The desert stretched without end. No mercy. No breaks. Just that same burning hush, like the world had forgotten something vital and hadn't noticed yet. Something like time. Days didn't pass. They leaked. Hours bled into one another, lost in the heat. The sky didn't move. The sun didn't rise or fall—it loomed. It hunted. Always overhead. Always watching. Always oppressing. No clouds. No cover. Just that cruel white glare above, like a wound the sky couldn't close. Even the shadows seemed cruel. They didn't offer rest—just marked how far the light had to fall. His armor, once his shield, had become a furnace. The plates cooked under the sun, trapped the heat, pressed it deep into his skin until steam rose off his back. Each step made it heavier. Like it had decided to drag him under. Still, Asher kept walking. Because stopping was death. He didn't know what drove him. Couldn't remember why. Just that something inside refused to shut up. A pressure lodged somewhere between his spine and skull. Sometimes it whispered. Sometimes it growled. Sometimes it screamed. He didn't understand it. But he didn't argue, either. He obeyed. It kept him upright. Kept him breathing. By the time the structure appeared ahead, his sight was going sideways and blurry. The world tilted. Sky smeared like oil. His tongue clung to his teeth. His lips cracked. Blisters sat on top of old ones. Blood pooled in his right boot.
But the building was real. Military, or what was left of one. It was half-eaten by the desert, hunched low and quiet. The outer plating curled upward, blackened from heat and fire. An entire wall looked like it had melted in on itself, ribs of steel exposed and hollow. And carved across that steel—claw marks. Four of them. Long. Clean. Deliberate. Ripped through armor-grade metal like it was canvas. No flurry. No struggle. These weren't marks of rage. They were left there to be seen. His knees buckled, but he didn't fall. Whatever left those scars could easily tear a mundane human apart. Despite this, he moved toward it. Step by step. Legs trembling. Sand dragging at every limb. His fingers slipped as he climbed. But he made it. The corridor inside was gutted. War-torn. Bones in one corner. Burnt crates and scorched walls. A split helmet. The stink of ash and old blood. The wind howled outside. In here, it whispered through holes in the wreckage. Brushing shell casings. Playing with rust. No voices. No motion. Just ghosts. He dropped behind what might've once been a military barricade. Let the shade hold him. Just for a second. One second. To breathe. Suddenly. Voices. Real ones. Not the hum. Not the whisper in his head. Not that strange pressure crawling under his skull. Actual people. Orders barked sharp and clipped. Boots scraping metal. The unmistakable tone of soldiers used to shout over gunfire.
His breath caught. Eyes widened. "Hey! You there! Identify yourself!" The words hit like a slap. He blinked. Blinked again. His mouth opened, but for a moment—nothing. Then instinct took over. Hands lifted, slow and shaking. "I… I don't know where I am," he rasped. Guns came up instantly. Four of them. Sights locked on his chest. Tight formation. No stutter. No fear. Just muscle memory. Then someone stepped forward. Taller. Broad. Worn around the edges. A man who looked like he hadn't had a clean night's sleep in years and had long stopped expecting one. His fatigues were dark, faded at the seams. Sun-bleached in patches. Old stains still crusted at the elbows. He didn't aim his rifle. Didn't speak yet. Just stared. His eyes narrowed. Then he said, half to himself, "That crest…" Asher followed his gaze. Looked down. His armor was a wreck. Blackened, dented, smeared with grime. But through the filth, one symbol still clung to life. A white eagle, wings flared, diving through a red haze. The Ninth Legion. "You're one of ours," the man muttered. Behind him, a soldier hissed under his breath. "How the hell is he still breathing?" Another one whispered something about hallucinations. Or desert fever. But then. She stepped forward. Beth. She didn't march. Didn't hesitate. Didn't check her corners like the others. She walked straight toward him. Calm. Focused. Her braid draped behind one shoulder. Uniform clean. Boots barely left prints in the sand. Her eyes locked on him. Green-blue. Still. Not cruel. Just... precise. She looked like someone reviewing a file she already read. As if none of this surprised her. Her gaze traveled over him. Down. Back up. Then stopped. Right at the base of his neck. Her expression shifted. Not much. A blink. A pause. But something flickered there. Recognition. And something colder beneath it. Satisfaction. "You made it out," she said. No shock in her voice. No awe. Just a quiet acknowledgment. Like she'd expected it. Like she'd planned for it. Asher's throat went tight. His mouth moved. But no sound came. Because nothing made sense. Not her presence. Not the soldiers. Not that he was standing. Not the claw marks. Not the heat. Not the pressure still curled behind his thoughts. Not even his own name. But she was there. Calm. Steady. Watching him like a piece already moved on her board. And something inside him knew—this wasn't fate. It was planned. And it had already begun. Beth turned slightly, eyes flicking to the soldiers without speaking. One of them whispered, just loud enough for Asher to hear: "He shouldn't be alive." Asher's skin went cold. Beth's smile didn't reach her eyes. "We'll take it from here," she said. Asher looked at her—really looked—and felt something shift in his chest. Not relief. Warning.