The rhythmic clump of hooves echoed across the rocky terrain, forming a steady drumbeat beneath the mild noon sun. The creatures pulling the carriages were Lazarthans—gangly, horse-like beasts with mottled hides of brown and grey, their elongated faces softened by generations of domestication.
Once fearsome predators with serrated teeth and claws, they'd been reduced to docile draft animals, their ancestral ferocity diluted into dull-eyed obedience.
About two dozen Lazarthans trudged along the hardened mud path. Some hauled creaking wooden carriages while others dragged carts piled high with crates of rusted tools, cured meats, and burlap sacks that leaked grains of strange, iridescent rice.
The air carried the scent of dust and damp leather, mingled with the musky odor of the animals.
Inside one of the carriages, Narvel sat rigidly.
His face was obscured by a steel-like mask that clung to his skin like a second layer of bone. The mask, a gift from Joseline, was deceptively simple—smooth and unadorned except for two narrow slits for his eyes. It had fused to him instantly when he first donned it, its cold weight a constant reminder of her warning: "Hide your face. The Federation has found a way to bring non-Novas into the Crucible. It is now easier for them to track and identify Novas because of this."
Had it not been for that warning, Narvel would have refused to wear the mask.
After gathering information from Joseline, he learned that the area of the Crucible he now traversed was extremely remote from where Joseline and the others in Avalon resided. In fact, they hadn't even known about the Hollow Forest until he relayed its existence to them.
Using a map, they located the place—the Hollow Forest lay at the fore-edge of the Crucible. Its dangers and nightmarish features were notorious, a place that purposeless Novas avoided. Consequently, there were hardly any Federation Officers around, and even if there were, they were few and far between among the Anchors scattered throughout the area.
Outside, the landscape sprawled barren and jagged. Rocky outcrops clawed at the horizon with their surfaces pitted by centuries of relentless wind. Patches of scrubby, violet-hued grass clung tenaciously to cracks in the earth, trembling in the faint breeze. Unlike the oppressive, dense canopy of the Hollow Forest, here the sky was pale and washed-out, bleaching the ground into a monotonous palette of yellow.
Narvel's gloved fingers drummed against the rough wooden seat of his carriage.
Two weeks had passed since his return to the Crucible, yet the elapsed time felt like mere days. Joseline's words looped incessantly in his mind: "Strength isn't just power. It's precision. Control." She had outlined a path for him—a regimen of training, meditation, and even cryptic advice about "harnessing from the void"—but none of it quelled the restless itch deep beneath his ribs.
His sleep had been fractured by visions of abandonment and the terror of dying weak, leaving Joseline behind. 'The irony of it all. I risked my life coming here in fear of her losing her life, and now, I fear for my life, fearful that she would leave me behind.'
A sudden jolt from the carriage snapped him back to the present. Ahead, a brown Lazarthan snorted, its nostrils flaring as it eyed a rocky crevice.
Narvel followed its gaze and spotted a cluster of bone-white, mirror-like shards glowing faintly in the shadows—a Gene Fragment, or more accurately, corrupted Gene Fragments. These extracted fragments were harmful for most to use and had been carelessly discarded.
His jaw tightened as he shifted his gaze to the Lazarthan pulling a cart opposite his carriage. 'Killing a Lazarthan might yield a fragment, but these creatures are too weak to produce anything valuable. Just like me,' he thought bitterly. 'Besides, these guys won't let me off if I do something that crazy.'
The mask itched against his skin and he fought the urge to claw it off, knowing that it symbolized more than just a warning at this point… to him.
Just as Joseline had told him the day they reunited, her group had set out on their mission the following day, and after that, she vanished from contact, leaving Narvel with only the information on where to find her in the Crucible.
Now, he faced a critical choice: travel across the treacherous, dynamic distance by land or risk using a teleportation array—a method so costly that his meager resources couldn't cover even the cheapest rate.
Joseline did offer to give him some wealth from her pocket, but he arrogantly refused. Now he was wondering if he did a stupid thing or not. If he had accepted it from her, he might have been able to make it to where she said she would be, in a week.
After learning he couldn't afford the teleportation array, Narvel was left with the option of traveling alone or joining trade caravans that knew the way.
These caravans would provide him with food and transportation, albeit at a price. Yet, in the face of danger, they would prioritize their goods over his safety. So far, during these two weeks, they hadn't encountered much peril, but not to the point where he needed to fight, as the guards of this caravan were capable enough.
Through the little he had heard whilst on this journey, he also discovered that some people in The Crucible, known as residents, are people who had chosen to forfeit their earthly bodies to avoid turning into Havocs or being exploited by sinister forces.
These residents severed the connection between their true bodies and their consciousness, existing solely in the Crucible.
Others considered residents who were born there, descendants of ancestors who had long ago made that same choice. Many of these residents took on various jobs, for they needed to earn a living, and they had become the true rulers of the Anchors scattered across the Crucible.
Narvel glanced to the side, observing the three others sharing the carriage with him. Seated opposite him was a woman in a sleeveless blue tunic, grey trousers, and leather bracers—she was later identified as Lysandra. A lithe 5'9" woman with olive skin, chin-length black hair that partially veiled her face, and striking amber eyes, she carried a glaive at her side.
To her right sat Torin, a man roughly Narvel's height. Muscular with cropped auburn hair, steel-gray eyes, and a pale complexion, he was dressed in a red-hooded cloak over an iron-studded leather vest and black breeches. At his side lay twin hand axes with jade-embedded hilts that glinted in the light.
Seated next to Narvel was a more silent figure named Rook—a wiry 5'6" man with shaved white-blond hair, hazel eyes, and tawny skin. He wore a fitted charcoal-gray tunic, a dark green sash, and sturdy brown knee-high boots. Despite his unassuming appearance, his weapon was the strangest of them all: a serrated sickle with an onyx handle, its lethal edge linked to a coiled iron chain.
At first, Narvel had assumed these individuals were independent travelers joining the caravan like himself. However, over the weeks he learned that they were a close-knit hunting group striving to reach an Anchor known as Osborn. They regarded Narvel with suspicion—he was clad in a mask and carried no visible weapons, his aura betraying a weakness that caused them to lower their guard despite their usual hostility toward other Novas.
As Narvel surveyed his fellow travelers, he suddenly heard a cacophony of voices coming from ahead. The carriage slowed gradually until it came to a stop. Curious about the disturbance, he disembarked along with the others.
"What's going on?" he asked one of the caravan scouts.
"There are many people gathered ahead," the scout replied. "Novas and Residents. I'm not sure, but they mentioned something about a Folklore appearing a few kilometers west."
"A Folklore?" the others echoed in surprise.
"Yes—apparently, it is a Folklore from the epoch of Post-Order," the scout clarified.
"What!?" they exclaimed in unison.
Narvel, familiar with the concept of Folklore in The Crucible, understood that this was an opportunity, yet he hesitated, unsure whether to seize it. While he had intentions of getting stronger along the way to meet Joseline, he didn't want anything to delay his duration.
Nonetheless, he was tempted.
From one of the things that Joseline revealed to him that helped her become strong so fast, was that she had gotten a quest from a Folklore from the epoch of Post-Order. Though she also told him that participating in the Folklores business was just as dangerous as other things in the Crucible, it was also one of the most profitable things to participate in.
'What if I'm able to catch up with her strength here, wouldn't it be better for me to remain and take all I can in this place before continuing my journey?' He reasoned.
Narvel wasn't the only one thinking about this. The Novas that were in the same carriage were considering the same thing, as well as some of the other members of the trade caravan.
'I shouldn't chase after her without the strength to stand by side. My progress should come first.' Narvel resolved in his mind.