Oliver's legs trembled as he crested the final hill, the weight of his pack digging into his shoulders. The city's decayed outskirts faded into the horizon behind him, replaced by an expanse of cracked asphalt, overgrown weeds, and a looming structure in the distance. Haven's Gate.
It stood like a fortress, its towering metal walls cobbled together from salvaged parts—scraps of buses, shipping containers, and reinforced concrete slabs. The structure radiated defiance, a testament to humanity's will to endure. Floodlights swept across the barren landscape in wide arcs, illuminating a no-man's-land littered with debris and signs of past battles: charred remains of corrupted creatures, shattered weapons, and deep gouges in the earth where lightning or fire had struck.
Oliver paused, catching his breath, as he observed the scene. Figures patrolled the wall, their silhouettes sharp against the floodlights. They moved with precision, their eyes scanning the horizon with a focus that made it clear they weren't ordinary survivors. Some carried rifles and bows, but others wielded more unusual weapons—one woman bore a staff glowing faintly with green energy, while another's hands sparked with lightning similar to Oliver's own. These weren't just survivors. They were marked, like him.
For a moment, doubt gnawed at him. What if they didn't let him in? Or worse—what if they saw him as a threat? He adjusted the strap of his pack, steeling himself. He'd come too far to turn back now.
A shout from above broke the silence. "Stop right there!"
Oliver froze, raising his hands instinctively. A man stepped into view on a platform above the gate, aiming a crossbow at him. The man's face was partially obscured by a hood, but his voice carried authority.
"State your name and purpose!"
"My name is Oliver," he called back, his voice steady despite the tension in his chest. "I'm looking for sanctuary. I've come from the southern districts."
The man narrowed his eyes. "You're marked." It wasn't a question. The faint crackle of electricity still danced at Oliver's fingertips, betraying his altered nature.
"I am," Oliver admitted. "But I mean no harm. I've fought the corrupted beasts, just like you."
The man exchanged a glance with someone out of sight, then nodded. "Open the gates!"
With a groan of metal, the massive doors began to part, revealing a narrow entrance flanked by two guards. They stepped forward as Oliver approached, their weapons held at the ready.
"Keep your hands where we can see them," one of the guards ordered.
Oliver complied, his movements slow and deliberate. As he crossed the threshold, the gates rumbled shut behind him, sealing the outside world away.
The interior of Haven's Gate was a stark contrast to the ruins Oliver had grown accustomed to. The main square buzzed with activity—survivors bartered for supplies, repaired weapons, and tended to small gardens growing in makeshift planters. Children darted between the adults, their laughter a surprising sound in a world that had grown so quiet.
But it wasn't just the signs of normal life that caught Oliver's attention. Around the perimeter, marked individuals trained under the watchful eyes of instructors. One man conjured a swirling vortex of wind, while another summoned fire into his palms. A woman in the corner focused on creating a glowing barrier of energy, her face contorted in concentration.
"You'll follow me," the guard said, breaking Oliver's focus.
He was led through the square to a central building, a large structure reinforced with steel beams. Inside, the air was cooler, and the noise from outside faded to a dull hum. The guard stopped in front of a set of double doors and knocked twice before pushing them open.
The room beyond was a meeting hall, its walls lined with maps, charts, and diagrams. A long table dominated the center, surrounded by a mix of individuals—some marked, others seemingly ordinary. At the head of the table sat a woman with short, silver-streaked hair and piercing green eyes. She exuded an air of authority, her posture straight and her gaze sharp.
"Another stray?" she asked, her voice calm but assessing.
The guard nodded. "Found him approaching the southern gate. Says he's marked and fought corrupted beasts."
The woman studied Oliver, her eyes lingering on the faint scars visible on his arms and the lightning that still danced faintly across his fingertips. "Is that true?" she asked.
"It is," Oliver said. "I've been surviving alone, scavenging what I can. I've fought wolves, jotnar, and worse."
Her expression didn't change, but she leaned forward slightly. "And what is it you want here?"
"A chance to train," Oliver said honestly. "To grow stronger. I've only scratched the surface of my abilities, but I know I'll need more if I'm going to survive out there."
The room fell silent for a moment, the others at the table exchanging glances. Finally, the woman nodded. "You're not the first to come here seeking that. Haven's Gate was built for people like you—for the marked who've survived long enough to understand that power alone isn't enough. But we don't hand out trust freely."
"I'm not asking for trust," Oliver said, meeting her gaze. "I'll earn it."
The corner of her mouth twitched in what might have been a smile. "Good answer." She stood, motioning to one of the men at the table. "Elias, take him to the barracks. Let him rest, but tomorrow, he'll face the trial."
Oliver frowned. "Trial?"
She turned back to him, her expression serious. "If you want to stay here, you'll need to prove yourself. The corrupted beasts are nothing compared to the challenges you'll face in the days ahead. Consider the trial your first lesson."
Before he could respond, she turned and walked away, leaving him with Elias.
"Come on," Elias said, motioning for Oliver to follow.
The barracks were simple but clean, a stark improvement from the crumbling ruins Oliver had been calling home. Elias handed him a dry blanket and a ration pack before leaving him alone in a small room.
As Oliver sat on the cot, exhaustion finally caught up to him. But even as his body ached for rest, his mind raced. The trial loomed ahead, and he had no idea what it would entail.
He retrieved the journal from his pack, thumbing through its pages until he found a section on combat techniques. The unnamed warrior's words were clear: Power without control is a double-edged blade. Sharpen your skills, or the blade will cut you instead of your enemies.
Oliver sighed, setting the journal aside. He didn't have much time to prepare, but he wouldn't let fear hold him back. Tomorrow, he would prove his worth—not just to the people of Haven's Gate, but to himself.
For the first time in weeks, he lay down on something other than concrete or dirt. The room was quiet, save for the faint hum of the community outside.
As he drifted off to sleep, one thought echoed in his mind: I will survive. I will grow stronger.