The transition wasn't a leap; it was a burial.
When the A-ranks spoke of teleportation, they described a shimmering slipstream, a momentary lapse in geography that felt like stepping through a cool curtain of silk. For Nas, the experience was a violent violation of the laws of physics. It felt as if the universe was trying to rectify its error by grinding him into a fine paste. He felt his lungs flatten against his spine, his marrow vibrate until his teeth felt loose in their sockets, and a sensation like a thousand needles being driven into his pores.
He was being squeezed through a straw made of static and shadow.
Then, the pressure snapped. Nas collapsed onto a floor of damp, jagged stone. He vomited immediately. A bitter, thin bile that splattered against the grey rock. His vision was a chaotic smear of purple afterimages, and his ears rang with a high-pitched whine that sounded like a dying engine.
"Wait," he wheezed, his voice cracking. "Hold on..."
He reached out blindly, expecting to find the rough wool of the old man's coat or the trembling hand of the girl. His fingers met only slick, cold moss and the indifferent grit of stone.
Nas forced his eyes open. He blinked rapidly, clearing the stinging moisture until the world resolved into a grim reality.
He was in a circular chamber, perhaps twenty feet across. The walls were made of massive, interlocking blocks of obsidian-colored stone, weeping moisture that gathered in stagnant puddles. High above, a single flickering light source. Not a lamp, but a hovering globule of pale, sickly luminescence cast long, dancing shadows that seemed to crawl like insects.
It was silent. Not the peaceful silence of a library, but the heavy, suffocating silence of a tomb.
"Hello?" he called out. The word didn't echo; the damp walls seemed to swallow the sound whole.
A cold dread, sharper than the damp air, pierced his chest. In the Academy's mandatory "Survival for the Non-Gifted" seminars, they had hammered one rule into their heads: The Gate is a tether. The party is the anchor.
Teleportation was supposed to group players together to maximize the survival rate of the low-ranked dregs. A party of six F-ranks was supposed to be a single unit.
Nas looked at the empty room. There were no twins. No veteran with a prosthetic leg. No sobbing girl.
"I'm a rounding error," he whispered, the realization sinking in.
The System didn't even care to put him with his team, dropping him into a dead-end coordinate of the Tutorial Spire. He wasn't just an underdog; he was a ghost in the machine, isolated in a part of the castle that hadn't seen a 'player' in decades.
The smell hit him then. It wasn't the "Sweat and Incense" of the Plaza. The smell of human hope and desperation. This place smelled of wet fur, ancient dust, and the metallic tang of stagnant water. It was the scent of a predator's den.
Nas stayed on the floor for a long time, listening to his own heartbeat. It was a frantic, irregular thing, drumming against his ribs like a trapped bird. Every drip of water from the ceiling sounded like a footfall. Every shift in the flickering light looked like a lunging shadow.
Get up. If I stay here, my only destination is a graveyard.
He pushed himself up, his muscles protesting. His Agility was 2; his Strength was 2. He felt the weight of his own body as an anchor. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the small loaf of rye Mrs. Gable had given him. It was squashed, the crust damp from his sweat, but it was the only thing linking him to the world above. He tore off a small piece and chewed. It tasted like ash, but a faint sweetness lingered on his tongue.
Then, he drew his weapon.
It was a kitchen knife, eight inches of stainless steel with a plastic handle. It was meant for dicing onions, not slaying monsters. In the dim, sickly light of the chamber, it looked pathetic.
He began to circle the room, staying close to the wall. His boots made soft squelch sounds in the moss. On the far side of the chamber, partially obscured by a fallen slab of masonry, he spotted a glint of metal.
It was a wall-locker, its door hanging off a single rusted hinge. Nas approached it with the caution of a man walking through a minefield. He used the tip of his knife to pry the door further open. It groaned, a piercing metallic shriek that made him wince, certain that every monster in the Spire had just been alerted to his exact coordinates.
Inside, resting on a bed of grey dust, was a small, thumb-sized glass vial. It contained a thick, glowing green liquid that moved with the viscosity of honey.
He touched it, and a flicker of the standard System interface appeared, dim like a dying flashlight.
[Small Vial of Rejuvenating Sap]Grade: Common (E)Description: A diluted extract from the secondary roots of the World Tree.Effect: Heals medium lacerations and restores 10% stamina upon consumption.
Nas stared at the vial. To a B-rank like Bradley Chen, this was trash, something you'd find in a bargain bin or discarded in a gutter. To Nas, it was a miracle. It was a second chance. It was the difference between bleeding out in the dark and making it to the next room.
He didn't drink it. He couldn't afford the luxury of comfort. He tucked the vial into the inner pocket of his jacket, right against his heart. The glass was cool, a small weight that felt like an anchor.
I have one mistake. The System has given me exactly one mistake. I have to make it count.
The chamber didn't have a door; it had a maw. A dark, arched corridor that led deeper into the guts of the castle.
Nas stood at the edge of the darkness, his breath coming in shallow hitches. He waited, hoping his eyes would adjust, but the darkness here wasn't natural. It was a thick, predatory gloom that seemed to push back against the flickering light of the chamber.
Then, he heard it.
Skitter-scritch. Skitter-scritch.
It was coming from the ceiling of the corridor. It was the sound of claws on stone, heavy and rhythmic.
Nas froze. He gripped the kitchen knife so hard his knuckles turned white. His heart rate accelerated, a frantic thump-thump-thump that seemed to fill the entire room. He felt a bead of sweat roll down his temple, stinging his eye. He didn't dare blink.
Out of the gloom, two glowing red embers appeared. They were low to the ground, swaying slightly. Then came the smell. the overwhelming reek of rotting meat and ammonia.
The creature stepped into the pale light.
It was a Dread-Rat. In the bestiaries Nas had studied in school, they were described as "nuisance-grade vermin." They were the training wheels for the new Awakened. But those bestiaries assumed the Awakened had a Mana Affinity higher than a rock.
The rat was the size of a bulldog, its body a mass of scarred, mangy grey fur and corded muscle. Its front incisors were jagged yellow chisels, and its tail, long, hairless, and covered in thick, leathery scales, whipped behind it like a living whip.
It hissed, a sound like steam escaping a pipe, revealing a throat stained with old blood.
Nas felt his knees tremble. Every instinct he possessed screamed at him to run, to turn and bolt back into the corner. But there was nowhere to go.
Fight or die. There is no third option.