass. Roads carved into the earth appeared more often, beaten flat by carts and patrols.
Daniel kept to the edges, his hood low, the patch still hidden in his pocket. Farmers passed with oxen, merchants with wagons. He caught their curious stares but no one raised alarm.
The cloak worked.
Still, whispers followed him. "Stranger." "Mercenary." "Wanderer."
Better that than "monster."
It was near dusk when he crested a ridge and saw it.
A city.
Stone walls rose high above the fields, towers jutting like spears into the sky. Banners rippled crimson and gold, their sigils unreadable but proud. Beyond the gates sprawled rooftops of wood and slate, smoke rising from chimneys, streets alive with movement.
The kingdom.
His chest tightened. After weeks of forest, cages, and villages, it looked impossibly vast. Civilization. Power. Answers.
Or a new kind of cage.
The outer road was crowded. Farmers queued with carts of grain, hunters with pelts, traders with wagons of wares. Soldiers in chain and leather patrolled the line, spears gleaming, eyes sharp.
Daniel fell in with the crowd, keeping his hood low. His rifle was slung under the cloak, disguised as a wrapped staff. The patch burned in his pocket like a secret.
As he drew closer, tension wound tight in his gut. He didn't belong here. Not really. One wrong look, one wrong word, and they'd see it.
When his turn came, two guards blocked his path.
"State your name and purpose," one barked, hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
Daniel lifted his head just enough for them to see his face, then spoke clearly.
"My name is Daniel," he said. "And I've come looking for answers."
The guards exchanged a glance, suspicion flickering. One raised a brow.
"Answers? From where?"
Daniel's mouth was dry. He tightened his fist inside his cloak.
Not yet. Don't reveal too much. Not here.
He forced a weary smile. "From the road. Same as anyone else."
The guards studied him, then stepped aside.
"Welcome to Caelborne," one said, voice flat. "Don't cause trouble."
Daniel stepped through the gates, heart pounding, into the heart of a kingdom.
The streets stretched before him, crowded with people, alive with noise, brighter than anything he'd seen since waking in this world.
And somewhere in this city, he knew, lay the first true answers to why he had been dragged here.
The city swallowed him whole.
Stone streets wound through tightly packed buildings, banners fluttering above. Merchants shouted prices, hawking spices, cloth, and steel. Children darted through alleys, chasing each other. Smithies rang with the clang of hammers.
It was overwhelming after weeks in the wild. Civilization—messy, loud, alive.
Daniel kept his hood low, eyes flicking to every patrol of guards in crimson and gold tabards. They walked with discipline, steel helms gleaming, spears in hand. Organized, trained.
A real army.
Good to know what I'm up against if this goes south, Daniel thought grimly.
The deeper Daniel pushed into Caelborne, the more he noticed it.
The same crest, carved into stone walls, hanging on banners, stitched on armbands: a sigil of an open book behind a hammer and sword.
People bowed when they passed it. Merchants wore it on their stalls. Even soldiers patrolling the streets carried the mark.
Everywhere, the Guild.
The Guild wasn't a faction. It wasn't a choice.
It was the system.
One body, spanning every city and kingdom, binding all people together. Farmers, blacksmiths, hunters, mages, mercenaries — every trade, every life was tied to it.
And every member carried a rank, branded into their records and stitched into their clothes:
Bronze – the new and weak. Apprentices, beginners, the lowest rung.
Iron – trained and reliable, the backbone of laborers and soldiers.
Gold – skilled, proven, often leaders of squads or workshops.
Diamond – rare, powerful, trusted with dangerous contracts or leading dozens.
Red Iridium – the highest and hardest to reach, the pinnacle. Their names carried weight across kingdoms; their authority rivaled kings.
Ranks weren't just marks of strength. They were identity.
Without one, you weren't just nobody. You were nothing.
Daniel understood the problem instantly.
He wore no rank. No bronze sigil on his cloak. No iron armband. No gold trim, no diamond crest, no shimmering red iridium.
Nothing.
Every man, woman, and child around him bore their rank openly. A farmer with bronze thread. A hunter with iron clasped at his belt. A gold-marked merchant shouting prices.
And Daniel Mason walked among them unmarked.
An anomaly.
A threat.
The longer Daniel walked Caelborne's streets, the more obvious the whispers became.
"Unmarked.""Who walks without a sigil?""Not even Bronze? He shouldn't be here."
Merchants pulled their wares closer when he passed. Guards shifted uneasily, eyes narrowing at his hood. Children whispered and pointed before being pulled away.
He'd been in war zones before. He knew the look.
The city wasn't just watching him.
It was preparing to close in.
That evening, when the bells tolled from the tower at the city's heart, Daniel paused in the square.
A procession wound through the streets: armored men and women, cloaks trimmed in red, their armor polished like mirrors. Their boots struck the stone in perfect unison.
The crowd bowed their heads as they passed.
On each cloak blazed the sigil Daniel had seen everywhere: a book, a hammer, and a sword.
Whispers rose like prayers.
"The Eternal Guild…"
Daniel's chest tightened. So that was the name.
Not just a guild. The Guild. Eternal, unbreakable, ruling all.
The enforcers marched past, their Red Iridium captain's gaze cutting through the crowd like fire. Daniel lowered his head, but the weight of that stare lingered long after they had gone.
It happened in the market.
Daniel had just traded a strip of leather for dried meat when three figures stepped into his path. Cloaks of iron-gray, the sigil burned into their shoulders. Guild enforcers.
"You." Their leader's voice was sharp. "Lift your hood."
Daniel froze, his mind running. Play it calm. Don't escalate. Slowly, he lowered the hood, letting them see his face.
The enforcer sneered. "Where is your mark?"
Daniel said nothing. His silence only hardened their suspicion.
"You walk without Bronze. Without any rank. Do you think yourself above the Eternal Guild?"
The crowd was watching now, merchants leaning forward, whispers swelling. Daniel's jaw clenched.
"I'm not part of your Guild," he said finally. "I don't need a mark."
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Even the enforcers looked startled—then their faces darkened with rage.
"Not part of the Guild," the leader repeated, his voice dripping venom. "Then you are rogue."
He gestured sharply. Two enforcers stepped forward, hands on blades.
Daniel's body tensed. Every instinct screamed to reach for his rifle, to end this before it began.
But no. Too many witnesses. Too many guards.
Instead, he let his hand fall open at his side. The burn stirred instantly, like fire licking under his skin. His vision prickled, his chest tightening.
The enforcers froze as smoke shimmered around him, light sparking faintly.
Not enough to create. Just enough to warn.
Daniel's voice was steady, low, dangerous.
"Touch me, and you'll regret it."
For a heartbeat, no one moved. The crowd held its breath. The enforcers stared at him, measuring, calculating.
Then the leader spat on the ground.
"Leave this district. Tonight. If you remain unmarked, the Eternal Guild will deal with you."
They turned sharply and marched off, the crowd scattering in their wake.
Daniel exhaled slowly, his hands trembling. His chest still burned from forcing the power to the surface without release.
The words echoed in his head. The Eternal Guild will deal with you.
This wasn't a warning. It was a death sentence.
He couldn't walk the streets forever as an unmarked outsider. He couldn't bend knee to their ranks.
But he could build something stronger.
That night, in his rented room above the tavern, Daniel sat with the patch in his palm, staring at the stitched eye of starfield and scar.
The Eternal Guild controlled kingdoms with Bronze, Iron, Gold, Diamond, and Red Iridium.
But he had no need of their ranks.
Because soon, he would have his own.
Daniel sat on the edge of his rented bed, cloak hanging heavy on the chair, rifle laid across his knees. His body ached from the day's tension, but his mind wouldn't let him rest.
The words of the enforcer echoed like a death sentence: The Eternal Guild will deal with you.
He had been in enough wars to know what that meant.
They weren't going to let him leave the city alive.
It came just after midnight.
Three sharp raps on the door.
Daniel froze, every nerve alive. Slowly, he raised the rifle, sights leveled at the wood.
Another knock. Calm. Patient.
Then the crash of boots against the doorframe.
The wood splintered. The door burst inward.
Three enforcers stormed in, cloaks trimmed with iron-gray, swords gleaming in the lamplight. Their leader barked:
"Rogue! By decree of the Eternal Guild, you are under arrest!"
Daniel's lips curled. "Not tonight."
He squeezed the trigger.
The rifle roared, muzzle flash turning the room into daylight. The first enforcer dropped with a hole through his chest. The other two ducked aside, shields raised, advancing in tight formation.
Daniel dove behind the bed as a blade slashed through the mattress. Splinters flew. His heart pounded. Two left. No room. No time.
The burn stirred instantly, hungry, dangerous.
Daniel clenched his fists, eyes blazing. He pictured not a spear, not a rifle — but soldiers. Shadows of steel. His own enforcers.
Pain seared his veins. His body convulsed. He screamed through clenched teeth as light poured from him.
Two armored figures rose in the cramped room, smoke curling from their forms. Faceless, armored, weapons in hand.
The Guild enforcers froze.
"What—what sorcery—?"
Daniel staggered upright, pointing. His voice was a growl. "Protect me."
The spectral soldiers obeyed instantly, surging forward. Blades clashed, sparks filling the room. The Guild enforcers fought hard, steel biting smoke, but the figures didn't falter, didn't bleed, didn't fear.
One enforcer screamed as a spectral blade pierced his chest, dissolving him into silence. The last dropped his weapon, scrambling backward toward the shattered door.
Daniel's eyes blazed in the lamplight. "Go back. Tell your Guild what you saw."
The man fled into the night.
The spectral soldiers faded moments later, dissolving into mist. Daniel collapsed against the wall, clutching his chest, blood trickling from his nose. His whole body trembled, hollowed out by the power.
But he was alive.
And the Eternal Guild had seen what he was capable of.
He wiped the blood from his face, muttering through ragged breaths.
"You want to call me rogue? Fine. But I won't be hunted. Not by you. Not by anyone."
Outside, the bells of Caelborne tolled, signaling the hour. But to Daniel Mason, it sounded like a warning.
The Eternal Guild wouldn't forgive this. They would send more. Stronger.
But for the first time since arriving in this world, Daniel didn't feel like prey.
He had fought them and survived.
And if he could create two soldiers tonight… he could create twenty tomorrow.
The Guild had kingdoms, armies, power.
But Daniel was building something greater.
His own.