Eris sat alone in the barren wasteland camp, Vince's words echoing in his mind: "You're weakened... pathetic." The sharp sting of the man's judgment twisted inside him like a blade. He clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms as frustration bubbled beneath the surface. Was this really all he had become? A weakling, a failure?
The red glow of his Crest pulsed faintly beneath his skin, a reminder of the volatile energy lying dormant within him. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, letting the desolation of the Wastelands settle into his senses. It was quiet here, save for the occasional whisper of the wind that carried the scent of scorched earth and the distant hum of something otherworldly.
Then, it came again—that strange sensation he had felt earlier, the sense that something was alive within him. It wasn't just the Crest; it was deeper than that, a river of power coursing through his very soul. Tentatively, Eris placed a hand over his chest, trying to grasp the elusive energy.
The feeling was both alien and familiar, like a melody he had once heard in a dream. It surged through his veins, rising and falling like a tide. As he focused, he could almost see it in his mind—a red lunar glow swirling in a void of shadows, its light fragile yet potent.
But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't grasp it. The energy remained just out of reach, slipping through his mental fingers like grains of sand. His frustration grew as he opened his eyes and slammed a fist into the ground. A faint shockwave of red energy rippled outward, kicking up dust and pebbles.
Eris blinked in surprise. "That... was me?" he whispered, his voice trembling with equal parts awe and fear.
The power inside him was real. It wasn't a figment of his imagination. But what good was it if he couldn't control it? Vince's words loomed over him like a shadow. "If you don't control it, that Crest could end up consuming you."
Eris clenched his jaw and rose to his feet. He couldn't let this power go to waste—not when it was all he had left. If he stayed here, wallowing in self-pity, he would remain exactly what Vince had called him: weak.
His eyes flicked to the horizon, where Vince had disappeared earlier. The man had power, control, and answers. He seemed to understand what this energy was, how it worked. If anyone could teach him to wield it, it was Vince. Eris had no other choice.
He took a tentative step forward, then paused. The sensation inside him flared again, stronger this time, as if responding to his determination. It pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat, urging him onward. The feeling was strange—both comforting and disconcerting.
Eris closed his eyes again, letting the energy guide him. It wasn't just a sensation; it was like a whisper, faint and otherworldly, calling him to action. He couldn't make sense of it, but he didn't need to. He would follow it.
As he walked, he flexed his fingers, testing his newfound physical capabilities. His steps felt lighter, his reflexes sharper. He picked up a rock and crushed it in his grip, marveling at the ease with which it crumbled to dust. Despite Vince's harsh words, he couldn't deny that he had changed.
But the changes weren't enough. Not yet. He needed control—needed to understand what this power was and how to use it.
The path Vince had taken was rough and winding, the cracked earth giving way to uneven terrain. Eris followed the faint trail of footprints, his senses sharper than ever. Every detail of the desolate landscape stood out to him—the faint shimmer of heat rising from the ground, the distant hum of an unseen source of power, the subtle vibrations of the air as the Wastelands whispered their secrets.
The energy within him pulsed again, a reminder of its presence. It felt alive, sentient even, as though it were watching him. The sensation was both thrilling and unnerving. He couldn't shake the feeling that the energy wasn't entirely his—that it belonged to something greater, something ancient.
As the camp faded into the distance behind him, Eris quickened his pace. The thought of Vince's disapproving gaze drove him forward, his determination hardening into resolve. He would prove himself. He would learn to control this power, no matter what it took.
The faint trail of Vince's path stretched out before him, leading into the unknown. Eris tightened his grip on the hope that Vince held the answers he sought.
And so, with the red glow of his Crest pulsing faintly in the growing daylight, Eris ventured onward, his steps guided by the untamed energy within him and the silent promise to himself: he would not remain weak. Not anymore.
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The sun was merciless, hanging high in a blood-red sky as Vince trudged through the jagged terrain of the Wastelands. The air shimmered with heat, and the ground beneath his boots cracked with every step. Each breath tasted of ash and despair, a reminder of the cursed land he found himself in. He adjusted the strap of his cloak slung over his shoulder, his gaze fixed on the horizon where their transport lay waiting—or so he hoped.
But Vince's mind was far from his destination. It churned with thoughts of the events that had unfolded at the ruins. Lyra and Flumen... gone. Just like that. Their faces flashed in his mind, their last moments burned into his memory like brands. And then that old man. That wretched, mysterious old man.
Vince clenched his fists as frustration surged through him. The old man had appeared out of nowhere, with an aura that screamed power and death. What he had done—obliterating the altar, erasing the remains of Lyra and Flumen as if they were nothing—it was beyond comprehension. And then he had vanished, leaving nothing behind but Eris and a gaping silence.
Who was he? Vince couldn't shake the image of the man from his mind—his weathered face, the aura of authority that seemed to crush the air around him. The way he had dismissed the destruction with a mere wave of his hand... it made Vince's stomach churn. He had no answers, only questions that clawed at his thoughts.
But what gnawed at him most was the bead. Vince's fingers twitched involuntarily as he remembered the object, its dark surface shimmering with an unnatural light. It had been the reason for their raid, the entire point of their bloody venture into the ruins. And now it was gone. Stolen by that damnable old man.
The benefactor will kill me.
The thought sent a shiver down Vince's spine, cutting through the oppressive heat of the Wastelands. The benefactor had been clear—retrieve the artifact, no matter the cost. He could already imagine their wrath, their cold, calculating voice slicing through his feeble excuses.
Flumen and Lyra had been his comrades, but they were also his shields, his insurance against failure. With them gone, he was alone. Vulnerable. His grip on his rifle tightened.
He glanced back over his shoulder, half-expecting to see Eris following him, but the younger man was nowhere in sight. Good. Vince had no intention of babysitting a weakling, especially one who barely understood the power he carried. A variant, sure, but a pathetic one. The red lunar glow around Eris had intrigued Vince at first—variants were rare, after all—but that interest had quickly faded. The boy's resonance was feeble, his Essence barely a flicker compared to others Vince had encountered.
Turning his attention back to the path ahead, Vince let his thoughts drift to the transport. The vehicle was parked several miles away, hidden among a cluster of rocky outcrops that offered a modicum of cover from the Wastelands' unpredictable dangers. The journey would take hours, and he could only hope it was still intact.
The transport wasn't just any vehicle—it was a marvel of Spelltech, a fusion of Essence manipulation and engineering that blurred the line between machine and magic. Vince had always admired it, even if he didn't fully understand how it worked.
The truck was sleek yet rugged, its chassis made from a combination of reinforced metal and Essence-infused alloys that shimmered faintly in the light. Its wheels were massive, glowing faintly with runes etched into their surfaces, allowing them to traverse the uneven terrain of the Wastelands with ease. The engine didn't rely on fuel; instead, it was powered by an Essence core, a crystalline heart that pulsed with raw energy. When activated, the core emitted a low hum that resonated through the vehicle, a sound both mechanical and otherworldly.
Inside, the truck was just as unique. The dashboard was an array of glowing sigils and touch-sensitive panels, each linked to the Essence circuits that ran through the vehicle like veins. The seats were lined with Essence-resistant fabric, designed to protect passengers from the ambient energy of the Wastelands. And in the back, a containment unit sat ready to secure artifacts like the bead—had they managed to retrieve it.
But even the truck, with all its advanced Spelltech, couldn't protect Vince from the storm brewing in his mind.
He wiped a hand across his brow, smearing dirt and sweat. The heat was relentless, but it wasn't just the sun that weighed on him. It was the knowledge that he had failed. The mission had been a disaster, and now he was left to face the consequences.
The old man. The bead. Lyra. Flumen. Their names and faces swirled in his mind, a chaotic storm of guilt, anger, and fear. He wanted to scream, to curse the gods, the Wastelands, everything that had led him to this point. But he didn't. He couldn't afford to lose control—not here, not now.
A sudden gust of wind kicked up a cloud of dust, forcing Vince to shield his eyes. When the air cleared, he saw it—the faint outline of the truck in the distance, partially obscured by the rocky outcrops. Relief washed over him, but it was fleeting. He quickened his pace, his boots crunching against the cracked earth.
As he approached, the truck came into full view, its Essence core glowing faintly, a beacon of stability in the chaos of the Wastelands. Vince ran a hand along the side of the vehicle, feeling the faint hum of energy beneath his fingers. It was a small comfort, a reminder that not everything was lost.
He climbed into the driver's seat and leaned back, letting out a long, weary sigh. For a moment, he simply sat there, the hum of the Essence core filling the silence. But his mind refused to rest.
What do I tell the benefactor?
The question loomed over him like a storm cloud, dark and unyielding. He had no answers, only the bitter knowledge that failure was not an option.
Vince glanced at the dashboard, his fingers hovering over the controls. He hesitated, then activated the truck's Essence interface. The sigils lit up, casting an eerie glow across his face. The vehicle hummed to life, its Essence core pulsating in sync with the runes etched into the dashboard.
As the truck rumbled forward, Vince's thoughts returned to the old man. Who was he? Where had he come from? And why had he taken the bead? The questions burned in Vince's mind, unanswered and infuriating.
He gritted his teeth and gripped the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles turning white. He didn't have the luxury of dwelling on the past—not when the future was so uncertain. All he could do now was press on and hope that he could salvage what little remained of the mission.
The truck's wheels crunched against the wasteland terrain, its runes glowing brighter as it navigated the rough path. Vince's eyes scanned the horizon, ever watchful for the dangers that lurked in the Wastelands. He was alone now, with only the hum of the Essence core and his own turbulent thoughts to keep him company.
And as the truck disappeared into the distance, the barren wasteland stretched out endlessly before him, a desolate reminder of the failures that haunted him and the challenges yet to come.