"Nefer! NEFER! Nefer, wake up!"
I jolted upright, gasping, my heart hammering against my ribs like it was trying to escape. The darkness dissolved into morning light filtering through worn shutters, and there she stood—my mother, Amora. Regal in her simplicity. Not draped in silks or jewels, but stunning in a way that couldn't be purchased. The kind of beauty that lived in how she moved, how she tilted her head when she was concerned.
Like now.
"I'm coming, Mother!" I called out, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.
Always nagging, I thought, though without any real heat behind it. For thirteen Aions—thirteen years of my life—I'd woken to her voice pulling me from sleep. Sometimes gentle. Sometimes sharp. Always there.
She was all I had. Well, her and Elana. Though did my older sister really count? Debatable.
I stumbled down the narrow staircase of our residence, a structure that could generously be called "simple" and more accurately described as "decadent in its decay." The wood creaked with every step. Patches of the wall showed where plaster had crumbled away. But it was ours, and Mother kept it clean, kept it warm.
I was a weak thing—sickly, they called me in the village. Thin arms, knobby knees, brown hair that never quite laid flat no matter how much Mother fussed over it. But my eyes... those were something else. Greyish-white, like storm clouds at dawn. People said they were unnerving. Unnatural.
I didn't care. They were mine.
I rushed into the kitchen where Mother stood over the stove, preparing brinner—that peculiar meal somewhere between breakfast and dinner that we'd adopted out of necessity. My stomach growled at the smell of frying root vegetables and whatever preserved meat she'd managed to stretch for another day.
'Ah!'
I collided with her, wrapping my arms around her waist.
"NEFER! STOP RUNNING INTO ME!" She swatted at my shoulder, though her smile betrayed her. "You're thirteen Aions old! Act like it!"
From across the room came a low, knowing chuckle.
Elana.
My older sister sat in the corner, perched on the windowsill with the casual grace of someone who'd never known a day of true worry. More solemn than Mother, more relaxed. At seventeen, she'd grown into herself—stunning in a way that made the village boys trip over their own feet. She watched me with dark, amused eyes.
"Since when do we not greet fellow familial members?" I asked, mock-offended.
"Since they became annoying," Elana replied without even glancing my way. Her fingers traced idle patterns on the windowsill. "Speaking of greetings—you have to report to the Midlands today. Root growth detail."
I scratched the back of my head, grimacing. "Ah."
The Midlands.
Not ideal. Not ideal at all.
The Midlands were where struggling families like ours went to scrape together income. Every morning, dozens of us gathered at the central Distribution Display, waiting for the task postings. Hoping our names would be called. Hoping we'd be chosen for work—any work—so we could bring home enough bronze marks to keep the creditors from our door.
It was humiliating. But it was survival.
"Alright," I muttered, pushing down the knot in my stomach. "Let me head out."
Mother sighed, that particular sound that carried the weight of a thousand unspoken worries. She knew what the Midlands meant. Knew it was no place for a young child. But sacrifices were necessary. They always were.
I grabbed my worn satchel, slung it over my shoulder, and moved toward the door.
The moment I crossed the threshold, everything shifted.
The world turned black.
Not the natural darkness of night, but an absence—a void so complete it felt like being swallowed. I stumbled, reaching out for something, anything, but my hands found only empty air.
"What—where—"
Then I saw it.
Him.
The figure had no outline, no defined edges. It was grotesque, disturbing to the core—a mass of writhing corpses fused together, bones jutting at impossible angles, heads disfigured and misaligned. Dozens of faces, hundreds maybe, all screaming in unison:
"SLAUGHTER. SLAUGHTERER. SLAUGHTERER."
The voices overlapped, discordant, drilling into my skull like white-hot needles. I clutched my head, my own scream tearing from my throat—
—and then it stopped.
Just like that.
I blinked, gasping for air, and realized I was standing in the middle of the village square. Bent over. Hands pressed to my temples. Screaming.
Every passerby had stopped to stare.
"Since when did children begin glorifying possession?"
"Seeking attention from outsiders. Pathetic."
"I think that's Amora's child. Poor woman was gifted a histrionic by the gods."
"Have you heard? He can't even conjure a simple root cast."
Their voices washed over me like filthy water. I didn't look up. Didn't meet their eyes. The village was rural—I'd never said it was polite.
Shame tried to crawl up my spine, but I shoved it down. I had no time for shame. No energy for it. I gathered myself, straightened, and pushed into the crowd without a word.
Just another day, I told myself. Just another nightmare.
Except it hadn't felt like a nightmare.
It had felt like a memory.
The Midlands Distribution Point was already packed when I arrived.
Workers stood shoulder-to-shoulder, all of us wearing the same uniform of desperation: clothes stained with dirt and sweat, frayed hems, patched knees. We faced the Distribution Display—a large enchanted board that flickered with faint magical script, announcing the day's task assignments.
I squeezed into the crowd, trying to make myself smaller. Invisible.
The board hummed, and names began to appear:
'Make your way to Decon 1: Retheron, Morcan, Graphes...'
A roar of protest erupted immediately.
"ARE YOU SERIOUS?! They've been picking the same people for the last EIGHT WEEKS! We have families to feed, damn it!"
"YEAH! HE'S RIGHT!"
More voices joined the chorus, angry and desperate. But the board didn't care. It never did. The same names cycled through, week after week—those with connections, those who'd bribed the right clerk, those who simply had better luck than the rest of us.
I sighed, the sound lost in the din.
In times like this, even picking weeds is desirable.
My name wasn't called. It never was.
I shouldered my satchel and made my way toward the Transfer Portal—a large, shimmering gateway caked in dust and neglect. The runes etched into its frame flickered weakly, barely maintaining cohesion. But it worked. Barely.
I stepped through.
The world lurched. My stomach twisted. And then I was standing in the Midlands.
Pine forests stretched in every direction, thick and wild. Natural life bloomed everywhere—roots tangling across the forest floor, vines climbing ancient trees, mushrooms clustered in the shadows. It all needed monitoring, tending, culling. That's what we were here for.
Most of the workers here had weak mana cores. They could still use magic—minor spells, utility cantrips—but nothing like a true mage. Nothing that mattered.
And me?
I had no core at all.
Not weak. Not dim. Nothing.
I couldn't cast a single spell. Not even the simplest flame-light or water conjuration that children learned by age seven. I was hollow where everyone else had a spark.
Defective.
'ACK!'
Pain exploded across my back as someone shoved me hard. I stumbled, hitting the ground face-first, dirt filling my mouth.
Laughter echoed above me.
"Well, well. Look who it is." The voice dripped with mock surprise. "If it isn't the great son of the alchemist Amora. Oh, wait—no. He's just here to drag us down again."
I pushed myself up onto my hands and knees, spitting dirt.
Freyon.
Of course it was Freyon.
The village prodigy stood over me, arms crossed, a smirk plastered across his face. Sixteen Aions old, broad-shouldered, with the kind of confidence that came from never knowing struggle. His mana core was strong—3rd Circle, they said, though he hadn't formally tested yet. He could conjure flames with a thought, shape earth with a gesture.
And he never let me forget it.
"How intriguing," Freyon continued, circling me like a predator. "The son of an alchemist who can't even conjure a puff of air."
'PCKK.'
He spat in my face.
The glob of saliva hit my cheek, warm and humiliating. I wiped it away with the back of my hand, keeping my eyes on the ground.
"What's wrong, Nefer?" Freyon crouched down, his voice a poisonous whisper. "Lost your voice along with your magic? Or are you just too weak to even defend yourself?"
The other workers watched. Some laughed. Most just looked away.
No one helped.
They never did.
I forced myself to stand, legs shaking, and met Freyon's eyes.
"I'm not here to fight you," I said quietly.
"No," Freyon agreed, grinning wider. "You're not. Because you can't."
He shoved me again—not hard enough to knock me over, just enough to remind me of my place.
Then he walked away, laughing, his friends trailing behind him like jackals.
I stood there, alone, dirt on my face and shame burning in my chest.
Just another day.
The work was brutal.
Root growth monitoring meant crawling through underbrush, checking soil density, pulling invasive weeds, and marking areas for the druids to cleanse later. My hands were raw within an hour. My back screamed. My knees bled.
But I didn't stop.
Couldn't stop.
Mother needed the coin. Elana needed the coin. We needed to eat.
So I worked.
The sun climbed higher. Sweat soaked through my shirt. My vision blurred at the edges.
However... wanting to see my progression I couldn't help but try to conjure a spell
'Daious' I shouted towards a silverleaf root hoping to cause some reaction 'DAIOUS!!!' 'DAIOUS DAIOUS DAIOUS DAIOUS GOD DAMN IT DAIOUS FUCK SAKE' In anger I threw the shovel
Still nothing not a single rise not a single piece of movement... Nothing
'Portal will be closing in T-4 Please make way to the station' Hearing this letting me know my time was up, I knew this marked days end but atleast I made a bronze coin for my family.