The morning light was dim and filtered through the thick smog that clung to the outskirts of Bastion Valoras. It gave the world a sickly, yellowish hue, as if the sun itself was dying. Pan awoke to the familiar ache in his bones, a constant reminder of the harsh life he led. His bed was nothing more than a pile of rags on the cold, damp floor of his shack—a crumbling structure held together by rusted nails and fraying hopes.
Pan didn't remember what his name used to be. Whatever it was, it had been lost long ago, swallowed by the endless nights of hunger and fear. Now, he was just Pan, short for Pandemonium, a name given to him by the other scavengers. It was a cruel joke, one that stuck because it fit too well. Pandemoniums, as the scavengers called them, were deadly events—a spontaneous surge of magical essence that caused the already twisted fauna and creatures outside the bastion to congregate and go berserk. And somehow, they always seemed to follow Pan.
He rubbed his eyes, trying to shake off the remnants of a nightmare that clung to him like the ever-present smog. In the dream, his parents' faces had been clear—clearer than they ever were in his waking memory—but as usual, the dream ended with them fading into the toxic mists outside the walls, leaving him alone. Always alone.
Pan rose and stretched, his joints popping in protest. The small shack he called home creaked as if sharing his pain. It wasn't much, but it was the only shelter he had. Outside, the slums of Valoras were beginning to stir, the inhabitants slowly emerging from their ramshackle dwellings. The air was thick with the stench of decay, both literal and figurative, as the remains of the world that had once been rotted away in the wasteland.
His first task of the day was survival. Pan grabbed his scavenger's mask from a nail on the wall and strapped it on. The mask was old and battered, its filter long past needing replacement, but it was better than breathing the poisoned air unprotected. He slipped on his worn gloves, tugging at the frayed edges, and grabbed his scavenger's bag—a patchwork of cloth and leather, stitched together so many times it was more repairs than original material.
Outside, the narrow alleyways of the slums were already filled with people, all of them as worn and beaten as Pan. The bastion's lower districts were a maze of shacks, rusting machinery, and refuse, the remnants of a once-great city now reduced to a decaying corpse. The people here were like Pan, the forgotten ones, the ones who scraped by on the edges of society, always one step away from falling into the abyss.
Pan moved quickly, avoiding eye contact with the others as he made his way to the ration lines. The lines were long, as they always were, filled with people waiting for their daily allotment of stale bread and soured milk. The guards overseeing the distribution were indifferent, their faces hidden behind masks, their voices mechanical as they barked orders to keep the line moving. Pan took his place at the back, his stomach growling with a hunger that had become a constant companion.
As he waited, Pan's mind wandered to the wasteland beyond the bastion walls. The scavengers' life was brutal, a constant battle against the mutated horrors that lurked in the toxic fog. But it was also the only way to earn more than the meager rations provided by the bastion. Scavenging was the only option for those like Pan, who had nothing else to offer, nothing else to live for.
By the time Pan reached the front of the line, the bread was hard as a rock, and the milk had started to curdle. He took the rations without complaint, shoving them into his bag before slipping away into the alleys. He couldn't afford to linger; the bastion's guards had little patience for those who loitered, and Pan had no desire to draw their attention.
His next stop was the scavenger market, a chaotic sprawl of makeshift stalls where scavengers bartered and sold whatever they could find in the wasteland. The market was a dangerous place, filled with desperate people willing to do anything for a scrap of food or a few coins. Pan kept his head down as he navigated the crowded aisles, his eyes scanning the wares with practiced efficiency.
"Oi, Pan!" A gruff voice called out, and Pan turned to see Garek, a grizzled scavenger with a face like weathered leather, waving him over. Garek was one of the few people Pan could tolerate, a fellow scavenger who had taken Pan under his wing when he was younger, teaching him the tricks of the trade. But even Garek had his limits, and Pan knew better than to trust him completely.
"Got something for you," Garek said as Pan approached. He reached under his stall and pulled out a essence detector, its surface etched with faint runes that glowed with a dim, pulsing light. The device was battered and worn, but the glowing stone embedded within still hummed faintly, a testament to its lingering power. "Found it in the scrap heap. Thought you might be able to use it."
Pan took the detector, feeling the subtle vibration of the residual magic in his hands. It was old, and the essence stored within was nearly depleted, but it was better than the one he currently had, which flickered out more often than it worked.
"How much?" Pan asked, his voice muffled by the mask, though his eyes were focused on the faint glow of the runes.
Garek shrugged. "Consider it a gift. Just remember who your friends are when you strike it rich—or when that essence in there runs dry, and you need a recharge."
Pan nodded, slipping the detector into his bag. Garek's 'gifts' always came with strings attached, but Pan was in no position to refuse. He muttered a word of thanks before turning to leave, but Garek's hand shot out, grabbing his arm.
"Be careful out there," Garek said, his voice unusually serious. "There's been talk of something strange happening out in the wastes. Some of the others say they've seen lights, heard voices. More pandemoniums than usual, too. It's like the whole place is waking up."
Pan nodded again, though his mind was already elsewhere. The wasteland was always dangerous, always unpredictable. It was the nature of the world they lived in. But he couldn't afford to be afraid. Fear was a luxury for those who had something to lose.
As Pan moved through the crowded aisles of the scavenger market, a sudden commotion near the market's entrance drew his attention. The hum of conversations died down, and a hush fell over the crowd as several figures in ornate robes pushed their way through. They were aristocratic mages, their presence unmistakable by the way the crowd instinctively parted for them. The air around them crackled with an almost palpable tension, the magic essence they wielded radiating like a storm waiting to break.
Pan watched as they closed in on a man at the edge of the market, his ragged clothes marking him as another scavenger. The man's eyes darted frantically, his breaths coming in ragged gasps as if he'd been running for his life. Before he could make a move, one of the mages stepped forward, lifting a hand that glowed with a bright, searing light. The glow coalesced into a shimmering barrier around the fugitive, locking him in place as his limbs froze, unable to resist the force of the magic.
The lead mage, a woman with silver hair that seemed to shimmer with its own inner light, spoke a word of command. The air around the fugitive grew dense, as if the very essence within him was being drained, his strength fading as quickly as the fear in his eyes intensified. He dropped to his knees, powerless before the mages who seemed to siphon the very life out of him. Pan felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, not just from the raw display of power but from the realization of how small and insignificant he was in the grand scheme of things. Here, in this world where everyone had some grasp of magic, it was those with the wealth and status to hone their essence who ruled with an iron fist.
He left the market behind, his thoughts turning to the day's task. Scavenging was always a gamble—sometimes you found something valuable, sometimes you came back empty-handed. But today, Pan had a feeling, a sense of urgency that pushed him forward. He would venture farther than usual, beyond the areas the other scavengers frequented, into the deeper parts of the wasteland where the risks were greater, but so were the rewards.
The wasteland greeted him like an old enemy, the air thick with the acrid stench of magic and decay. The sky was a sickly yellow, the sun a faint, dim orb barely visible through the haze. Pan adjusted his mask, tightening the straps as he stepped beyond the bastion's protective walls. The world outside was a graveyard of twisted metal and crumbling stone, the remains of a civilization long gone.
Pan moved with caution, his eyes scanning the ground for anything that might be of value. The wasteland was filled with dangers, from the mutated beasts that roamed the ruins to the pockets of unstable magic that could tear a man apart in an instant. But Pan knew how to navigate the dangers. He had to. It was the only way to survive.
Hours passed as Pan searched the desolate landscape, his essence detector humming softly in his hand. The occasional beep of the detector was the only sound in the oppressive silence, each one a flicker of hope that quickly faded when the find turned out to be nothing more than rusted scrap.
He was about to turn back, his bag only half full, when the detector let out a sharp, rapid series of beeps. Pan's heart skipped a beat as he knelt down, scraping away the dirt with his gloved hands. The ground was loose here, as if it had been disturbed recently, and Pan's excitement grew as he uncovered a small, metallic object buried in the earth.
It was an old locket, tarnished and worn, but intact. Pan's fingers brushed over the intricate design on its surface—a design that seemed to pulse with a faint, almost imperceptible glow. This was no ordinary piece of scrap; it was something much more valuable. But as he lifted the locket from the dirt, the ground beneath him shifted.
Panic surged through Pan as the earth gave way, sending him tumbling into the darkness below. He fell for what felt like an eternity, the world spinning around him as he clawed at the air, trying to grab hold of anything to stop his descent. But there was nothing, only the cold, unforgiving darkness that swallowed him whole.