1.1 The Whereabouts••••••••••••••
As I stepped into the gloomy soil outside my ramshackle abode, the familiar desolation greeted me like an old friend. The tree bark was blackened, the leaves withered, the plants parched and weak, the animals gaunt, their bones showing. Even worse, there was no sun. The people, desperate, acted randomly violent.
Our only source of light was the Octane Light. They say it was a gift from the Greater Above Us All, worshipped by cultists and those foolish individuals blinded by hope. They say the Octane Light symbolizes hope, a glimmer of it, but I can't fathom why the Greater Above Us All doesn't even bother to release the sun. I can't help but wonder, maybe this omnipotent being is a hoax, a lie created by men. Those people who drown themselves in delusions are likely to spend their eternity believing in something that doesn't even exist. What's the point of it all? Or maybe it's a scheme? Who knows.
I'm not a believer. That's why all this fuss about the greater being doesn't bother me. I only believe in what I see with my own eyes.
I looked above, and the sky was black as smoke, but the stars and constellations shone brightly. It was morning, but it felt like evening. My ancestors would say that the old world was better than this shithole. They say that because of the war two hundred years ago, the world was thrown into chaos. Some resorted to sealing the world, and the result was random phenomena appearing everywhere. No one knows what will happen or when it will stop, but one thing I certainly believe is that the higher-ups are involved in this. I don't think a simple war could cause this. I know how cunning and manipulative they are in secrets.
"Ah! I hate this! Where's the sun!?" I cried out. I'd waited for countless tomorrows, hoping the sky would shine bright again. But the days passed, and it only worsened. It's not just the sun I have to deal with, but also the fact that I'm a transwoman. They believe my kind brought misfortune and dilemma to this world, but it's not true. Only those men who created such assumptions would believe this, or those blind ears who don't understand the struggle I face, the same struggle they experience.
I stomped my foot as hard as Thor's hammer onto the hardened ground, but my whining wouldn't make any difference at all. I might even break my foot because of my silliness.
I gave a furrowed head as I watched the people of Purine suffer from hopelessness. They were like wilting flowers in the harsh sun, their faces etched with despair. Their eyes were hollow, reflecting the bleak reality of their situation.
One of the residents got agitated and began to hurt the other persons who were passing by. One thing that caught my attention was the fact that he wore a luxury pleated shirt and several pieces of jewelry around his neck, fingers, and ears. Judging from his composure, he came from a wealthy family or a clan that dominated a region or two, but I was wrong. I sensed that the ornaments were just mere replications of those original ones that nobles wore. I felt a bit ashamed for him and pity at the same time. Even a replica would probably create chaos in this land. Well, people here developed an ability called Jealousy, or let me say Ivarice or Greed.
In this world, everyone possessed a skill, a unique power granted to them by the world itself. Some were benevolent, like the healers who could mend broken bones with a touch, or the weavers who could mend torn fabrics with a whisper. Others were deadly, like the shadow walkers who could cloak themselves in darkness, or the fire wielders who could incinerate their enemies with a flick of their wrist.
But I... I was an anomaly, an Imperfect, a walking contradiction. I had no idea what my skill was. It was a burden, a secret I kept close to my heart. The others whispered about me, their eyes filled with fear and suspicion. Was I a threat? A blessing? No one knew. Not even me.
Every city or nation has its own defining skill. Here in Pourine, it's Greed, a skill that overruns and consumes everyone's minds. It's subtle at first glance, but once you're exposed to it, you'll see the true horror it imposes. Yeah A skill like this isn't something we can simply boast about or joke about. This ability can consume you if the user feels jealous of their target. That's why quarrels occur here every day.
Above us is Lostelle. You heard it right. As the name suggests, lost means empty, but don't let that fool you. The truth is, this city is no better than ours, at least based on my experience. But I'm no great judge. Every year, people from the otherworld drift into this place. So they built a civilization that only otherworlders can reside in. The first case was an entity named Retz, with no gender, based on the reports or from what I heard.
"Maybe I should become a detective," I thought, a flicker of hope sparking in my chest. "I'm good at gathering intel, after all." But then reality slammed back into me, cold and hard. "It was just a dream," I sighed, kicking at a loose rock that skittered across the parched ground. I was just a nobody, a nobody in a world on the brink, a world shrouded in darkness and despair.
Retz was the one responsible for Lostelle's flourishing, even if there were downsides. The otherworlders didn't like him. He wasn't the first one transported here; a bunch of them had come before, some dying in their own worlds, others probably discovering a cryptid location and teleporting here.
That's cool and all, but the idea of vanishing isn't what I want.
The truth is, nobody knows where they end up when they disappear. There are whispers, of course, about the Otherworld. People say it's a place of magic, a place where the impossible becomes possible. But no one knows for sure. And I have to admit, the thought of vanishing into thin air, of never knowing what happens next, makes me shiver.
Lostelle was a city of exquisite cuisine, a symphony of flavors that would make your mouth water. A city that vibrant and alive, a place where the air buzzed with energy and laughter. It was a place where food was an art form, and the chefs were masters of their craft. But behind this decadence, the glittering facades and the sumptuous feasts, lay a deep secret, a truth known only to the Lostellean. I, however, will hold that secret close, for now.
DON'T LOOK AT ME! YOU ASSHOLE!" he snarled, his face twisted into a grotesque mask of rage. His voice was a guttural growl, laced with a venomous spite that sent shivers down to everyone's spine but not me since seeing him like that is kinda boring but entertaining.
The person's face paled, his eyes widening in terror as the man's gaze fixed upon him. The man's eyes, bloodshot and bulging, seemed to burn with a savage hunger, like a predator sizing up its prey. They were a sight to behold, almost unnaturally red, as if filled with molten lava. His teeth, crooked and sharp, were like tiny daggers. I could tell they were sharp enough to bite through steel. I mentally gave him a ten for being such a showman.
"I-I-I'm so sorry if I disturbed you mister," he stammered, his voice trembling. He was clearly terrified, his body shaking like a leaf in a hurricane.
"Grr!" The man growled, his voice a low, guttural sound that sent shivers down my spine. He reminded me of a wild canine, cornered and ready to strike.
As the minutes ticked by, the person's face contorted with worry. Fear was etched into every line, every crease of his skin. I was observing them, taking in every detail, and I could see that they were reaching their breaking point.
Thankfully, a piercing siren split the air, drowning out the tense silence. It was a jarring sound that jolted the man from his focused rage, drawing his attention away. The person who had been on the receiving end of his fury took the opportunity and slipped away unnoticed.
Thankfully, he didn't receive a beating from Aero, a man whose name was synonymous with brutal efficiency. He was tall and lean, with piercing blue eyes that seemed to see through you. His hands, calloused and
scarred, held a terrifying power. They said he came from the fringes of society, a man of the streets who had risen to power through sheer force of will and ruthlessness. They called him "The Crazy Pauper," a moniker that spoke to his paradoxical existence. He was poor, not just in money, but in everything, a man stripped bare of all material comforts. In this world, where labels held immense power, he was considered "imperfect," marked by his poverty and ruthlessness. If they received one, it was a sign that they were considered "imperfect," forever marked by the label.
This is a very normal day for us. Despite the terrifying situation we're in, we have an abundance of food. But the problem is, we're not satisfied yet. We haven't seen the sun for five whole decades. The sky remains a perpetual twilight, a chilling reminder of the world's broken state. The absence of the sun, that life-giving force, hangs over us like a heavy shroud, feeding our anxieties and fueling the discontent that simmers beneath the surface. We're trapped in a perpetual twilight, a haunting echo of the old world, a world that we can only dream of.
As for me, it's different. I'm an imperfect being, created by a mistake. I don't get weakened, nor do I get violent. My skin stays aglow, and that's why some residents get jealous of me and disgusted by my existence. I'm scared for my dear life as one of them has a suspicion that I'm a transwoman. That's why I hide my body and face under my mom's cloak, a simple rattan weave. I mean, how can I be so imperfect if I have this ability? The irony!
There are two types of humans living in this world: the perfect and the imperfect.
Perfect means they have abnormalities in their body or do any strange activities. Possessing magic or doing incantations isn't prohibited for them. It's considered immoral and unnatural, but of course, this rule is only applied to those above us - the rich, nobles, and those who hold greater power. The second they oppose the authority, they are immediately executed, jailed and rot in a cell for eternity, or even die.
"I hate the idea they impose on us, as if they're the good ones, and those beneath them are treated like trash. Like me. Those individuals who share my status receive no privilege. Yes, we have a bountiful amount of food that could fill our stomachs, but it's not enough. It's not enough to soothe the gnawing feeling in my gut that tells me we are a pawn in their game, a mere cog in their machine."
"It's already afternoon," I exclaimed, my voice laced with a weary dismay. "The people will become more violent. I can't go out again today."
A wave of frustration washed over me. It wasn't that I was afraid, not really. This kind of chaos was nothing new to me. It was the unpredictable nature of it all that made me wary. I knew that the ones who truly needed to be careful were those with the 'Perfect' trait. Their innocence and naivety made them vulnerable to the manipulation and exploitation of the skill users. It was a game of shadows, where the true danger wasn't the outward violence, but the invisible strings being pulled by those who wielded a greater power.
The air inside my humble hut buzzed with the growing intensity of the chaos outside. It was like a storm brewing, the distant rumble of anger gradually escalating into a full-blown tempest. At first, it was just the clatter of thrown objects – a pot, a chair, a stray shoe – but soon the sounds of shattering glass and enraged shouts replaced the gentle rustling of leaves.
As the violence peaked, a chilling silence settled over the village. The sounds of struggle had faded, leaving behind a heavy, suffocating stillness. Curiosity gnawed at me. I cautiously opened the door, peering out into the eerie quiet.
The village square, usually bustling with life, was now eerily empty. The houses, once vibrant with color, were now scarred and defaced. The air hung thick with the acrid smell of smoke and the lingering scent of fear. Even the animals – the chickens, the dogs, the cats – were frozen in place, their eyes wide with bewilderment.
For a fleeting moment, I felt an unsettling sense of power. It was as if the world outside had been sucked into a vacuum, leaving me as the sole inhabitant of a desolate realm. I was both terrified and strangely exhilarated by the stark emptiness that surrounded me.
"Oh, looks like it's nighttime again," I muttered, a strange detachment settling over me. It was as if those suffering below weren't even real. How could I be so heartless? And yet, they disgusted me. Some inner voice whispered that they deserved it, their pain a kind of cosmic justice.
Sleep was a luxury I couldn't afford. I had a responsibility – to find work, any work, to scrape together a few pennies to sustain my own meager existence. The town was a haven of opportunity, a viper's nest of hustle and bustle. It was time to venture into that teeming marketplace and see what I could snag. I slowly closed my eyes to forget todays crazy phenomena.