He woke up to the sound of other people existing.
Not alarms. Not machines. Just boots hitting the floor, someone cursing softly at a stuck buckle, the low rumble of a joke that wasn't funny enough to laugh at loudly.
For a few seconds Art didn't move.
He lay on his side, arm wrapped around Elara's wooden token under the pillow, staring at the rough wood of the bunk frame above him. It took his brain a moment to remember why his ribs hurt and why the ceiling was so low.
Not his old room. Not the lab.
Barracks.
Solaris.
Real.
[ DAWN CYCLE – DAY 2 ]HP: 46 / 100Mana: 220 / 220VIT strain: Manageable (for now).
Active Quest: "First Deployment – Briefing"Time: Before second bell.
Above him, the bunk creaked.
"Still breathing, lab boy?" Riss's voice drifted down, dry and half-asleep.
Art cleared his throat.
"Trying," he said.
"Good." A pillow thumped against the rail as she turned over. "If you're going to fall apart, at least wait until after breakfast. Harrow cries when people faint on an empty stomach."
"I do not," Harrow grumbled from somewhere across the room.
A few chuckles answered.
Art let himself smile, small and quick, where no one could see it.
Then he pushed himself upright.
His muscles complained in a low, constant chorus. Not the sharp, all-consuming pain of yesterday, just a tired ache that felt… honest. He sat there for a moment, feet on the cold floor, waiting for the System to decide if he was about to fall.
It didn't flash red.
Good enough.
He dressed without rushing. The gambeson was easier to fasten this time; his fingers remembered the pattern of the ties. The boots still felt stiff, but his ankles liked the support. He dragged a hand through his hair until it looked less like he'd been struck by a spell in his sleep.
By the time he stepped out from behind the curtained corner, most of the barracks was awake.
Some knights sat on bunks, strapping greaves. Others stood, stretching sore backs. Someone near the back hummed tunelessly under his breath while braiding his hair. The air smelled of sweat, leather, and the thin porridge they always seemed to start the day with.
Leon stood near the doorway, speaking quietly with Harrow, who was checking the contents of his satchel—clinking vials, rolls of clean bandage, a small jar of salve.
Art's stomach twisted.
Right. Today.
"Eat," Leon said when he noticed Art, nodding toward the far table. "Briefing after second bell."
Art obeyed.
Jonas was already by the pot, ladling porridge into wooden bowls with careful motions.
"Good morning," Art said.
Jonas nearly dropped the ladle.
"Oh—um—good morning," he stammered, cheeks flushing. "Here. It's… not as bad as it looks."
Art accepted the bowl.
The porridge was greyish and thick. It tasted like warm paste with a hint of salt.
It was perfect.
He ate every spoonful, even when his stomach argued. His body needed the fuel more than his nerves needed peace.
The room slowly filled with the soft clatter of spoons and metal, muttered conversation, the occasional bark of laughter.
Mae slid onto the bench opposite him at some point, bow unstrung and propped against the table at her side. She ate quickly, efficient even with a spoon.
Her eyes flicked up, studying him from under her lashes.
"You walk straighter than yesterday," she said.
"Porridge is a powerful spell," Art replied.
Her mouth twitched.
"Let's hope you don't collapse as soon as we step off the road," she said. There was no real bite in it, just bluntness. "It's a long march to the western fields."
"I'll do my best to faint only in very dramatic, important moments," he said.
Harrow, passing behind them, snorted.
"If you faint at all, try to aim for somewhere flat," the healer said. "Dragging people uphill is bad for morale."
"Yes, healer," Art said.
Second bell rang, a clear tone that carried even through stone.
Leon straightened.
"Squad," he called. "Riss, Brenn, Mae, Harrow. Art. With me. Jonas, Lira, coordinate with the quartermaster for field rations and spare gear."
The named soldiers peeled away from whatever they were doing and formed up near the door.
Brenn—broad-shouldered, spear strapped across his back—rolled his neck like he was trying to loosen a stubborn knot. Riss hooked her sword belt snugly at her hip and fell into step, easy as breathing. Harrow checked his satchel one last time, hand resting lightly on the Radiant pin at his breast. Mae collected her bow and quiver in one smooth motion.
Art joined them, trying not to think about how small he probably looked next to all that armor and confidence.
Leon led them out.
The briefing room was the same as before: long table, maps on the walls, air smelling faintly of ink and oil. Graymark was already there, of course, hunched over a glass panel that projected a map in the air, its lines flickering softly.
He didn't look up at first.
"Close the door," he said.
Leon did.
Graymark tapped the panel.
The map zoomed out from the capital, city walls shrinking to a neat little circle. The western fields expanded: squares of farmland, a few thin rivers, dots marking villages.
One dot pulsed faint red at the far edge of the cultivated area.
Label: Briar's Edge.
Something tightened under Art's ribs.
He knew this.
He knew the way the fields looked from above. He knew the crooked fence at the end of the last house. He knew the exact spot where black earth would be pulsing like a heartbeat gone wrong.
He kept his face still.
Graymark pointed his stylus at the red.
"Three days ago," he said, "a patrol reported a small area of corrupted soil near Briar's Edge. Blackened earth, faint fumes, residual mana reading consistent with Ashen seep."
Harrow's jaw tightened. Brenn swore softly under his breath.
"Ashen." Mae's voice had gone flat. "At the edge of the fields."
"Low-level," Graymark added. "So far. No creatures sighted. No signs of full emergence. The Council, in their infinite caution, have decided this is 'a suitable test of our new asset's capabilities.'"
His tone made it clear what he thought of the phrasing.
Art's hands curled around the back of his chair.
Ashen seep.
Tutorial quest. Low difficulty, the game had called it.
Low difficulty if you knew exactly how not to touch it.
Graymark continued.
"Your orders are as follows," he said. "You will travel to Briar's Edge, assess the seep, evacuate civilians if necessary, and contain the corruption to the area around the origin point. You are not to chase anything beyond your ability. If significant manifestations occur, you fall back and call for support. A secondary squad will be on standby one hour behind you."
Leon nodded once.
"What is the estimate on spread?" he asked. "If we do nothing."
Graymark grimaced.
"Hard to say with surface residue," he said. "If left completely alone, it might sink back into the ground and poison the soil for a season. Or it might fester and burst in a week. The early signs are… unpredictable."
Art's skin crawled.
He remembered what "unpredictable" had looked like, the first times he'd gone there in the game. The way the black stain had spread if he hurled fire at it. The way it had leapt like liquid teeth toward the nearest living thing.
He swallowed hard.
Keep quiet, he told himself.
Who would believe you if you said I've seen this, you die, he dies, the farmer dies, the dog dies?
No one.
Graymark's gaze flicked to him.
"Ashen seep is not something you will have much experience with, Art," he said. "So listen carefully when your betters tell you what not to do."
The corner of Leon's mouth ticked.
Elara's soft lesson echoed in his head. Invite. Don't force.
"Don't burn it," Art heard himself say.
The whole room went still.
Everyone looked at him.
Heat crept up his neck.
He chose his next words carefully.
"I mean," he said, forcing his voice to stay level, "we learned in basic texts, right? Ashen corruption reacts… badly to unstructured fire. It scatters. It… clings. That was in the older hall records."
It wasn't a complete lie.
The game's codex had loved to ramble about Ashen properties.
Harrow frowned, thinking.
"I do remember something like that," he said slowly. "From a lecture. 'Fire makes it angry,' the instructor said. I thought he was being poetic."
Graymark's eyes narrowed.
He tapped his tablet, calling up something only he could see.
"Some of the deeper case reports mention similar behavior," he admitted. "We keep most of those out of the general archives to avoid panic. Curious you've picked that up."
"I read too many things," Art said. That, at least, was entirely true. "When they let me."
Graymark watched him for a moment longer.
Then he nodded, once.
"Fine," he said. "Add this to your list, then. Do not burn the seep. Do not touch it. Do not test whether it feels like mud or tar or anything else your soldier's curiosity whispers in your ear. If it moves, you retreat behind your captain's shield and you do not try to prove yourself to anyone."
He looked at Brenn when he said that last part.
Brenn bristled, but said nothing.
"Salves?" Harrow asked. "If it touches skin?"
Graymark shook his head.
"Salves will slow the spread if it's minor," he said. "If it crawls deep, you cut." His tone was matter-of-fact. "Or you pray Elara's colleagues are better at purging than the last time I saw this."
A silence followed that statement.
Art's fingers dug into the wood.
He saw, in his mind, a farmer NPC from a run gone wrong. Blackness spreading under the skin like spilled ink under paper. Chat had joked about it, at first. Then stopped.
Mae broke the quiet.
"What do you want from Art specifically?" she asked. "Out there."
Graymark tapped the table.
"I want his eyes," he said. "He sees patterns. Even before we woke him, his mind was… tangled with fragments from a hundred previous incidents."
Leon's gaze flicked sharply to him.
Art kept his face still.
Fragments. Records. Data. Not memories of playthroughs from another world.
"Those fragments are messy," Graymark went on. "But they're there. If something about the seep feels wrong, if he notices something shifting faster than it should, I want him to say so. Preferably before it eats any of you."
"You heard the doctor," Leon said. His voice was calm, but there was steel under it. "If Art speaks up, you listen. If he stares at a patch of earth and says 'step back,' you step back. We can argue about why later."
Brenn exhaled through his nose.
"As you command," he said.
Riss's eyes slid to Art.
"You keep a lot in your head, don't you?" she said.
"Too much," Art replied.
"Then pick the important things," she said. "We don't need your thoughts on wall color. We do need to know if the ground is going to try to bite us."
He huffed a short, nervous laugh.
"I'll… try to sort it," he said.
The System stirred.
[ SUB-QUEST – "Speak Before Blood" ]If you notice critical danger, warn the squad in time.Reward: ???Failure: Regret.
Graymark flicked his stylus.
"Route is straightforward," he said. "You take the south road out of the city, cut through the orchard past the Redmill fork if you want to save time. With your pace and Art's condition, I expect you at Briar's Edge by late afternoon."
He paused, looking down at the numbers.
"If he falters before then," he added, "you send him back with an escort. The Council wants him tested, not spent."
Art swallowed.
He had no intention of going back.
Not while there was a village on the edge of the map with a stain creeping closer.
Leon straightened.
"Understood," he said. "We'll report before dusk if we can."
Graymark gestured toward the door with his stylus.
"Then go," he said. "Before the Council remembers they wanted to add three pointless ceremonial blessings to this."
They filed out.
Leon let the others go ahead, then fell into step beside Art.
The corridor to the south gate was busier than earlier. Messengers hurried by with scrolls. A pair of mages in long robes argued over the placement of wards. A boy carried a basket of bread that smelled fresh enough to make Art's mouth water again.
"Do you always read that much?" Leon asked quietly as they walked.
Art glanced at him.
"Is that a complaint?" he asked.
"It's a question," Leon said.
Art looked ahead again.
"I… didn't have much else," he said after a moment. "Before. Stories. Records. Maps. They were… easier to live in."
Leon considered that.
"Do you trust them?" he asked. "Those stories."
Art's chest tightened.
"I trust that the worst parts of them can happen," he said. "I don't trust them to be the only way things go."
"That will have to be enough," Leon said.
They reached the south gate.
As before, the archway framed the road like a promise and a threat.
Elara waited near one of the columns, robes neat despite the early hour. The light caught the scar at her throat and the lines under her eyes.
"Captain. Squad." She inclined her head to Leon, then turned to Art. "You slept?"
"More or less," he said.
She lifted her staff.
"Hands," she said.
He held them out.
Her staff's crystal touched his skin gently. Warmth flowed up his arms, weaving through bones and channels, smoothing raw edges.
[ BUFF – Radiant Stabilization ]Mana channels: Reinforced.Collapse threshold: Slightly increased.Duration: Until strained.
"Thank you," he murmured.
"Come back with those hands still attached," she said.
He managed a crooked smile.
"I'll do my best," he said. "I like them."
Riss snorted.
Elara moved down the line, touching the staff lightly to Harrow's pin, to Mae's bow hand, to Brenn's shield arm, murmuring short blessings. When she reached Leon, she hesitated a fraction of a heartbeat longer.
"Light at your back," she said.
"And a wall at yours," he replied.
The gate sergeant waved them through once Leon showed the sealed orders. Sunlight spilled across the road.
They stepped out.
Art looked back once, reflex.
The city rose behind them, walls solid, banners snapping in the wind. People moved along the ramparts, small shapes against stone.
High on one of the central towers, a pale figure stood at a balcony.
Too far to see clearly.
The System didn't care about distance.
[ LONG-RANGE SCAN – LIMITED ]Target: High likelihood – Caelum Solaris.Status: Observing departure.
Art swallowed.
He resisted the urge to duck.
Then he turned his eyes forward.
Fields stretched away from the walls, neat lines of green and brown and gold. Farmers bent over crops. A herd of sheep grazed near a low stone wall, a dog circling them.
Wind brushed his face.
Each step cost a little more than yesterday's. The Radiant buff held his channels together, but his muscles still complained.
He didn't mind.
Every jolt of his knees, every stretch in his calves meant his feet were on this road, not on his apartment floor.
"Pace?" Leon asked quietly after a while.
"I can keep this," Art said. "For some hours. After that… we'll see."
"If your channels start to scream, say so before you fall," Harrow put in.
"I will," Art said.
The south road followed a gentle slope, cutting through fields and past clusters of trees. Birds startled from branches as they passed. Dust rose under their boots.
After an hour or so, they reached the fork near Redmill.
The mill's wheel turned slowly, water kicking up glitter where the sun caught it. A man stood outside, cursing at a stubborn barrel. A little girl played in the dirt nearby, drawing circles with a stick.
Art's throat tightened.
He knew this place.
He let his eyes flick over it anyway, picking up details the game had never shown: the pattern of moss on the stones, the way the girl's hair stuck up in a ridiculous cowlick, the way the miller's hands were rough and cracked.
He loved them.
That was dangerous.
Riss walked a little closer, shield on her back.
"You're staring again," she murmured.
"I'm looking," he corrected softly. "There's a difference."
She hummed.
"What's the difference?" she asked.
"Staring is… wanting to own something," he said. "Looking is just… wanting to remember it."
She glanced at him sidelong.
"That's worse," she decided. "For the heart."
He couldn't argue.
They passed the mill.
The road narrowed as they moved farther from the city, hedges growing wilder, trees clustering thicker along the stream. The smell of damp earth grew stronger.
[ ENVIRONMENTAL NOTE ]Ambient mana: Slightly disturbed.Flavor: Ashen (faint).
Distance to seep: Decreasing.
He didn't say anything.
Not yet.
Leon knew the land well enough to feel it too, in his own way. Art could see it in the way the captain's shoulders got a fraction tighter, in the way his hand drifted closer to his sword hilt.
"Briar's Edge is just beyond that rise," Mae said after a while, nodding toward a low hill ahead.
Art already knew that.
He just nodded.
They crested the rise.
Briar's Edge lay below, exactly where the map had said it would be.
A handful of houses, walls whitewashed but worn. A small inn with a crooked sign. Chickens pecking in the dust. A dog dozing in the shade of a wagon. Smoke curled from chimneys.
People looked up as the squad approached.
A woman with a basket paused, eyes narrowing. A boy stopped his game of stone-throwing to stare. A man with soil up to his elbows straightened, wiping his hands on his trousers.
Knights meant trouble, most days.
"Let me talk," Leon murmured.
He stepped a little ahead, posture relaxed but official.
An older man came to meet them near the center of the lane. Broad shoulders gone a bit stiff with age, hands scarred from years of work. His hair was mostly grey, tied back with a faded strip of cloth.
"Captain," he said, nodding when he saw the insignia on Leon's cloak. His voice was wary but not unfriendly. "We weren't expecting a squad."
"There was a report," Leon said. "Something wrong with the soil near your western field."
The man's jaw clenched.
"Aye," he said. "That. I sent a boy to the next patrol when the ground started smoking. That was three days ago. They said someone would come."
"Someone did," Leon said. "Has it changed since then?"
The man scratched his jaw, looking toward the far edge of the fields.
"It's worse," he admitted. "Bigger. The cows won't go near it. One fool of a farmhand threw a stone at it, the stone vanished. He's been sick to his stomach ever since."
Art's skin crawled.
"Any creatures?" Leon asked. "Things crawling out? Eyes where they shouldn't be?"
"Not yet." The man's mouth flattened. "But the air tastes wrong. Like old metal."
Brenn made a quiet noise.
"What's your name?" Leon asked.
"Darren," he said. "I keep this place from falling apart."
Leon nodded.
"Darren, get your people away from the western edge," he said. "No children near the fields, no animals. If you have any old oil, tar, anything thick, keep it ready. If things go badly, we may need fire on dry wood, not on the ground."
Art caught the careful phrasing.
Fire was bad on the seep.
Fire, used right elsewhere, could still be good.
Darren stared at him, then at Art, then back.
His gaze lingered on Art a fraction longer than on the others. Pale, thin, slightly swaying boys in strange uniforms did not usually come with squads.
"Is that one of yours?" he asked Leon quietly. "He looks… young."
"Looks younger than he is," Leon said. "He's under my protection."
Art felt that like a hand over his chest.
Darren gave a slow nod.
"Very well," he said. "The patch is just beyond the last fence. You'll smell it before you see it."
They left the village behind, following a narrow track between fields of low crops.
The air changed again.
The smell of turned earth and plants faded under something else—sharp, metallic, almost like old blood left too long in the sun.
Art's stomach flipped.
[ WARNING ]Ashen presence: Moderate.Source: Ahead.
Advise: Caution.
The path ended at a fence with leaning posts.
Beyond it, the soil darkened.
At first glance, it looked like someone had poured oil over the ground. A patch of black earth roughly the size of a wagon, too smooth, too still. No plants grew there. The edges weren't quite clean; thin tendrils of darker dirt crept outward, like roots in reverse.
The air above it shimmered faintly.
If you didn't know what you were looking at, you could miss that.
Art did not miss it.
His pulse pounded in his ears.
The first time he'd seen this, years ago back home, he'd walked his character straight into the patch out of curiosity.
He did not move now.
Leon lifted a hand.
"Stop here," he said.
They formed a rough half-circle several paces from the fence.
"Mae," Leon said. "Eyes on the tree line and the edges of the stain. Riss, with me at the front. Brenn, half-step behind. Harrow, keep the middle. Art—"
"Yes," Art said, throat dry.
"You stay behind me," Leon said. His tone left no room for argument. "If the ground moves, you do not try to study it. You move back. If you feel your channels strain, you say so. Out loud."
Art nodded.
He couldn't tear his eyes away from the stain.
The System whispered.
[ ASHEN SEEP – SURFACE ]Origin: Frontier touch (minor).Current state: Waking.
Threat: Low–Moderate.Threat if disturbed: Variable.
Low–moderate.
Not bad. Not good.
It depended.
Leon's gaze swept the edges of the stain.
"What do you see?" he asked quietly. Not just to Art. To all of them.
"Dead earth," Riss said. "No tracks near the edge. Like animals are avoiding it."
"Fumes," Mae said. "Light. Drifting. They fade before they reach us."
"Lines," Harrow murmured. "In the soil. Like veins."
Art swallowed.
It was his turn.
He stepped up just enough to see past Riss's shoulder, staying well back from the fence.
He forced himself to describe, not predict.
"It's… deeper than the surface," he said. "The center is thicker. The edges are thin. It's… feeling for something. For warmth. For mana."
He regretted the last words as soon as they left his mouth.
Leon didn't.
"That fits with what we know," the captain said. "Harrow. Salve ready, in case anyone's hand gets clever."
Harrow nodded, hand already on the satchel.
Leon took a slow step forward.
Every instinct in Art screamed.
Last time you walked closer, the seep rippled. Last time you stood too near, it learned your shape.
He bit down hard on his tongue.
Blood rose, copper sharp.
Real blood.
Different world.
Leon stopped two strides from the fence.
That was still more distance than the game had ever forced his avatar to keep.
"Stay," Leon said.
The squad obeyed.
Even Art.
For now.
The stain sat there, black and patient.
The edges twitched.
No one breathed.
Art's fingers curled around the wooden token in his pocket.
No save file.
No restart.
He stood at the edge of the first flag outside the city walls, heart hammering, curiosity burning hot enough to hurt, fear pressed tight against it.
He didn't say, If we treat this like it's nothing, someone dies.
He didn't say, I've watched this patch of earth eat a dozen lives through a screen.
He did say, very quietly, "Captain… if it starts to crawl, it will go for the nearest warmth. That will be you."
Leon's jaw tightened.
"Then you watch," he replied, eyes never leaving the stain. "And you tell me if it twitches before I feel it under my boots."
Art nodded.
The System chimed, words tucking themselves into the back of his mind like a promise.
[ FIRST FLAG – "Ashen Drip" ]Objective: Survive initial contact without casualties.Bonus Objective: Contain the seep to its current size.
Note: The world is watching how you handle your first stain.