The sound of the falling stone tree brought the others running. Lorcan arrived first, his energy bow already formed, his eyes wide as he took in the scene: Olivia kneeling, breathing heavily, and the two massive halves of the petrified tree lying where a single one had stood for ages. Silas was right behind him, his hand resting on the h-ilt of his own weapon.
"What happened?" Lorcan demanded, his gaze shifting from the tree to Echo, who stood watching with its usual placid neutrality. "Did it attack you?"
"No," Olivia said, pushing herself to her feet. She felt drained, but also strangely energized. A new pathway of power had been opened to her. "It was a training exercise."
Silas walked over to the sundered tree, running a hand over the clean, sharp break in the stone. He looked at the perfect line of the fracture, then back at Olivia. He didn't say anything, but his expression was a mixture of disbelief and a new, grudging respect. He understood, on a fundamental level, that this was not the work of a physical blow.
The training became a part of their new routine. Every cycle, Olivia would meet Echo in the clearing. They would work for hours, pushing the limits of her Aspect. She learned to do more than just find existing weaknesses; she learned how to introduce new, subtle narratives into objects. She learned to tell a stone the story of being brittle, or a dead branch the story of being heavy. Echo acted as her sparring partner and her amplifier, sometimes reinforcing her narratives with its golden light, and other times actively resisting her, forcing Olivia to strengthen her own will.
During these sessions, Olivia began to study Echo more closely. She started to see the small things that separated it from the brother it imitated. It never fidgeted. It never showed frustration or joy. Its movements were always perfectly efficient. But the most telling detail was what it did when it thought no one was watching. Sometimes, when it stood alone, its hand would clench and unclench in a repetitive, rhythmic pattern. It was not a gesture of anxiety, but a motion like a machine calibrating itself.
The rest of the camp was healing, both physically and mentally. The relative safety and stillness of the Petrified Sea was a balm after the constant chaos of the shifting arenas. Elara's strength returned daily. The refugees, under Silas's gruff guidance, began to act less like victims and more like survivors. They established regular watches, organized their meager supplies, and even started exploring further into the silent forest, always in groups.
It was during one of these explorations that they found him.
He was sitting with his back against a stone tree, about a mile from the caves. He was an old man, gaunt and weathered, his armor little more than rusted scraps of metal held together with leather straps. Long, grey hair was matted to his scalp, and his skin was covered in a roadmap of old scars. He was so still they almost missed him, thinking he was just another part of the dead landscape. It was the faint, ragged movement of his chest that gave him away. He was alive.
Silas and Olivia approached him cautiously. The old man's eyes fluttered open as they neared. They were pale, washed-out blue, and they held a weariness that seemed older than the stone trees around them.
"Well now," the old man rasped, his voice dry and cracked. "Visitors. It's been a long time since anyone but the dust came calling."
"Who are you?" Silas asked, his hand still on his sword.
"The name's Caden," the old man said. He tried to push himself up straighter, a wince of pain crossing his face. "Used to be, anyway. Now I'm just… the caretaker."
"Caretaker of what?" Olivia asked, her eyes scanning the dead forest. "There's nothing here."
Caden let out a dry, rattling chuckle. "Nothing is right. I take care of the nothing." He looked them over, his gaze lingering on Olivia, then on Silas. "You're new. Fresh out of the storm. I can smell the ozone of a collapsing arena on you."
"We came from the Crystal Labyrinth," Olivia said.
"Ah, the Glass Queen's little snow globe," Caden nodded. "Heard she got her feelings hurt. The whole system's been… twitchy… ever since. Unscheduled shutdowns. Data purges. You lot kicked the hornet's nest, didn't you?"
This old man, a hermit in a dead world, knew about the system. He was more than he seemed.
"We need information," Olivia said, deciding to be direct. "We're trying to get to the Second Section."
Caden's pale eyes seemed to look right through her. "Everyone wants to get to the next level. They think it'll be different. Better prizes, bigger arenas. They don't realize it's just a taller mountain of corpses." He coughed, a deep, rattling sound. "But you… you're not like the others. You're not just looking for a better fight. You're looking for an answer, aren't you?"
"I'm looking for my brother," Olivia said simply.
Caden was quiet for a long moment, studying her face. "A noble reason to walk into hell," he finally said. "Alright. I'll tell you what I know. But it'll cost you. Information's the only currency that matters in this place."
"We have little to trade," Silas said.
"Oh, I don't want your scraps or your stories," Caden said, a faint smile touching his lips. He slowly, painfully, pulled up the sleeve of his ragged tunic, revealing a forearm covered in a lattice of thick, ugly scars. "I want one of those." He pointed a trembling finger at a fresh, deep gash on Silas's arm, a wound he'd gotten during their escape.
"You want… a wound?" Silas asked, his voice full of disbelief.
"Every scar tells a story," Caden whispered, his eyes distant. "I've been here so long, I'm starting to forget my own. I collect new ones. Reminders of what it felt like to be in the fight. A little pain, a little story. That's the price."
Silas and Olivia exchanged a look. The old man was clearly unhinged, his mind warped by countless cycles of solitude. But he was also the first person they had met who seemed to understand the true nature of their prison.
Silas, ever the pragmatist, shrugged. "A story for a story. Seems fair." He knelt beside Caden. "What do you want to know?"
"Tell me about the glass," Caden said, his eyes gleaming with a strange light. "Tell me how it broke."
And so, sitting in the grey dust of a dead world, Silas recounted the story of their battle with Seraphina. He told of the Labyrinth, of Elara's shield, of Lorcan's arrows, and of how Olivia had found the flaw in the spire. As he spoke, Caden listened, his expression rapt. He was not just hearing a story; he was living it.
When Silas was finished, a long silence fell. Caden closed his eyes, as if savoring the memory. "A good story," he finally breathed. "A fine scar." He nodded at Silas. "Now, ask your questions."
"The Transference Event," Olivia said, leaning forward. "Echo told us there are three ways. What are they?"
Caden opened his eyes. The distant, hazy look was gone, replaced by a sharp, focused intelligence. "The Echo, eh? So the system's still running its little puppet show. Interesting." He ignored their surprised looks and continued. "There are three paths, yes. The Path of Glory, the Path of Knowledge, and the Path of Blood.
"The Path of Glory is the 'official' way," he explained. "Every so often, the system announces a Grand Melee. A massive, battle-royale style event, usually held in one of the more stable arenas like the Gilded Cage. Thousands fight, but only the last one standing, the Champion, is offered Transference. It's a meat grinder. A lottery. You're more likely to die your final death from a stray shot than you are to even see the final ten."
"What's a final death?" Olivia asked, latching onto the phrase.
"When your will breaks," Caden said grimly. "When you die one too many times and just… give up. You don't become a Hollowed. You just don't come back the next dawn. Your Rebirth Token goes cold. The system purges your data. Most people end up this way. Glory is the longest of long shots."
"The Path of Knowledge?" Olivia pressed.
"Rarer. Almost a myth," Caden said. "The system has rules. A code. If you can figure out the code, you can find the back doors. There are artifacts, they say, scattered across the arenas. 'Glitches.' Keys. Find enough of them, learn how to use them, and you can supposedly open a Gate yourself. But the system guards these secrets jealously. Those who walk this path are hunted, not just by other fighters, but by the game itself. Seraphina was a warden of that path. She destroyed anyone who got too close to understanding how things really work."
Olivia thought of the Rebirth Token from Valerius, and the glimpse of the source code sky. She had stumbled onto the beginning of that path without even realizing it.
"And the Path of Blood?" Silas asked.
Caden's expression darkened. "The oldest way. The hardest way. You don't win a tournament, you don't find a key. You just… walk out." He pointed a trembling finger in the direction of the Unraveling Seam. "The walls between the Proving Grounds and the Second Section are not always stable. In places, they are thin. If you can find one of these 'thin spots,' and you have the raw power and the sheer, bloody-minded will to do it… you can tear a hole. You can force your way through. But the price is high. The energy required can burn your soul to ash. And on the other side… on the other side, the Rankers are waiting. They don't take kindly to people who knock on their door without an invitation."
He looked from Olivia to Silas, his pale eyes weighing them. "Three paths. A lottery, a puzzle, or a suicide mission. The system wants you to choose Glory. It's loud, it's distracting, and it keeps the population down. But for people like you… the other paths are the ones that call. Be warned. They are roads that have claimed far more souls than they have ever set free."