The silence of the ruins was a heavy, physical thing, pressing against Ronan's eardrums like deep water. From the high vantage point of the cliff, the city below had looked like a graveyard—still, grey, and dead. But as he descended into the belly of the concrete canyon, he realized that the silence was not an absence of life, but a predator's breath held in anticipation.
The streets were choked with the detritus of a civilization that had collapsed screaming. Massive slabs of reinforced ferro-concrete lay at awkward angles, creating a jagged labyrinth of shadows. The air here was heavier than on the cliff, the violet fog pooling in the lowest points like a toxic tide. Ronan moved with a slow, deliberate cadence, his boots making no sound on the grit-covered pavement. His new body seemed to understand the necessity of stealth on a cellular level; his weight shifted perfectly to avoid the crunch of glass or the snap of dry bone-vines.
He was a ghost haunting a world he didn't understand, and the hunger in his gut was beginning to sharpen from a dull ache into a demanding claw.
After two hours of navigating the debris field, avoiding the patches of glowing moss that hissed when the wind blew, Ronan found shelter. It was the husk of what looked like a transit station, a gaping maw in the side of a crushed building. The entrance was marked by a rusted archway of brass and iron, the metal twisted as if something massive had tried to squeeze through it centuries ago. Faded symbols were etched into the metal—a cogwheel intersected by a drop of blood.
Ronan stepped inside, his violet eyes adjusting instantly to the gloom. The air in the station was stale, smelling of dry rot, ancient oil, and the faint, copper tang of old blood. He saw rows of benches, shattered ticket booths, and in the corner, a barricade.
It was a makeshift fortification built from overturned vending machines and sandbags that had long since turned to dust. Behind it lay the remains of a struggle.
There was a body.
Ronan approached it, his senses on high alert. The corpse was desiccated, the skin pulled tight over the bone like parchment. It wasn't a skeleton; the dry, chemical air of the ruins had mummified it. The figure wore armor made of layered leather and brass plates, lighter and more intricate than the tactical gear of Earth. The left arm was missing, severed cleanly just below the elbow.
"You didn't die easily," Ronan whispered, the sound of his own voice startling him in the quiet.
He knelt beside the fallen soldier. He felt a strange detachment, the historian in him taking over the terrified man. This was an artifact. This was a primary source.
In the soldier's remaining gloved hand, clutched tight even in death, was a rectangular device. It looked like a thick book, but the cover was made of a dull, grey metal, and the "pages" were a single slab of cracked crystal.
Ronan pried it from the corpse's grip. The metal was cold. He turned it over, looking for a switch or a button. His thumb brushed a small, circular indentation at the bottom of the frame that pulsed with a faint, dying warmth.
Hummmm.
The device vibrated against his palm. A spark of amber light flared deep within the crystal screen, flickering weakly. It was dying technology, running on the last fumes of a battery that had lasted centuries.
[BIO-SIGNATURE DETECTED]
[ACCESS RESTRICTED: INFANTRY CLASS]
[USER: SCOUT-CAPTAIN HAREK (DECEASED)]
Text scrolled across the screen. It wasn't English—the characters were sharp, angular, and glowing with an internal heat—but the Chimera system in Ronan's brain snatched the symbols, twisted them, and rearranged them into meaning before his conscious mind could even struggle with the translation.
"Journal of Scout-Captain Harek. 4th Cycle of the Waning Moon. The patrol is lost. The Gore-Hulk ambushed us at the intersection. We are low on Aether. The filters are clogging. I am recording this for the Archives, so that our death serves the Hierarchy."
Ronan tapped the screen, his finger leaving a clean streak in the dust. The interface was clunky, damaged. Most of the files were corrupted, displaying only static. But one menu item remained legible: [FIELD MANUAL: INFANTRY SURVIVAL & RANKING].
He hesitated, then pressed it.
The screen shifted, displaying a diagram of a human body. But it was overlayed with a complex network of glowing lines—nervous system, circulatory system, and something else. A spiritual system that seemed to center in the chest.
"The Law of the Trench states: To breathe is to burn. The Miasma is the fuel, but the body is the engine. Do not exceed your structural limits."
Ronan read on, his eyes scanning the text. The manual seemed to be a guide for low-ranking soldiers, detailing the first few steps of what it called "Aetheric Descent."
"Authorized Ranks for Sector Patrol:"
Level 1 (The Spark): The Awakening. The subject's blood begins to filter trace amounts of Miasma. Enhanced durability and night vision. Warning: Subjects are prone to 'The Hunger' if not supplied with nutrient paste.
Level 2 (Vein-Seeker): The Reinforcement. The circulatory system is re-wired. Blood turns a dark, rich red. The subject gains thermal vision and the ability to harden the skin for brief periods. Requirement: Injection of Refined Miasma-Silt.
Level 3 (Marrow-Binder): The Weaponization. The skeletal structure absorbs the Miasma. Bones become denser than iron. The subject can project short bursts of kinetic force from the hands. Standard Rank for Squad Leaders.
Level 4 (Steam-Vanguard): The Threshold. The subject requires external augmentation (Steam-Rigs) to handle the energy output. The blood begins to shimmer. Warning: High risk of volatility.
Ronan scrolled down, hungry for more. He wanted to know what came next. He wanted to know what the "Graveling" was, or the massive thing he had seen on the horizon.
But the text stopped.
[LEVEL 5 - 10: DATA CORRUPTED / CLEARANCE DENIED]
[ERROR: ARCHITECT ENCRYPTION REQUIRED FOR HIGHER TIERS]
"Clearance denied," Ronan muttered, frustration gnawing at him. "Just like the classified files back home. The grunts only get to know enough to die for the cause."
He stared at the blank space where the higher levels should be. It was a terrifying omission. If Level 3 could crack bones and Level 4 required steam-powered exoskeletons, what kind of monstrosity was a Level 10? The scale of power in this world was exponentially terrifying.
He looked at the diagram again. There was a warning in bold red glyphs at the bottom of the page, blinking rhythmically.
[WARNING: SIGNS OF BLIGHT-CORRUPTION]
[1. UNCONTROLLED MUTATION.]
[2. LOSS OF HIGHER REASONING.]
[3. THE VIOLET GAZE.]
Ronan froze. The breath hitched in his throat.
The Violet Gaze.
"The eyes are the window to the Core. A stable Human Core burns Amber, the color of refined Aether. A corrupted Core burns Violet, the color of raw Miasma. If a subject displays Violet pigmentation in the iris or veins, they are to be considered 'Blight-Born' and terminated immediately."
Ronan slowly lowered the device. His hand was trembling slightly. He looked around the dim station until he found a shattered pane of glass in a ticket booth. He picked up a shard, wiping the grime away with his thumb.
He held it up to catch the faint amber light of the device's screen.
His reflection stared back at him. His face was gaunt, smeared with dirt and dried slime from the pod. But his eyes... they were unmistakable. They didn't glow with the warm, safe amber of the device. They burned with a cold, electric purple. The veins in his neck pulsed with the same forbidden hue, a network of bioluminescent treason.
"I'm a target," he said, the realization settling over him like a shroud. "I'm not just a stranger. I'm a monster in their eyes."
He looked back at the corpse of Captain Harek. The man had died fighting monsters, but if he had seen Ronan—if he had seen the violet light in his veins—he would have used his last breath to try and kill him too.
Ronan looked at the "Life-Link" shackle on the corpse's wrist. It was a bulky, brass bracelet with a small glass vial embedded in it. The vial was empty, but the mechanism looked complex.
According to the manual, every citizen of the "Civilized Zones" wore one. It measured their Miasma intake. It proved they were human. It proved they were part of the system.
Ronan couldn't wear it. His biology would likely shatter the sensors, or worse, the device would broadcast his location as a "Corruption Event" the moment it tasted his blood.
He stood up, shoving the datapad into the deep pocket of his scavenged grey cloak. He stripped the corpse of a belt containing a few pouches of dried rations—hard, tasteless blocks of protein that crumbled like chalk—and a canteen of water that smelled like iodine. He also took the soldier's knife, a heavy, serrated blade made of a dull, non-reflective alloy.
He couldn't stay here. The patrol had been killed by a "Gore-Hulk," and if the manual was right, such creatures were territorial.
Ronan walked back to the entrance of the station. He looked out at the ruins, then toward the horizon where the amber glow of the city pulsed against the dark sky.
Vesper. The City.
It was his only hope for answers, his only hope for finding a way back to Earth. But now he knew the cost of entry. He couldn't just walk in and ask for help. He had to hide the very thing that made him powerful. He had to hide his eyes, his veins, his blood.
He pulled the hood of his cloak low over his face. He focused on the Obsidian Heart, willing it to slow down, to dim the lights.
"Amber," he whispered to himself, closing his eyes and visualizing the color of the soldier's dying screen. "Be amber."
He felt the energy in his veins recede, obeying the command of the Chimera system, but when he opened his eyes again and looked at the shard of glass, the violet was still there—duller, perhaps, but undeniable.
"It's not enough," he murmured. "I need darkness."
Ronan stepped out of the station and back into the violet fog. He knew about the Sparks, the Vein-Seekers, and the Marrow-Binders now. He knew that he was at the bottom of a very steep, very dangerous cliff.
And he knew that the only way to climb it was to make sure no one saw him do it.