Moyo felt the raw power of Aura fuse with his Intent, grounding him as it coursed through his veins like molten steel. His skin felt as hard as tempered armor, his entire body humming with restrained power. Sheathing Ida at his side, he brought up his Hud, the overwhelming reward of 900 points staring back at him. As always, he split them equally among his attributes, a silent discipline he'd followed since his growth began.
225 points each went into Strength, Dexterity, Endurance, and Vitality, raising all his stats into the high 400s. The surge of energy swept through him, reshaping his body once again to hold his increasing might.
He savored the sensation, the rawness of strength that now defined his form. Then, as the Hud settled, he looked over his updated status.
Name: Moyosore
Race: Human
Rank: Advocate
Core: Intent & Aura [Radiant]
Body: Lesser Draconic
Level: 130
Path: —
Points: —
Weapon: Blade (Imbued) Ida
Skills:
• Blood Absorption [L]
• Endure Agony [U] 70
• Blade Storm [U] 30
• Titan's Edge [R] 40
• Titan's Vitality [R] 20
• Titan's Ascent [U] 5
Attributes:
• STR: 492
• DEX: 448
• END: 475
• VIT: 475
Titles:
• Emberkin — Resistance to flame 10%
• Dungeon Conqueror — [+3 points to every level gained within dungeons & +100% damage to dungeon creatures below Level 90]
• Titan's Presence — All enemies below your level lose half the strength of their attacks and are struck with fear.
• Prime Bane — All aberrants below your level suffer 30% increased damage and are struck with terror upon seeing you.
Items:
• Credits: 966,600
• Chitin Shells: 70
• Superior Chitin Shells: 70
• Superior Stone Cores: 2
• Superior Prime Cores: 1
• Tier 2 Dungeon Core: 1
• Wyrm Scales: 20
Shards:
• Refined: 178
• Lesser: 100
• Greater: 100
Moyo dismissed the Hud with a thought, exhaling slowly as he gazed out at the vast plains before him. His steps were light, deceptively so given the immense strength he carried. Each stride covered vast distances with ease, Titan's Ascent amplifying his speed as he crossed the alien landscape. The land, though grassy and vibrant, felt wholly unfamiliar—as if twisted slightly out of sync with the world he had once known.
He could sense lifeforms all around him, their presence scattering in waves of terror as he approached. Moyo frowned. The new Titan's Presence title had its uses, but it also made stealth next to impossible. He slowed his pace as he crested a hill and crouched low, eyes narrowing.
The setting sun cast an orange glow across the land, illuminating the scene below. In the distance, he could make out a shabbily built town—a crumbling fortress of stone and chipped walls, giving the whole settlement a dystopian look.
More disturbing were the people.
Multitudes of captives marched in long lines, shackled and driven forward by overseers. Moyo's gaze sharpened, his enhanced vision easily picking up details in the fading light. The captives looked ragged, beaten, and malnourished—ordinary men, women, and even children. Yet the ones holding their chains, the jailers, were clearly different. Tall, broad, and exuding faint traces of aether, they looked to be Initiates—just powerful enough to dominate the weak.
Moyo frowned deeply, gripping Ida's hilt as anger simmered quietly in his chest. He began formulating a plan, dismissing the idea of disguising himself. At over six feet tall, with a body as solid as stone and hair wild and unkempt, there was no hiding him among them. He scratched his bushy hair absently, deciding to wait until nightfall.
That was the plan—until voices behind him shattered the silence.
Moyo spun around, eyes narrowing as two large men emerged through the tall grass, deep in conversation. Both froze mid-step when they saw him. Their reactions were almost comical—shock written plainly on their faces as they registered his presence.
They moved first.
The first drew a pistol—a crude but dangerous weapon—while the second hefted a large mace, likely infused with weak aether. Moyo blurred into motion.
Before the pistol could even level toward him, Moyo was there, his fingers closing around the weapon and the man's arm. The gun crumpled in his grip, the force unintentionally shattering the man's forearm. A shriek of agony followed, but Moyo ignored it, already flicking the second man away with a casual tap of his finger. The aura user spun through the air like a ragdoll, crashing into the grass with a dull thud.
Moyo winced, half-hoping he hadn't killed the man. He glanced back at the intent user whose shattered arm hung limp. The man's face contorted with pain and terror, his mouth opening to scream. Moyo moved to silence him, a hand over his mouth—only to hear the awful crunch of bone as his jaw crumbled under the pressure. The man went still.
Moyo froze, staring down at the lifeless body.
"Damn it," he muttered, cursing his own strength as guilt twisted in his chest. "I just wanted you quiet, not dead."
Sighing, he turned back toward the aura user, the one he had flicked aside. The man was alive—barely—moaning faintly in the grass. Moyo crouched beside him, pressing two fingers to his neck to confirm his pulse. Alive.
"Good," Moyo breathed in relief. Carefully, he grabbed the unconscious man by the leg, dragging him into the thick bushes and out of sight. He straightened, taking a long breath to steady himself, then turned his attention back to the distant town.
It seemed tonight's plans had shifted.
For the fifth time that week, Annika wondered if she shouldn't have died when the System first arrived. In hindsight, it would've been easier—cleaner. Her death had been imminent, a freak accident too humiliating to ever admit aloud. The very forces of nature themselves had been the cause, and yet, at the moment of her end, the System had intervened.
Death was nullified. Reality was rewritten.
The irony wasn't lost on her. The very lightning that had claimed her life became the cornerstone of her survival—her gift. Her mana of lightning, bestowed by the System, pulsed through her veins like a cosmic joke. And now, as she trudged forward, shackled and dirty, those same storm-gray eyes that once drew fleeting compliments in school were the first thing anyone noticed. They glowed faintly, betraying her innate power.
Tired and silent, she walked with the rest of the prisoners, their chains clinking rhythmically as they were marched back into what passed for a town—a battered, dystopian sprawl that barely qualified as a settlement. The guards, members of the so-called Blood Blessed, jeered and barked orders, their arrogance bolstered by their own scraps of power.
Annika kept her lips shut, her mind drifting to the events that had brought her here.
The day of the Archailect's arrival had been chaos—society fracturing overnight. Governments fell. Order crumbled. People turned savage, their newfound powers twisting their humanity into something unrecognizable. For a week, Annika had foraged alone, surviving on wits, instinct, and the sharp edge of a spear she'd found abandoned. She avoided dungeons at first, skirting their ominous entrances as mutated creatures poured out, the System labeling them "Aberrants."
But survival demanded more.
Dungeons were the only way to stay ahead—of the curve, of death, of everyone else. She learned that the hard way. When the hunger for power outweighed her wariness, she broke her rule and ventured into a Tier 1 dungeon with a group she thought she could trust. They seemed nice enough at first, even friendly—people, like her, just trying to survive.
Then greed took root.
It happened after they cleared the dungeon, a brutal week of blood and sweat. She saw the shift in their eyes—hunters sizing up prey. They turned on her. She had been ready. The deadliness of her lightning was absolute, unforgiving, and when the dust settled, she stood alive while their corpses lay smoldering around her. She staggered out of that dungeon, bleeding and broken, and straight into the hands of the Blood Blessed.
If she weren't shackled right now, she might have laughed at the absurdity of the name. The Blood Blessed—a gang of thugs, little more than animals, ruled by a man more beast than human. He had carved out a patch of territory and claimed dominion over everyone and everything within it.
A sharp crack broke her reverie.
The sound of flesh meeting flesh echoed through the air as a guard slapped a woman hard enough to send her stumbling to the ground. Annika's fists clenched reflexively, the crackle of electricity itching at her fingertips. She shut her eyes, forcing herself to remain still. She had promised Martha—promised not to get into trouble again.
The guards weren't fools. They knew that without the restriction collar fastened around her neck, she could reduce them all to ash in seconds. She had done it before. Annika could still hear the leader of the Blessed laughing as he slit the throat of one of the only friends she'd made in this place.
That had been before Martha—before Annika became part of a quiet resistance.
Martha was different. The older woman, wise and composed beyond her years, had managed to gather a group of like-minded people—survivors who held on to scraps of hope and determination. They operated silently, planting seeds of rebellion throughout the Blood Blessed's territory. Annika had become part of that, drawn to Martha's calm conviction like a moth to flame.
Now, as the guards barked orders and her fellow captives trudged onward, Annika stayed silent. The storm within her simmered, her gray eyes flickering faintly. Not yet, she thought. Not here.
But the day was coming.
The Blood Blessed didn't know it yet, but their reign was temporary. When the storm came, it would be swift, absolute, and merciless.
Reaching the shabbily constructed table, Annika extended her hand, a sweet smile plastered across her face as the haggard, dirt-streaked collector stretched his own to take it. His touch sent a wave of revulsion through her, but she clasped it firmly, a subtle flicker of electricity sparking up his arm. The lanky man yelped, pulling his hand back with a curse, drawing the attention of a nearby guard.
"My lord, have I displeased you in any way?" Annika asked with practiced sweetness, tilting her head in mock innocence. Her tone was syrupy, but her eyes carried no warmth.
The man scowled, rubbing his arm, clearly too embarrassed to escalate the matter further. He was of no consequence to her—just another faceless credit collector, another cog in the Blood Blessed's vile machinery.
The prisoners were cattle to them, marched on grueling journeys into the wilderness to search for dungeons. Once found, they were tossed inside—disposable fodder sent to farm resources for their captors. The Blood Blessed were careful, though. Only Tier 1 dungeons, the weakest ones, were forced on the prisoners. Anything stronger, anything profitable, the Blessed claimed for themselves, leaving the rest perpetually weak and powerless.
Most prisoners never returned. Annika did her best to protect them when she could—she and Ayo, the sharp-tongued woman who cleared her throat meaningfully behind her.
Annika turned slightly, suppressing a sigh. Ayo—"Lady of Fire," as she often declared herself with theatrical flair—was as dangerous as she was stubborn. Her orange eyes, glowing faintly from the flames she wielded, were focused intently on the collector. Annika recognized the look. If given the chance, Ayo would gladly turn him to a pile of ash, especially knowing what he did to the vulnerable women dragged nightly into the lodges of the Blessed.
"You really need to stop antagonizing him," Ayo muttered as she stepped forward to hand over her credits. Her voice was low, measured, but the flare of anger in her gaze betrayed her thoughts. "We don't want him running back to his superiors."
Annika shrugged, pretending to admire the way the setting sun painted the sky in soft hues of orange and red. "He deserved it."
Ayo shot her a look but said nothing. Annika turned her head, studying the surrounding hills in the distance. Her voice lowered.
"Heard anything from Martha?"
"No." Ayo shook her head. "Just the usual orders. Once we're done here, we're to help with dinner in the kitchens. Martha's supposed to be there, so we'll catch up with her then."
Annika nodded silently, her eyes lingering on the hills as a soft breeze tugged at her hair. She hesitated, then asked, "Is it true a Tier 2 dungeon spawned nearby?"
Ayo scoffed; her voice thick with sarcasm. "It's true. And guess who gets to march in and soften the blow?"
The two women shared a knowing glance, their silent agreement clear. Whatever awaited them in that dungeon, it wouldn't be the death sentence the Blessed intended. Not if they could help it.
A barked command broke their thoughts, one of the guards stepping forward to unshackle the chains linking their cuffs. He shoved them roughly in the direction of the large pit that served as the kitchen.
As they walked, Annika exchanged a quick glance with Ayo. The rumors were true. If they knew about the dungeon, then Martha did, too—and if Martha knew, plans were already in motion.
Tonight, it would happen.
It had to.
Moyo doubted he looked that terrifying, but as the man in front of him shivered with barely restrained fear, he was starting to reconsider. Granted, for a level 20 fledgling, Moyo's presence alone might have felt like a nightmare given the vast gulf of power between them. Still, the man's incoherent babbling wasn't helping.
The so-called Blood Blessed. That was all he could get out of him at first. With a patient tone laced with promises of violently detaching his parts—one by one—Moyo finally coaxed the man into talking. The Blood Blessed were led by someone who called himself Alpha, a level 35 initiate. Moyo had raised an eyebrow at the sheer corniness of the name but didn't interrupt. The group raided dungeons, using prisoners as disposable fodder to farm lower-tiered loot while hoarding the stronger dungeons for themselves.
The stereotypical cruelty of it infuriated Moyo. Humanity was supposed to come together, to make a stand against the Archailect's chaos. Instead, they were regressing into the same cycles of violence and stupidity. Slavers. The word left a bitter taste in his mouth.
The interrogation yielded little else of value except confirmation that Alpha himself was in the territory—this so-called leader, a mix of wild beast and man. Moyo wasn't sure how that was possible, but he suspected it wasn't natural.
Freedom fighter or not, Moyo knew he couldn't walk away and leave the prisoners here. Not when he had the power to stop this madness. The man didn't even realize he was dead until it was over, his head sliding cleanly off his shoulders as Moyo flicked his fingers, intent slicing through flesh like air.
Darkness had already settled over the hills by the time Moyo returned to his vantage point. The night was still, unnaturally quiet. Whatever creatures roamed this warped reality clearly sensed his presence and gave it wide berth. With a slight hop, he vaulted into the air and landed soundlessly near the outskirts of the ramshackle town.
The gates were guarded—loosely. A group of five guards sat drinking, passing around a foul-smelling jug as they laughed and jeered, oblivious to the predator among them. They were dead before the jug hit the ground; their lives extinguished with silent finality.
Moyo stared at the rough wooden gates for a moment before hopping cleanly over them, landing in the shadows within the town itself. His presence melded seamlessly with the darkness.
"You don't seem from around here."
The soft voice caught him off guard. Moyo turned with lightning speed, blade in hand, only to freeze as he stared into the calm, steady eyes of an older woman.
Despite his size and the blade poised at her throat, she smiled softly, almost serenely—as though trusting that he wouldn't harm her.
"I'm not one of the Blessed, if that's what you're thinking," she said quietly, the whisper almost swallowed by the night.
Moyo narrowed his eyes. "Then why are you walking around freely?"
She lifted her chin slightly, pointing to a silver collar wrapped tightly around her neck.
"If I so much as attempt to run, this will choke me to death," she replied matter-of-factly.
Moyo frowned. He reached out, his fingers brushing against the collar. It prickled against his skin—what felt like a mild sting to him would have been excruciating to anyone else. With a slight flex, he crushed the collar in his hand, the device exploding into harmless fragments.
The woman's expression didn't change, though a gleam of something—relief? —flashed in her brown eyes. "I'm Martha," she said simply, as though they had just met in a casual setting.
Moyo's gaze lingered on her for a moment. There was something off about her—a subtle presence that made him wary but curious. "Moyo," he replied, straightening. "How did you know I was here?"
Martha shrugged, unbothered. "I didn't. Not exactly. I simply felt your presence. I knew I had to be on your side—or face certain death."
Moyo folded his arms, raising an eyebrow. "That so?"
"Yes," she said briskly, suddenly all business. "We don't have much time. With that collar gone, the others will be rousing soon. We need to hit them now, while they're disorganized, or risk being overwhelmed."
She turned, hurrying down a row of dilapidated wooden homes. Moyo hesitated only a second before following her.
"The others?" he asked, voice low.
"The rest of the resistance," Martha replied, not bothering to turn around. "You can't possibly hope to take them all on your own."
Her scoff at the thought brought a faint smile to Moyo's lips—one she couldn't see.
"You'd be surprised," he murmured under his breath.