No sound followed. No wind. No roar or rush of magic.
Just silence — and a tension in the air, like the forest itself was bracing.
I stood and stepped outside.
It was early morning. Mist hung low across the fields. A thin hush wrapped around the village, muffling every footstep, every breath.
Then I saw it — just beyond the treetops in the far distance:
A crack.
Not in the trees. In the sky.
A thin fracture had split open the horizon. Faint. Jagged. Barely perceptible if you weren't looking directly at it — and glowing with the same cold blue light as the Job Stone.
I didn't know what I was seeing. I just knew what it meant.
That's how we came here.
The light vanished after a few seconds. The crack sealed like it had never been there.
No new people. No footsteps. No fanfare.
Just… stillness.
Then I felt it.
The guiding light stirred inside me.
Not a pull this time — a ripple. Like it had just been activated.
Others stepped out of their homes. I watched their faces shift, their postures change. Everyone felt it.
The same movement.
The same direction.
First, toward the Job Stone. A brief pulse.
Then something shifted again.
The pull redirected — not just outward, but inward.
Toward us. Toward this village.
Mira looked at me.
"You feel it too?"
I nodded. "Yeah."
And that was it. No explanations. No details. No estimate of how many people had arrived.
Only the silent certainty that something had changed — that somewhere, someone was waking up the same way we once had. Cold, confused, alone. And eventually, they'd be here.
Soon.
If the number of arrivals matched our own wave…
We were nowhere near ready.
The village wasn't big enough. Not even close.
The new wave was here.
We needed to prepare.
By now, everyone who had followed their guiding light had returned. All forty-two of us. Some arrived last night. Others, like me, just hours ago. But we were here.
I called a meeting in the main square. No fancy system. No authority. Just people — tired, anxious, watching the horizon for what might come.
A few spoke up immediately.
"We should welcome them with open arms," a woman said, hopeful. "Give them shelter. Help them like we needed help."
"No," a man snapped. "They should work for us. We built this place. Let's put them to use."
The conversation turned heated — fast.
Some were eager. Others afraid. Rumors spread before facts. We didn't even know where the new people had appeared, but it didn't matter. The fear had already taken root.
I stepped forward, still wearing my vine armor. The red core at the chest pulsed slightly as I raised my voice.
"We don't know who they are," I said. "But we were them once. Alone. Cold. No answers."
A few heads turned. At least they were listening.
"I'm not saying we let them in. I'm not saying we trust them," I continued. "But we help them. We give them the basics. Tools, food, directions. Information."
"Then what?" someone asked. "They come back and raid us?"
"Maybe," I admitted. "But maybe not. Either way, we're stronger if we're prepared. So let's prepare."
The crowd quieted. Tension still simmered, but it wasn't boiling over anymore.
A compromise began to form.
Some started digging — marking the perimeter, carving out the start of a trench. Others gathered wood for spikes. A few took inventory: food, tools, weapons, housing space. Mira organized crafting stations. Others prepped bundles of supplies — not for keeping, but for giving.
Not everyone agreed.
But everyone acted.
I didn't stay long after the meeting ended. Voices still echoed behind me — splitting into teams, arguing over shovel angles, debating the width of the trench like it actually mattered yet.
Maybe it did.
But I needed to do something with my hands.
I walked past the square, past the drying racks and open flame pits, past Mira giving quiet instructions at the woodworking station. She glanced up as I passed, but didn't stop me.
She knew.
I made my way toward the edge of the village — to a plot I'd marked weeks ago but never used. It was overgrown, soft with moss and woven root, shaded by a lean of ash trees.
I pulled out my chisel.
The handle still fit perfectly in my palm, worn but steady.
I didn't have a plan.
Didn't need one.
I just started clearing space — pulling weeds, snapping small branches, lining up stones for a foundation that didn't have a name yet.
Maybe it would be a bunkhouse. Maybe a lookout post. Maybe nothing at all.
Didn't matter.
It was forward.
The weight of the morning still clung to me — the crack in the sky, the way the guiding light had shifted. That quiet ripple that made every hair on my arm stand up.
They were coming.
And I had no idea who they'd be — friends, strangers, problems, threats.
So I carved.
Not walls to keep people out. Not weapons to strike first.
Just… something solid.
Something real.
Because if everything changed tomorrow, I wanted to leave behind one more thing shaped by human hands.
Even if no one knew why it was there.
Even if I didn't.
Day 1.
The cold bit through my thin clothes, but it wasn't the chill that made my hands shake. It was the fear of the unknown — of this strange new world with no sky like home, no familiar landmarks, and only that glowing thing in the distance.
I didn't know what it was. Some kind of pillar? A monument? Whatever it was, it pulled at me with a force I couldn't fight, a strange call I couldn't ignore.
Around me, others wandered too — confused, silent, eyes wide with questions none of us dared ask.
My name is Sera. At least, it's the name I remember.
But nothing else is clear.
Where am I? Why am I here? What am I supposed to do now?
The mist curled around my feet like a living thing, hiding paths and promises. I took a deep breath and started walking toward the glowing thing — the only certainty in a world that felt utterly unfamiliar.
The others moved forward, one by one.
Each time someone touched the stone, they got something. A tool. A weapon. Something to carry.
They stepped away like they knew what was coming next. Like they belonged.
I stayed back, watching.
Some got knives. Some strange instruments I couldn't even name.
No one said a word. Just accepted it.
When it was my turn, I didn't even think about what I wanted.
I stepped up.
The stone felt colder close up — not cold like ice, but a pressure that squeezed my chest.
As I reached out, the air shimmered like heat rising off stone.
Then, a dark, translucent panel flickered into existence right before my eyes — like a thin sheet of glass suspended in midair, edged with faint blue light that pulsed softly, almost like a heartbeat.
Symbols scrolled slowly across its surface — some looked like letters, others like strange shapes or icons. Hundreds of small circles webbed together by thin, glowing lines, like a spider's web spun from light itself.
Only three of those circles glowed brighter than the rest, each etched with a simple icon:
A short sword.
A compass.
A hammer.
They hovered there, waiting.
I instinctively reached toward one — the sword — but my hand passed straight through the glassy surface.
It wasn't solid. Not real.
Words appeared beside the icons, floating in clean, crisp text:
Fighter
A basic combat class specializing in short-sword combat.
Subclasses: Warrior | Paladin | Knight | Archer
Then the compass:
Pathfinder
A basic exploration class specializing in discovering the unknown.
Subclasses: Scout | Cartographer | Librarian | Astronomer
And the hammer:
Builder
A basic building class specializing in creation.
Subclasses: Crafter | Woodworker | Stone-Carver | Harvester
I blinked.
A small panel appeared beneath the hammer, flickering rapidly before locking in place:
Confirm Class?
[Yes] [No]
I didn't understand what any of this meant. Was it a test? A trap? A cruel joke?
The air felt heavier.
The pressure on my chest tightened.
I barely had time to think before a word etched itself into my mind — sharp, clear:
Pathfinder
And in my hand, something solid landed — an old compass, cold and heavy.
I didn't want it.
But I had it.
And somehow, I knew there was no turning back.
It was getting late. I made a crude shelter, then slept.
Day 2.
The night had been cold, but not as cold as the silence between us.
Around the campfire, faces flickered in the firelight—some hopeful, some broken. They whispered theories, plans, and prayers to whatever god might be listening.
I sat apart, arms crossed, eyes sharp. Listening but not really believing.
"We need to stick together," one of them said—a tall woman with fierce eyes and a voice like steel. "The stone gave us our roles for a reason. We're stronger united."
"Stronger?" I scoffed quietly. "We don't even know if that thing's real. Or if it's some trap."
Another voice piped up, younger, trembling: "But what if it's our only chance? What if the compass is showing me the way to safety?"
I shook my head. Safety was a joke here. This place wasn't safe for anyone.
A man across the fire glanced my way, his gaze sharp. "You don't trust it? Then what? You wanna wander lost out here alone? Waiting to die?"
I wanted to tell him that dying alone was better than dying following a ghost's orders.
But I stayed quiet.
We argued late into the night—about what to do, where to go, who to trust.
Hope and fear tangled in every word.
I felt like an outsider in my own skin.
Because I wasn't ready to follow.
Not yet.
Day 3.
Morning came cold and gray, sharp enough to make nerves fray.
We'd spent the night debating, but now talk had to turn into action — even if none of us knew what that action really was.
Groups formed, uneasy and hesitant. Some clung to the compass's pull, trusting it like a lifeline. Others ignored it, insisting it was a trap or madness.
I stayed silent, watching.
The compass in my hand felt like a weight and a curse. Its needle spun and snapped into a direction I didn't understand.
No one knew what was out there. No one knew where that pull would lead.
Some argued to follow it anyway — "Better than dying here," they said.
Others wanted to stay put, build shelter, find food, wait for answers that might never come.
Voices clashed. Tempers flared.
I wanted to say none of it mattered. That the pull was just another chain to bind us.
But as much as I hated it, I felt it too — a tug I couldn't fight.
So when a small group decided to follow the pull, I didn't stop them.
And when they looked back, waiting for me to choose, I didn't hesitate.
Because what else was there?
Day 4.
The morning light was weak, barely cutting through the heavy mist that clung to the ground.
All night, the pull had been gnawing at me — quiet, insistent, like a whisper I couldn't drown out.
Others had already started moving. Small groups packed their few belongings, eyes fixed on invisible horizons.
But I stayed still, caught between doubt and necessity.
The compass felt cold in my hand, its needle twitching toward a direction I didn't know, toward something I couldn't name.
I hated that I wanted to resist it.
I hated that I wanted to run.
But I also hated the thought of staying here, waiting for whatever might come.
Finally, I pulled my jacket tighter around me and stood.
The others looked at me, expectant.
I gave a bitter laugh.
"Fine," I said, voice rough. "I'm following it. But don't expect me to believe in whatever's waiting."
I slipped the compass into my pocket.
Step by step, I began walking toward the pull — toward the unknown.
Because maybe the only way out was forward.
Days 5-6.
The world stretched out like a cold, indifferent expanse — forests thick with tangled branches, hills that rose like silent giants, rivers that cut deep scars through the land.
The compass never stopped pulling.
We followed it, step by weary step.
Some moved with hope, others with dread. I was mostly just tired.
Every day was a battle — battling hunger, the cold that seeped under your skin, and the gnawing fear that this path might lead nowhere.
The group was fragile. Bonds formed in whispered moments, then cracked under pressure.
Arguments flared over direction, pace, and who should carry what.
I kept mostly to myself, eyes scanning the shadows, fingers never far from the compass tucked inside my jacket.
At night, I lay awake listening to the crackle of fires and the murmurs of restless souls.
No one talked much about where we were going — because no one really knew.
The pull was our only guide, but it was vague and distant, like a star barely visible through a storm.
Sometimes I wondered if it was leading us to salvation — or straight into a trap.
Still, I walked.
Because stopping meant giving up.
And I wasn't ready for that.
***
Kairo
The morning mist was already lifting by the time I saw movement at the tree line.
I stood at the village edge, arms folded, trying to keep my breathing calm. Behind me, the others waited — some perched on rooftops, others hiding behind fences and doorways, hands resting on tools or weapons or just clenched fists.
We'd been watching the horizon for three days now. And this morning… something shifted. That strange inner pull had quieted, like it was done guiding.
Now we knew why.
Shapes emerged through the trees — slow, cautious, tired. Maybe a dozen at first. Then more. Dozens. A whole group.
Second wave.
They looked exactly like we had when we arrived — cold, worn down, walking like they weren't sure if this was salvation or a trap.
One of them — a woman with short dark hair, shoulders squared like she expected a fight — stepped slightly ahead of the others.
She didn't look impressed.
Didn't look grateful.
She looked ready.
I didn't move. Not yet.
We'd built this place from ash and hunger. We had something worth protecting now.
But that didn't mean we'd forget what it felt like to arrive.
They didn't charge in, thankfully.
The newcomers moved slowly, cautiously, bunching together just outside the outer perimeter where our trench marked the first line of defense. Most had basic tools, a few clutched makeshift weapons, and all of them looked exactly like we once had:
Exhausted. Suspicious. Ready to break if pushed too hard.
I stepped forward from the village's edge with Marra and Lara flanking me.
Marra's hand hovered near the hilt of her stone-forged blade. Her eyes swept the group with the kind of cold calculation only a fighter could manage — sizing up potential threats, entry points, body language.
Lara stood calmly on the other side. Her compass hung visibly at her side, and her gaze rested on the lead woman in the group — the one with the squared shoulders and hard eyes who looked like she might snap a neck before saying hello.
I raised a hand in a slow, open gesture.
"Welcome," I said, voice steady but clear enough to carry. "You made it."
No reaction at first. Just wary silence.
So I continued.
"You don't know who we are, and we don't know who you are. That's fine. We're not here to test you, convert you, or tell you what to do."
The group shifted slightly, murmurs spreading in a ripple. The woman in front never looked away.
"But we've been where you are," I said. "Cold. Hungry. No answers. Just that pull and whatever tool the Stone gave you."
That made a few of them react — subtle nods, glances toward their hands.
"We don't control the Job Stone," I added. "But we've built something here. A village. Shelter. Fire. Tools. If you want help, we're offering it — basic supplies, food, directions, space to think."
"But there are rules," Marra said sharply, stepping forward. Her voice was calm but iron-edged. "No stealing. No threats. No violence inside the perimeter. If you cross a line, we'll respond. We will protect what we've built."
A beat passed. She didn't blink.
Then Lara stepped in, voice softer. "If you have questions, ask them. If you need space, take it. No one's forcing you to stay. But if you want to be part of this — even just for tonight — we'll meet you halfway."
I looked back at the group and focused on the woman in front — the one with the compass barely visible in her pocket.
I didn't know her name.
But something about the way she stood… I knew we'd be seeing more of her.
I nodded once.
"Your call."
Then we waited.
***
Sera
They had walls.
That was the first thing I noticed. Not real walls — not stone or brick — but defenses. Trenches, sharpened stakes, structures that looked like someone had actually thought them through.
They'd been here a while.
The man who stepped forward wasn't armored or armed like the fighter beside him, but he spoke like someone used to being listened to.
His voice was steady. Not friendly. Not hostile. Just… level. Measured.
That was worse, somehow.
He talked like they weren't afraid of us.
The woman beside him — the fighter — made sure we knew the rules: don't steal, don't threaten, don't cause problems. Her hand never strayed far from her weapon. She didn't blink once during the entire speech.
The third one, a Pathfinder like me, offered something softer — questions, rest, choice.
None of it made me feel better.
I could feel the others around me waiting for someone to move, to speak, to say whether this was safety or something else we should run from.
I didn't move.
I didn't trust them.
But I didn't trust anywhere else either.
My fingers drifted to the compass in my pocket. The needle had stopped twitching.
It pointed straight at them.
Straight at this.
I didn't say a word. I just started walking.
Because I was tired.
And I needed fire.
And whether I trusted them or not, they'd built something out of nothing.
That meant they knew something I didn't.
And I hated that.
***
She was the first to move.
No words. No hand raised in greeting. Just a quiet, steady walk forward — like she'd already made peace with whatever came next.
Her group hesitated, but when she crossed the trench, a few followed. Then more.
By the time she stepped into the village proper, nearly half of them had trailed behind her.
Still no one spoke.
Mira emerged from the edge of the square with two others, carrying baskets of food and bundles of gear. Basic supplies, wrapped and ready. She gave me a glance — not approval, not doubt. Just trust.
Marra kept her hand near her blade until the last person crossed. Then she nodded once and relaxed — barely.
Lara moved first, offering one of the bundles to the girl with the compass.
The girl didn't even look at her. Just took it and kept walking.
I watched her go, that subtle tension in her shoulders — like she was waiting to be betrayed.
I knew that posture.
We'd all worn it once.
I took a breath, not deep, not easy, and turned back toward the square.
"Let's get them settled," I said.
Behind me, the gates didn't close — not yet.
They had arrived.
And whatever came next… it had already begun.
The sun had barely cleared the trees, but the air felt colder now.
The second wave was settling in — slowly, uneasily. A few accepted food. Others kept their distance. Some wouldn't even make eye contact. It didn't matter.
They were here.
But something was off.
That same stillness from my dream crept in around the edges — not silence, not calm. A tension. Like the world was bracing.
I found myself scanning the treetops, the horizon, the fields beyond.
Not for people.
For something else.
The ruins from my vision still haunted me — the dead vines, the cracked pedestal, that towering, hollow-eyed thing. It wasn't just a nightmare. I knew it. I felt it.
And now that the second wave had arrived, that quiet voice in my head — the one I'd learned not to ignore — whispered something I didn't want to hear:
This isn't just a new beginning.
It's the first tremor.
I looked back at the girl with the compass — the one who'd stepped forward first. The one who hadn't said a word.
Something about her…
She was carrying more than a pack.
Maybe she didn't even know it yet.
But I did.
We all brought something with us when we arrived.
And some things don't stay buried.
Not forever.