Smoke hung heavy in the air, curling like ghostly fingers through the ruins of Salem's village. What once echoed with laughter and sparring drills now lay still, broken beneath ash and blood.
Salem walked barefoot across the scorched earth, the soles of his feet cut and blistered. His shirt was torn, his body bruised, and his knuckles were caked in drying blood—some his, most not.
Around him were bodies. Some soldiers. Some… not.
He passed the bodies without looking. He didn't need to. He knew what he'd done.
A broken psychic cannon sparked beside a collapsed wall. A child's toy lay half-buried under rubble. The quiet was suffocating.
The last thing he remembered was Ava's arms, her soft voice lulling him into sleep. The next—flashes. Screams. Steel on bone. Lightning in his veins. Black energy howling through his chest like a monster long caged.
He wasn't sure what was worse—remembering the rage… or the calm that followed.
"I felt nothing," he whispered.
"Not regret. Not grief."
"Only… silence."
He walked forward, stumbling slightly, until his foot hit something soft.
His breath caught.
It was his master—Dean—bloodied and motionless, his face half-covered in ash. Salem dropped to his knees.
"Master…?"
No answer.
Just silence. Just smoke.
A flicker of something stirred in Salem's chest. Not anger. Not even grief. Something quieter. Something colder.
"I felt nothing," he murmured, barely recognizing his own voice. "Not when they screamed. Not when they begged. Not even now."
But as he looked down at Dean's body, the numbness cracked—just a little. His chest tightened.
A tear formed, slow and hesitant.
He fell to the ground.
His fingers clenched the earth beside him. His mind spun. What did they want? What were they after? Why now?
Then a name rose like poison in his thoughts.
Ava.
The memory of her soft touch. Her warm smile.
Her betrayal.
She knew something. She'd seen something in him.
Was she part of it all along?
Thunder rumbled in the distance—though the sky was clear.
Salem rose to his feet. Behind his eyes, a storm was forming.
He would find answers.
And someone would pay.
Then his eyes met the charred remains of his home. And for the first time in his life—he felt something.
A tear traced down his cheek.
And it burned.
The small emotion that had begun to rise in him burned away with it.
Salem let out a long sigh.
He stood.
And with each step toward the charred remains of his home, something within him hardened.
The air was thick with ash and memory, but he moved through it like stone through smoke. His expression flattened. His hands stopped trembling. His heartbeat slowed.
By the time he reached the remains of his home, Salem was empty again.
The blackened skeleton of the house offered no comfort. Only the promise of secrets buried deep. He knelt in the rubble, pushing aside debris and ash until his fingers struck something solid—a small, scorched chest, half-melted at the corners but still intact.
His name was carved across the top in faded lettering.
Salem.
He stared at it for a long moment before opening the latch.
Inside were old, folded pages—some brittle and nearly crumbling. A scent of lavender and dust rose from them. He picked one up carefully. The handwriting was delicate, curved, familiar in a way he couldn't explain.
Mother...?
The first note trembled slightly in his grip as he read:
"My son… you are not who you think you are.
There is a truth buried deep within you—a birthright hidden, protected.
But there are those who fear what you are.
Who would rather erase you than allow you to awaken.
If you're reading this, then something has happened.
You must leave this dimension behind.
You must survive.
Become a Patroller.
But before that, learn this world.
Understand it.
Or it will consume you."
Salem's grip tightened around the page. Questions began to race through his mind—too fast, too loud. But his face remained still.
He reached for the next note.
The paper was thinner, older. Its corners frayed from time and handling. He unfolded it gently.
"Before you leave, you must understand the world you've been hidden from.
There are four ability types—each fundamental to life and conflict:
Fighter – Physical combatants, weapon masters, martial artists. They rely on strength and precision.
Mage – Wielders of elemental and arcane magic. They control the battlefield through raw power.
Summoner – Those who call forth contracted spirits, creatures, or constructs to fight alongside them.
Psychic – Minds sharpened to supernatural extremes. They bend thoughts, emotions, and unseen forces.
Every person is born attuned to one or more of these abilities.
Those with a single affinity are called Purebloods.
Those with two or more are called Hybrids—or worse, depending on who you ask.
There are also Classes, based on skill development:
Dyad – Two ability types. Versatile and unpredictable.
Triad – Three types. Rarer still, and immensely dangerous.
Tetrad – All four. Nearly extinct. Some believe they should never exist at all.
The Magisterium rules most dimensions, and Psychics dominate its ranks.
They see Fighters and Summoners as lesser—tools or animals, not equals.
Mages are tolerated, but controlled.
Hybrids? Feared.
Tetrads? Hunted.
This world is beautiful… and cruel.
Know who you are. Know what you are.
Or others will define it for you."
Salem stared at the note for a long moment, the last lines echoing in his mind:
Know who you are.
Know what you are.
Or others will define it for you.
He folded the paper slowly and placed it back in the chest.
The fire that had once raged inside him was gone—but something else took its place.
Purpose.
Beneath the second note was one last slip of parchment—this one folded tighter, tucked away with care. A small metallic trinket clinked as Salem picked it up. It was round, silver, no bigger than his thumb, and pulsed faintly with energy.
He unfolded the final note:
"To move around freely, you must first become a Patroller.
Take this trinket. When you press the button on its side, it will transport you directly to the Glib Testing Grounds. That will be the start of your journey.
But I must warn you—it won't be easy.
The world outside is not as simple or small as it has been here at home.
Out there, you'll face trials, obstacles, tribulations…
Your will and determination will be tested time and time again.
You will meet many people. You'll make friends. You'll gain allies.
But you'll also make enemies.
Some will smile to your face and hide their daggers until it's too late.
Nevertheless—you are powerful.
You were born to endure.
Just don't give up.
And if nothing else I've taught you survives the journey…
Remember this:
YOU ARE LOVED."
Salem stared down at the trinket resting in his palm.
The wind shifted, stirring the ashes of his childhood behind him.
He didn't smile.
He didn't cry.
He simply closed the lid of the chest, stood tall, and pressed the button.
A soft glow enveloped him.
And then—he was gone.
His path would not be easy.
But it had begun.