The ruined plaza around them was like a haunted park. It was wide and open with broken pillars and half-collapsed arches.
Now it was only dust, shadows and the sound of raised voices.
The group had stopped here to rest but rest quickly turned into conflict.
"We can't keep walking without food. Those loaves and dirts are not enough," one man snapped out, pointing toward the empty cloth wrapping.
"And who decided you get more than the rest?" another shouted back.
Soon, voices overlapped over one another. Angry, desperate, each person louder than the last. Words about coins, about who carried what, about who deserved more.
Their arguments resounded, sounding bigger than they really were in size.
Tom sat on a broken step at the edge of the plaza, elbows resting on his knees.
His calm eyes drifted from one speaker to the next, listening instead of shouting. He could see the fear behind their words. No one here wanted to lead, but no one wanted to starve either.
Grace stood nearby watching the same way Tom did. Her grip on her dagger was tight, wary in case if the fight turned physical.
Tom exhaled slowly. If this continued, the plaza would become another battlefield before night even came.
He needed to figure out a way not to dominate them but to keep everyone together.
The plaza grew louder by the minute. What began as arguments about bread had shifted into something bigger....
A man with a sharp jaw and blazing eyes stood on top of a broken stone block.
"Listen to me! Out here, strength is the only thing that matters. Power rules all. We should follow the strongest among us, not waste time squabbling over crumbs."
Several heads nodded, murmurs rising in agreement. They were already calling themselves the Dominion Seekers.
Another voice cut through, shrill but fiery. A thin woman with tangled hair jabbed her finger at the air. "Are you fools blind? This System isn't a gift—it's a prison.
Hunters, Homans, quests… it's all chains. We shouldn't play along. We should break it, tear down whatever is controlling us to achieve freedom!"
Her group called themselves the Liberators, though most of them didn't look like they knew where to even start breaking things.
Then came the strangest of all. Hooded figures whispered among themselves, bowing toward the sky where the hourglass still turned. "The Faces are divine," one of them muttered. "The System is our scripture. Whoever built this…. God, Developer, whatever name, it doesn't matter. We must find Faces and worship through them." This group slowly shaped into the Covenant of Faces, their murmurs turned eerie in the dusty air.
Tom listened to it all in folding his arms. His calm eyes moved from group to group.
Grace stood beside him, very quiet. Her brow furrowed. Neither of them spoke up to claim a side. A few others lingered around them as well, equally unconvinced.
Amidst the tension, a smaller moment cracked through the gloom. The timid boy, clutching his herbs, muttered nervously, "I…. I guess I'll join whoever offers snacks." His stomach growled loud enough for everyone near to hear.
Someone laughed short and surprised. Then another chuckle. Even Grace let a breath slip that might have been close to a laugh.
Tom smirked faintly. "Careful." he said to the boy. "With that mindset, you'll end up in the Covenant. They might trade your herbs for stale bread and call it holy."
The boy's eyes widened. "What? Really?"
Grace shook her head, covering her face with one hand. "He's teasing you."
Hearing these chit chat nearby people remembered they were still "human", not just pawns in some twisted game.
But as the laughter faded, plaza settled back into uneasy silence. Three ideologies had been born, and each had already planted its roots in desperate minds.
Tom's gaze turned upward, toward the hourglass in the sky. The sand kept dripping upward, each grain reminding him that night was coming.
And when it will come, no ideology might be able to save them.
The plaza had grown into a battlefield of words. The three factions sharpening their tongues against one another. But the first real menace came out without warning.
Azmaik Veyric, the man who had crowned himself the voice of the Dominion Seekers stood tall on a broken pillar.
His shoulders were broad, his eyes were dark black, his voice was loud enough to drown out the rest. He had been gathering followers with every shout, every promise of power.
Then he turned toward a frail old man who sat slumped against the wall. Legs twisted and useless. The man had not spoken a word since they spawned. Only clutched his knees and coughed into the dust.
Azmaik's lips curled into a smile that carried no warmth. "Mercy...." he said, loud enough for all to hear, "....is weakness. Cripples and crumbs don't belong in this world. Why should people who can't protect themselves should be alive? Those who cannot protect themselves remind me why protection, kindness and love exist. That's why I hate them."
Before anyone could move, his dagger flashed inwards roughly.
The helpless man fell sideways, eyes wide, heartbeat was gone. Blood darkened the stone beneath him scarily....
Silence slammed down like a hammer.
The screen popped up in front of Azmaik.
[ Rough Breads 1x ]
[ Metal Boot 2x ]
After killing the Old man, Azmaik took his slot items transferred to his.
" Sheesh, this guy had two metal boots. Hahaha! but he didn't had the legs, hahaha!"
Tom's fists tightened at his side. He took a step forward. He was unknowingly feeling a temper inside him.
Rage boiled under his calm face filled with rage that demanded he act, demanded he stop this madness before more were lost.
Grace's hand twitched toward her weapon, her fox-like Face flickered faintly, but Tom lifted a hand slightly, stopping her. His eyes never left Azmaik.
The Dominion Seeker leader's grin widened. "This is survival. If you can't walk, you're already dead. Remember that, all of you." He spread his arms, letting the crowd see the dark black blood still wet on his blade. "Power rules. Nothing else, even though it feels cruel, you can't change the Universal Truth, hahaha!"
The silence cracked with murmurs, fear, even nods of agreement from a few who had already decided to agree their will to Dominion's rule.
Tom was about to step forward when another voice rolled across the plaza filled with guts.
"Enough."
The crowd turned. From the shadows of a ruined archway, a figure emerged. His stride was steady, his presence commanding without effort. Long gray hair fell past his shoulders, catching light from the broken sky.
An armored vest hugged his frame, recognised by old battles but strong all the same. His yellow eyes were glowing like a predator in the moonlight.
He stopped between Azmaik and the rest, his eyes narrowing not with rage but with quiet disappointment.
"My name is Elior Jones." he said, his voice cutting clean through the tension. "And this ends here."
Azmaik sneered, lifting his blade again. "Who are you to order me?"
Elior's gaze never wavered. "A man who will not stand by while the helpless are slaughtered. If you strike another, Azmaik Veyric, then you strike against me."
The crowd held its stance. The Dominion Seekers bristled. The Liberators leaned in, eager for a clash. The Covenant whispered, whispering prayers into their hoods.
Tom studied Elior with careful eyes. There was no madness in this man. No weakness....
Elior's voice lowered, gentle but unyielding. "Stop this madness now…. or I take my hands out."
Azmaik stood proud above it, dagger gleaming, his voice rose once more.
"You want to stop me, Elior Jones?" His grin stretched, wild and hungry. "Then prove it. A duel.... to the death."
Gasps and whispers rippled through the plaza. The Dominion Seekers cheered, pounding their fists against the stone. The Liberators leaned closer, eager to see blood spilled. The Covenant murmured their hollow prayers.
Elior's expression did not change. His gray hair stirred in the wind, his blue eyes stayed calm and gentle. He shook his head slightly.
"No death match." he said. "The first to fall will lose. That is enough."
Azmaik barked a laugh. "Coward's terms. Timid as a lamb. But fine, I'll make you fall, and then I'll end you anyway."
They squared off in the open plaza. The ruined arches looming above. The crowd tightened into a ring, silence pressed heavy over the dust and broken stone.
The duel began between them had began.
Azmaik charged first, fast and brutal. His dagger flashed toward Elior's chest. Elior shifted his body loose and flowing, redirecting the strike with the back of his arm. The movement was smooth, almost like water. Tai Chi blended with the hard edge of survival.
Tom watched with eager eyes. Every step Elior took was measured, every motion seemed deliberate. This was not a man new to the game. His balance, his patience, the way he let Azmaik exhaust himself. It all spoke of time, experience and hard-earned survival.
Azmaik attacked harder, strikes came wild and vicious. He slammed elbows, swung kicks, twisted his dagger in jagged arcs meant to maim.
Elior responded not with equal violence but with restraint. He pivoted, redirected, stepped aside, letting Azmaik's force drain into the nothing.
His strikes when he gave them were short, sharp, enough to evade or deflect but never enough to cripple.
It was a strange duel. One fighter seeking only to dominate, while other seeking only to unbalance.
Azmaik's frustration grew with every missed strike. He snarled. His movements slowly increased. "Fight me, damn you! Stop dancing!"
Elior's only reply was silence. A soft exhale. A pivot that let Azmaik stumble past him, nearly tripping on his own momentum.
Tom's arms folded across his chest. His calm eyes tracked every moves. This man has walked longer roads than we have, Tom thought.
Perhaps he was one of those who joined us in the forest ruins, hidden in plain sight with Azmaik himself and some others. He knows how to live here. He knows how to adapt without panicking.
Azmaik came again, aiming for low blow, trying to hook Elior's leg with a sweep.
Elior flowed backward, then stepped inside the sweep, shoulder brushing against Azmaik's chest. In one controlled push, he redirected the Azmaik's weight.
Azmaik stumbled. His dagger clattered to the floor.
Elior didn't strike. He fixed his stance, one hand extended, waiting for Azmaik to fall.
Azmaik roared, tried to regain footing but his own fury betrayed him. He toppled, crashing onto his back, breath knocked from his lungs.
Elior stepped back, lowering his hands. "The duel is over."
His voice was calm. The whole plaza felt the weight of what they had just seen. A flow of wind making the dust scatter in the medium.
Elior raised his hand towards Azmaik gently. Azmaik gritted his teeth and slapped away Elior's hand. Elior didn't get mad, he simply smiled and turned back.
Azmaik lay on the cracked stones, chest heaving. His face was red, his veins twitched with fury.
For a moment it looked as if he might lunge again, crush the duel's rules and spill more blood in rage. But then his eyes narrowed at Elior, who stood steady and untouched.
This was no ordinary man. A presence crafted by numerous years, not days.
Azmaik spat on the ground and turned his face away. His pride burned, but he swallowed it for now.
Elior did not gloat. He bent instead, lifting the old man's body from where it had fallen. Blood smeared across his vest as he carried the limp carefully through the hushed plaza.
He laid the body down on a flat patch of ground at the plaza's edge. As soon as he placed the man there, earth shuddered.
Dust swirled and before their eyes the ground hollowed itself into a neat square. A grave, formed as though the System itself honored the fallen.
Tom and others were shocked seeing this. The ground where he touched automatically ripped open like he commanded it to. Could it be that he is a Facebearer too? No wonder when he is going to get one or never?
Elior knelt beside it. He brushed dirt from the old man's face, then lowered him gently into the pit. With one firm touch on the soil, earth closed again leaving only smooth stone above.
Grace's hand brushed her cloak. Watching Elior stand again. His bloodstained vest catching the pale light.
She would see Elior's Face but she saw nothing around him, Tom thought after analysing the situation.
Tom exhaled, folding his arms. His gaze didn't leave the man. He doesn't fight for himself…. he fights for something else. For the living.... for the fallen.
Around the plaza, factions felt the weight of what had happened. Dominion Seekers, once loud, shifted uneasily. The Liberators fell silent. Even the Covenant's whispers stilled.
One by one, people who had stood beneath banners of pride and rebellion found themselves sliding back to neutrality, their eyes drifting toward Elior Jones.
Someone finally said it aloud. "He should lead us."
Another voice joined. "Not Azmaik! Him!"
Elior heard them, but he only wiped the dirt from his hands and stood silently. His calm gray eyes lifted to the blackened sky, where the gigantic hourglass still turned its darts.
Azmaik's fists clenched at his sides, his glare fixed on Elior's back. Rage simmered, but even he could not deny the man's weight.
Tom's lips curved into a small, thoughtful smile. He had seen enough to know.
The Leader for now, was chosen.
And as the sun's red light bent across the ruins, the chapter of chaos closed, giving rise to something far more dangerous, Order.... maybe....
10:00—9:59—9:58.