The horizon bled silver.
For a long moment, I couldn't tell if it was truly dawn or just another trick of the gods. The night had stretched so long, so merciless, it felt like the world itself had forgotten how to breathe.
The ruined city lay hushed in half-light. Embers smoldered where fires had once roared, sending thin trails of smoke curling upward into the pale sky. Crumbled walls stood like the bones of giants, jagged silhouettes against the slow bloom of morning. Every shadow felt stretched, tired, reluctant to fade.
No one moved. No one dared.
The forgotten survivors sat scattered across the broken plaza, their figures hunched like gravestones. They were the remnants of people, scraps of will stitched together by hunger, fear, and something dangerously close to despair.
The boy with the crutch hadn't spoken since his betrayal. His small hands gripped the splintered wood so tightly that his knuckles had gone bone-white. His face, once lively despite his limp, was drained of color, hollow as the ruins around him.
The old man—once a farmer, if his mutterings were true—watched me with the kind of scorn usually reserved for murderers. His cloudy eyes burned with sharp accusation, as if my breathing alone defiled the fragile dawn.
The mother rocked her child slowly, her lips moving in a lullaby that was more prayer than song. Her words were soft, trembling, not meant to soothe the boy but to steady herself, as though the rhythm of repetition was the only thing keeping her sanity intact.
And then there was the girl with the crowbar. She sat upright, too stubborn to collapse, too fierce to break, yet her pale face betrayed the strain she carried. Her knuckles gripped the weapon until they blanched, veins trembling with the effort of holding faith in me. Faith so stubborn it almost hurt to see.
Dev, slumped at my side, muttered dryly, his voice sandpaper over exhaustion."We made it. Unless the gods decide morning doesn't count as dawn."
I almost smiled. Almost. The words stuck in my throat like ash.
✦
The air shifted.
A shimmer sparked above the plaza, faint at first, like frost crystallizing midair. The system manifested, cold and impersonal, its glow cutting into every shadow like shards of glass.
[ Trial of Trust complete. ][ Evaluating… ]
The words hung suspended in the morning air.
And then came the silence.
Not ordinary silence—the kind that settles when wind stills or voices falter. This was deeper, heavier. A silence that pressed into bone, that hollowed out the chest until even breathing felt like a crime.
The survivors froze, every eye darting to the hovering glyphs. My skin prickled as the ink beneath it stirred restlessly, pulsing with faint heat, as though it too awaited the verdict.
The gods were watching. Their gaze pressed against me, unseen but undeniable. It wasn't the broad indifference of higher beings—it was sharp, dissecting, curious. I felt like prey held under a scalpel.
[ Final Trust Value: 27%. ][ Verdict: Minimal Success. ]
The glow pulsed once. Twice. Then spread outward, washing across the circle of survivors.
✦
The girl gasped first. A faint warmth enveloped her as her crowbar shimmered, edges glinting as if kissed by starlight. Not reforged, not wholly remade, but strengthened—just enough to remind her she was not powerless.
The mother stilled, staring as her child whimpered, then quieted. His wounds, raw and ugly hours ago, shimmered faintly as skin knit, the deep scar on his arm fading into a pale mark. She pressed a trembling hand over his chest, tears spilling freely.
The boy with the crutch sat straighter as color slowly returned to his cheeks. His lips parted as though he wanted to say something—but shame clamped his jaw shut. His eyes stayed locked to the ground, refusing to meet mine.
Even the old man faltered. His muttering ceased as warmth seeped into his withered frame. His back, perpetually hunched, straightened fractionally. A flicker of vitality stirred in his limbs. But gratitude never touched his eyes. His scowl only hardened, deeper and sharper.
And me?
The warmth that brushed them seared through me like liquid fire. The ink inside roared, flooding my veins with heat. My vision blurred with lines of black script racing along my skin, faint as veins yet alive as thought.
The system etched words into my marrow.
[ Title Gained: The Lone Quill. ][ Description: The one who stands apart. Even if abandoned, even if betrayed, he carves his own path. ]
The weight of the words struck harder than steel. The title wasn't a gift. It was a brand. A sentence.
✦
I expected cheers. Relief. Even a ragged breath of gratitude.
Instead—silence.
The survivors looked at me not as savior, but stranger.
The mother's gaze lingered with suspicion, wary and cold. The boy refused to glance up, shame shadowing every line of his face. The old man glared as though I had stolen something precious simply by existing.
Only the girl met my eyes. Her lips trembled, but she forced herself to speak."You… you did it."
Her voice cracked. It wasn't praise—it was plea. She needed me to believe it so she could.
I wanted to tell her it didn't matter. That dawn didn't erase poison. That trust, once shattered, never returned the same.
But before I could answer, the shadows whispered.
"…alone, always alone…"
This time the voice was clear. Louder. And it wasn't mine.
✦
The system cut the air like a blade.
[ Scenario Update: Act II – The Test of Worlds. ][ Condition: The survivors must endure the convergence of realms. Failure will result in erasure. ]
The plaza trembled.
Stone groaned as cracks spread like veins of light across the ground. Blinding fissures tore through stone and dust. The air thickened, heavy with the sharp tang of ozone, with the metallic sting of blood that wasn't yet spilled.
Dev stumbled back, nearly falling."What now?!"
The girl clutched her crowbar, knuckles whitening. The mother shrieked, holding her child tighter as panic rippled across the forgotten. The boy with the crutch whispered, horror clinging to his voice."The sky…"
I lifted my eyes.
And saw the heavens splitting.
✦
Through the fracture, another world bled into ours.
Mountains jagged as blades pierced the horizon. Forests swayed, though no wind stirred them. Rivers flowed like veins of molten light, glowing with dangerous beauty.
It wasn't illusion. It wasn't dream. It was another reality clawing its way into ours.
[ Warning: Dimensional Drift detected. ][ Approaching Realm: Murim. ]
The word struck like a blade.
Murim. The land of martial sects. Of clans bound by blood oaths and betrayals. Of legends carved into steel. A place where strength was law, and weakness was ash.
The shadows within me hissed, shivering with a strange hunger—as if they remembered this realm, as if they had been here before.
And then, softer, a whisper that froze my lungs.
"…he is not the first anchor… nor the last…"
The voice was unfamiliar. Ancient. Yet disturbingly close.
✦
The survivors broke. Panic spread like wildfire, voices rising in screams, hands clutching one another desperately.
Dev's grip slammed onto my shoulder, eyes wild."Reed! What do we do?"
The girl looked at me too, not with blind faith this time, but raw desperation. The mother sobbed prayers, the boy on the crutch shook uncontrollably, and the old man simply clenched his fists like he'd known this end was inevitable.
I stared at the rift yawning wider, the mountains of Murim drawing closer. My blade hummed in my grip, its pulse echoing the whispers in my blood.
I didn't have answers. I didn't have certainty.
But one truth burned through the fear, cutting sharper than any divine decree:
The trial of trust was over.
But the gods hadn't granted us peace.
They had only sharpened the knife.