A stretch of movement lasted close to three minutes.
Up ahead, stone steps appeared one after another. A few seemed shaped by hand, yet most rose naturally, lifted by ancient forces working beneath the surface. Alongside him, thin lines of fungus wove through the walls, glowing faintly blue, as if the mountain exhaled with each passing moment.
Slowly, he stood there. His mind moved ahead of his feet.
Twenty-two. That figure circled in his head without stopping. Nineteen at the time of the dive, yes - so three years passed on paper since then. His body showed none of it though; neural sync froze things differently. Time outside just drifted along however it pleased. The display blinked once more under his glance as he moved forward.
[PERSONAL STATUS]
Beracah Petra
One moment he turned nineteen, shaped by his cells alone. Years drifted past on the planet's clock before that number hit twenty two. Time moves differently when bodies disagree with calendars
Level : ERROR
Class Null Unregistered
Emperor of the Undead
Laughter bubbled up. The screen flashed the same old failure messages again. It wasn't working - yet he couldn't stop grinning.
A sliver of light cut through the stone, marking where the stairs stopped. Into that gap he slid, body angled like a blade. The morning glow waited beyond, pale and flat.
✦ ✦ ✦
From his spot on a narrow shelf of rock, mid-cliff, he gazed out across the land. The air carried sounds from far below, where trees swayed without sound. Light touched everything but warmed nothing where he stood. Distance blurred shapes into soft edges and quiet colors. His breath matched the slow rhythm of the wind. Nothing moved fast here, not even thought.
It looked back.
Below, the city wore shapes he almost remembered. Not quite memory, more like echoes. Its roads formed patterns, tight and close, structures bunched toward the middle, much like layers curling outward in old wood. This layout came from people. Long ago, someone mapped it out. All of that existed well before everything changed.
What came after wasn't just more - it stood apart completely.
Some towers meant to be steel and glass now wore jagged skins of crystal - sharp shapes in dark blue and black, bending light into colors that didn't belong. From this height, the streets looked full, alive with movement, just another working city humming below - vendors shouting, crowds shuffling, somewhere a heavy thing scraping over stone. Above the east side, a rift hung midair, six hundred meters up, glowing dull amber at its rim like the borders around deadly zones back in the old game maps. Nearby, three figures balanced on floating boards carved with wind runes, pausing, talking, weighing their next move.
Out of nowhere, the color felt off. Still blue. Clouds hung where they should. Yet something lingered - a faint glow along the rim, almost like light leaking through fabric. As if it remembered being drawn.
Beracah stayed in place, motionless. Then silence settled around him like dust.
"Huh," he said.
Out of everything, this answer came through clearest. He hadn't shaped anything better.
✦ ✦ ✦
Down the cliff, he spotted a route - not shaped by tools, more like scattered edges and juts someone might use, assuming they were willing to trust their weight. Willingness wasn't an issue. Two hours back, he'd finished off a dungeon alone. Rocks wouldn't stop him now.
Footsteps echoed heavier the closer he came to ground level. Details sharpened - edges clearer, sounds fuller. From halfway down, the market sprawled into view: wooden stands packed tight, offering odd trinkets alongside steaming racks of grilled meat. Smoke curled upward, caught by breezes that carried scents straight toward him. That warmth in the air pulled a memory forward - the taste of actual food, something eaten slowly, hours before his descent began.
Footsteps faded where the pavement ended.
Old stones made up the wall, some pieces replaced long after they broke. Those fixes were put in three years back, now blending right in. An opening gap showed where the gate hung wide. Light armor covered two figures standing post, gear you'd see on someone still learning the map. Health bars floated above them, solid green, untouched. Tiny labels marked them as NPCs, tucked into the edge of sight.
Into the gate he stepped, as if ownership shaped his stride.
A guard looked his way. Noticing the outfit first - ordinary fabric, something out of place here since such things had vanished years ago. Then the absence of equipment, nothing strapped on, no tools in sight. Finally settling on bare palms, holding absolutely nothing.
Where the badge ought to sit, his gaze landed, saw empty fabric, then slid away - fixed with that hollow pause people wear when oddity falls outside their duties.
Beracah kept walking.
✦ ✦ ✦
Footsteps echoed just like the chaos seen from above. The noise rolled down the slope, matching the scramble of bodies below.
Slowing his pace, he took in the scene around him. Signs listed prices for gold and pieces of skills. At a forge stand, weapons glowed with numbers hanging in air. Between shops, two young ones - real kids, maybe eight or nine, raised here since birth - darted past shoppers without effort, used to everything, small green health markers bouncing over them each time they weaved through the crowd.
A moment stretched past its limit as his eyes stayed fixed on them.
One thing they never did was pick up the phone. Not once had it seemed necessary. Silence lived on the opposite side.
He looked away.
Food came from a corner stand - he used every bit of his beta credits, something the seller didn't question since metal held value regardless - chewing while still on his feet, eyes moving across the people nearby. A mental layout took shape slowly inside him. Paths out. Clear views. Locations of public System ports fixed into concrete walls. Spots where security gathered most. Stalls drawing long lines, suggesting steady trade, meaning chances to overhear things worth knowing.
Midway down the skewer, a person bumped into him.
He didn't brush past. A straight-on hit, chest and shoulder meeting squarely - then the person rebounded, wobbled briefly, grabbed a nearby stand's edge to steady themself, whirled, and started speaking mid-turn.
"Watch where you're - "
The voice stopped.
Her eyes met his face. Then silence filled the space between them.
Eye contact landed on Beracah. That moment held still.
Twenty years old, maybe. His frame showed what long sprints do to a body - wiry, stretched thin. Clothes hung on him: medic outfit, torn in places, stitched back together. Hood down. Eyes dark, unblinking. Jaw marked by a line of healed skin - a cut new since last seen. Above his shoulder, a faint glow: health at sixty percent. Not dead, but far from whole. That number said one thing - he'd fought, kept moving, never took time to mend.
A label on his uniform said Phantom Medic.
Soren Ashvale was printed on his badge. The letters stood clear, sharp against the plastic surface.
A sharp ache rose in Beracah's chest when he heard the name. His face stayed still.
His jaw dropped. Then shut tight. After a pause, it fell open once more.
Soren spoke softly. You're - really - He paused. Gulped down air. Stared at Beracah's unmarked class slot like the gate guard did earlier, though his face showed everything but emptiness. Relief, sharp and sudden, split through old wounds. That label beside your name holds nothing
"Yeah," Beracah said.
"You've been in the pod this whole time."
"Yeah."
Stillness held Soren's face. Around, the market buzzed - sizzling scents, clashing hues, the tang of magic-forged iron - yet both stood frozen. Not a breath shifted between them.
"You don't know," Soren said slowly. "You just got out. You genuinely don't know any of it."
Biting again into the meat on a stick, Beracah moved his jaw slowly. The flavor sat heavy in his mouth. Thoughts followed after each crunch.
"I know the world's gone," he said. "I know I've been flagged NULL by a System that can't figure out what I am. I know my last meal was nineteen hours ago and this is the best thing I've eaten in three years even though I don't remember the three years." He looked at Soren steadily. "What don't I know?"
A sound escaped Soren - shaky, uneven, caught between a laugh and another kind of release.
"Everything," he said. "You don't know everything."