Air-trams were slick as hell—levitating on magnetic cables, silent as a whisper, cutting through Vaeloria's skies at 500 km/h. Their curved, crystal-studded shells sliced the air like knives, saving energy while looking like something out of a sci-fi flick. My Emberhold ID scored me VIP treatment—a private nook with a polished desk and a snack bar of dried fruit and fizzy drinks. I slouched into my seat, stretching my scrawny legs, and stared out the window. Summer kept the cliffs glowing, even at 8 p.m., crystals winking like trapped stars.
The station was a madhouse—platforms lined like ribs, trams gliding in and out, cables stretching into the haze. Vaeloria, carved into cliffs over a shadow-choked chasm, hummed with life. Post-cataclysm, one continent held humans, Veilspawn, and mystics. Cities like Thalren and Vyris guarded the edges, but Vaeloria was the heart, Emberhold its brain, training Weavers to fight the dark. Some Weavers turned villain, pacting with Veilspawn for shadow power, but the High Council's S-rank enforcers kept them in check.
~~
"We're departing. Please sit," a smooth voice chimed. The tram's doors clicked shut, a gentle push lifting us. Seconds later, we cruised, the city blurring below.
"Next stop, Station 17, Dusk Ridge," the voice announced.
I leaned back, mind racing. The Veil Shard was my ticket out of E-rank hell, but to rival Sira Kade, I needed a Weave style—rune patterns channeling crystal energy into combat. Since the second cataclysm, scribes reworked ancient techniques, making Weaves deadly. Styles were rare, hoarded by guilds or the Council to stop rogues.
Styles came in five grades—1 to 5 stars, based on mastery power. Compatibility was key; a 5-star style was trash if it didn't fit your spark. My tablet said "Crystal Scribe, lvl. 1." Lucky me—Sira was a Scribe too, so I knew her cheats.
I'd written three 5-star styles: [Ashen Flow], [Starveil Dance], [Ironcrag Weave]. [Ashen Flow] was my pick—quick rune-strokes turning sparks into slashing waves, so fast enemies died before blinking. Master Voryn, a pre-cataclysm scribe, crafted it post-awakening. One-hit-kill, but weak if the first strike missed.
[Starveil Dance] was Sira's, hypnotic and lethal. [Ironcrag Weave] was brute force—hammering runes that broke your body to master. No thanks, I wasn't a masochist.
[Ashen Flow] suited me. Badass? Check—slicing Veilspawn without moving. It didn't mess with Sira's plot, since I'd given her [Starveil Dance]. The scroll was near Dusk Ridge, in a shrine. I'd grab it post-Shard, before Emberhold's term.
~~
"Station 17, Dusk Ridge," the tram chimed.
I stepped off, pine and ash sharp in the air. Dusk Ridge loomed—peaks born from clashing continents. "This ain't a novel anymore," I muttered, the cliffs too real. I sprayed E-rank Veilspawn repellent and hiked the third peak, no path, just rocks and shrubs.
Three hours in, my legs burned, breath ragged. E-rank stamina sucked, but my awakened Weave kept me going—normies would've collapsed. The sun dipped, shadows swallowing the ridge. Climbing now was suicide—one slip, pancake city. But Sira wasn't waiting, so I scaled the third peak, hands gripping cold stone.
Halfway up, my fingers numbed, dark closing in. I spotted a jutting rock, like my novel's shrine description. Heart pounding, I climbed faster. One slip, game over.
"Bingo," I gasped, finding a loose slab. I shoved it aside, revealing a narrow gap. A thud echoed as the rock hit the valley. "Not me," I muttered, crawling into the cave.
Exhaustion hit like a truck. I slumped against the wall, panting. Four hours of hiking and climbing on E-rank grit. Lucky I had repellent—no Veilspawn. I stood, legs shaky, and headed deeper. Time to cheat this world.