The transport rattled over the cracked asphalt, its suspension groaning in protest.
Three hours had passed since Nova had left the waystation behind. The scenery had shifted from the rolling green hills of the civilized zones to the scarred, uneven terrain of the frontier. Here, the roads were not maintained by the continental government but by local guilds, and the quality showed.
The driver, a man named Holt who smelled of engine oil and stale tobacco, kept his eyes on the horizon. He hadn't spoken since accepting the triple rate, which suited Nova perfectly.
Nova sat in the back, a low-grade mana stone in his palm. He was absorbing the energy to offset the exhaustion of the long-range teleport and the sustained flight he had used briefly over a washed-out bridge.
The air outside was thin. The ambient mana density was less than a tenth of the secret realm. It felt like breathing through a cloth. He had to actively cycle his breathing to draw enough energy to keep his internal pressure stable.
How do the natives survive here? he wondered. Their cultivation must stagnate naturally.
He looked out the window. They were passing through a stretch of forest that had clearly seen fire. Blackened stumps jutted from the earth like broken teeth. In the distance, a dormant dungeon spire rose from the landscape, a jagged needle of obsidian piercing the clouds.
"Dungeon break?" Nova asked, breaking the silence.
Holt grunted, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. "Three years back. A hornet nest. Guild took it down, but not before it burned half the county. Government didn't lift a finger. Said it was a 'local issue.'"
"And the guild?"
" disbanded. Lost too many members. Now the locals handle it themselves." Holt spat out the window. "You heading to Ironpass?"
"Yes."
"Business or refuge?"
"Both."
Holt nodded as if that made perfect sense. "Word of advice. The Hunter's Guild runs the town. Don't start trouble. They don't like outsiders making waves."
"Noted."
Ironpass emerged from the smog of the late afternoon.
It was a fortress town, surrounded by high walls of scavenged steel and reinforced concrete. Guard towers rose at regular intervals, their spotlights sweeping the perimeter even in the daylight. The architecture was brutalist, purely functional, designed to withstand sieges rather than impress visitors.
The transport slowed at the gate. Two guards in mismatched armor—pieces of military kit mixed with crude plate—stepped forward.
"Identification."
Holt handed over a data chip. The guard scanned it, then looked at Nova.
"Him?"
"Passenger."
"Name?" the guard asked Nova.
"Almond."
"Business?"
"Alchemy procurement. Looking for rare reagents."
The guard stared at him for a moment. His eyes lingered on Nova's silver hair, the fine cut of his clothes beneath the travel cloak.
"City tax is five silver. No fighting inside the walls. The Guild Hall is the gray building by the market. If you're selling, they take a ten percent cut." He waved them through. "Welcome to Ironpass."
The gates groaned open.
The town inside was a chaotic hive of activity. Streets were crowded with merchants, mercenaries, and adventurers hawking goods or nursing drinks. The smell of roasting meat, unwashed bodies, and mana residue hung thick in the air.
"End of the line," Holt said, pulling up to a dusty stable. "I'm staying the night. Heading back at dawn."
Nova paid him an extra gold coin. "For your silence about my destination."
Holt looked at the coin, then tucked it away. "I don't know nothing, kid. Good luck."
Nova stepped out, the dust of the street crunching under his boots.
He was alone.
No academy backdrop. No Priscilla's warmth. No Kaelen's stolid presence. Just the cold reality of a frontier town where his name meant nothing.
He adjusted his pack and walked.
He found a lodging house called 'The Rusty Nail' near the center of town. It was unassuming, built from gray stone, with a sign that creaked in the wind.
Inside, the common room was dimly lit. A bored clerk sat behind a counter that doubled as a bar.
"Room?"
"One. Quiet. Away from the street."
"Ten silver a night. Meals extra."
Nova placed a gold coin on the counter. "Three nights. No meals. And I need a secure workspace. Alchemy."
The clerk's eyes narrowed slightly, but the gold spoke louder than suspicion. He pushed a heavy iron key across the wood.
"Cellar's empty if you need space. Just don't blow the building up."
"Understood."
The room was small, cold, and sparsely furnished. A bed, a desk, a chair. A window that looked out onto a narrow alleyway.
Nova locked the door and set the wards.
He sat on the bed, closing his eyes.
Soul Perception expanded.
He felt the emotions of the people below and beside him—the dull throb of tired laborers, the sharp spike of a gambler's triumph, the simmering anger of a drunk.
He extended his senses further, reaching the market, the guild hall, the streets.
Chaos. Greed. Desperation.
This was Earth. The real Earth, stripped of the academy's protective enchantments and structured pathways. Here, strength was the only law that mattered.
He pulled out his interface.
FRAGMENT DETECTION: 4th Fragment DISTANCE: 4,200 miles. DIRECTION: Southwest. STATUS: Stationary.
Four thousand miles. Even with a fast transport, it would take days. And that assumed the roads held.
He needed a faster way. An aerial mount or a long-range teleportation circle. But circles required anchors, and mounts required money or taming skills he didn't possess.
He needed to think.
He removed the Spatial Stone from his inventory.
The crystal was warm, pulsing with the energy of the void. He had purchased it, absorbed it, gained the power of Spatial Manipulation. But he hadn't truly tested it.
He stood up, clearing the center of the room.
He focused on the space in front of him.
Fold.
The air shimmered. A faint distortion appeared, like heat haze.
He pushed further. Sever.
A thin line of void appeared, hovering horizontally.
He reached out and touched it.
His finger passed through the space and emerged from a point three feet to the right.
Spatial distortion. The ability to connect two points in space without crossing the distance between.
It wasn't teleportation—moving himself through space. It was manipulating space itself.
He waved his hand, dissolving the rift.
If I can sever space, he thought, I can bypass distance. I can create gates.
Creating a stable gate required immense mana and a clear destination. He had the mana, but he didn't have a clear destination. He had never been to the southwest region.
He needed a map. A detailed one.
He left the room, locking the door behind him.
The market was winding down as the sun dipped below the horizon. Vendors were packing up stalls, their wares covered in tarps.
Nova moved through the crowd, his gaze scanning the shop fronts.
Herbs. Potions. Weapons. Armor.
He stopped at a cart marked 'Maps & Intel'.
The vendor was an old man with a scarred face and clouded eyes.
"Looking for something specific, traveler?"
"Southwest region. Detailed topographical maps. Known hazards. Restricted zones."
The old man's smile revealed a few missing teeth. "That's not tourist territory. That's the Whispering Wastes."
"I know."
"Maps cost silver. Intel costs gold."
Nova placed two gold coins on the cart. "Both."
The old man swept the coins away and produced a rolled parchment and a small, leather-bound notebook.
"The map is current as of last month. The notebook is my own notes on the caravans and patrols. The Wastes are lawless. Dungeons break monthly. Beasts roam in packs. And the locals say there's something sleeping in the canyons." He leaned forward. "Something old."
"I'll manage."
He tucked the items into his pack and turned to leave.
"You're not a normal alchemist," the old man called after him.
Nova paused but didn't turn. "No. I'm not."
He returned to the Rusty Nail.
In the cellar, he spread the map on a crate.
The Whispering Wastes stretched across the southwest corner of the continent. A vast, desolate badland of canyons, dried riverbeds, and ruined cities from the old world.
And there, marked with a crude skull symbol, was a region the map labeled 'The Hollows'.
His interface pinged.
FRAGMENT DETECTION UPDATE: Location pinpointed: The Hollows. Distance: 4,200 miles. Estimated Travel Time (Ground): 12 days. Estimated Travel Time (Flight - straight path): 3 days.
Three days of flying over hostile territory.
He traced the route with his finger.
He would need supplies. Mana restoration pills. Water.
He spent the next two hours in the cellar, processing the low-grade herbs he had purchased in the market. The work was meditative, his hands moving with the precision of his All-Seeing Eye.
By midnight, he had a small pile of pills and a clear plan.
He would leave at dawn. He would fly high, avoid settlements, and rest only when his mana ran dry.
He lay down on the cold stone floor, staring at the ceiling.
He thought of Priscilla. Of her anger, her fear, her desperate wish to be included.
She was safer in the academy. Safer being left behind.
He closed his eyes.
Emotion is a variable. Variables must be controlled.
He slept.
He woke before dawn, the cellar still dark.
He gathered his things. The map, the notebook, the pills.
He climbed the stairs to the back alley. The town was silent, save for the snoring of drunks and the padding of stray dogs.
He pulled his Voidfrost Cloak tight and ascended.
Mana Flight activated.
He rose above the rooftops, above the walls, into the cold, thin air of the frontier sky.
He hovered for a moment, orienting himself.
Southwest.
He shot forward, a silver streak against the stars.
The academy was a speck behind him.
The Hollows waited ahead.
And Nova Almond flew toward them alone.