A low groan escaped Kaisen's lips as consciousness clawed him out of the void.
Every muscle ached with a dull, bone-deep fatigue—as if he'd been crushed, ground, and reassembled wrong. The ground beneath him was cold, rough, and slick, a tar-like muck that clung to his clothes and skin.
He pushed himself upright, palms sinking into the mud.
He blinked against a haze of gray dust and drifting fog. His thoughts came sluggishly, swimming through confusion. The last thing he remembered—blue light, shrieking metal, terrified faces.
"Where am I?" His voice came out a dry rasp.
A calm, familiar voice answered inside his head.
[You've been out for a while. You're in Jahar—a faction city far east of the Gorson Coalition.]
Kaisen groaned, brushing clumps of mud off his tattered fatigues. "You say that like I'm supposed to know where that is."
The wasteland around him stretched endless and ruined. Mud. Twisted metal.
The petrified husks of trees that had forgotten what leaves were. Then—far off—a city. It rose from the decay like a mirage carved from nightmare and genius both.
Its towers were uneven, impossibly tall, forged from black stone and mirror glass stitched with veins of amber light. Massive rune-plates floated above the walls, pulsing with restrained energy.
Winged things circled the sky, too many limbs, too deliberate in their hunger. The city's gate—serpentine, writhing even from this distance—stood open.
Jahar. Beautiful, monstrous, alive.
[You've been lying there long enough. Move.]
He frowned. "To where? I've got no idea where I'm even supposed to—"
The air fractured with light. Blue sigils flared across his vision in cascading lines.
[You have been noticed.]
[The Hopeful Dawn are aware of your presence in the Expanse.]
[The Samarites are aware of your presence in the Expanse.]
[The Chorus of Eternal Song are aware of your presence in the Expanse.]
[The Unbound Legion are aware of your presence in the Expanse.]
The list went on and on until one final message burned crimson across his sight.
[YOU ARE BEING HUNTED.]
The blinking light painted his face in alternating hues of blue and red.
His heart thudded hard—but his expression didn't change. Old instincts. A survivor's calm carved out by dying one too many times.
"Iris… what the hell am I looking at?"
[Most of those names belong to sects or gods that Karihad angered—or destroyed.] Her tone was even. [Since you carry his Will, you've inherited his enemies.]
"You sound way too calm about that."
[Relax. They only know you're somewhere in the Expanse. Not where. The Expanse is vast—finding you's near impossible.]
Kaisen looked up. Two moons hung above him—one silver, one blood-red. "Near impossible," he muttered. "Not the same as actually impossible."
[No. But you didn't come here to live quietly. Sooner or later, something will find you. What matters is that you're ready when it does.] Her voice hardened. [You need to get stronger—fast.]
He exhaled through his teeth, a slow, steady sound. Fear was there, cold and small, but buried beneath something heavier—resolve.
"So," he said, "how do I get stronger?"
[Good question, boss.] He could almost see her grin.
---
Kaisen slipped into Jahar.
Slipping through alleyways, air was all rot and the smell of stagnant water. Flickering holographic ads bled color across the walls, their symbols foreign and dizzying.
A scream cut through the noise—sharp, human, then abruptly gone.
Kaisen slipped deeper into the shadows.
Ahead, under the sick yellow of a rusted lamp, a man was being beaten to death. The attacker's fists glowed faint blue with essence, each strike cracking flesh and bone until the body sagged lifeless against the wall.
[The Expanse doesn't tolerate weakness,] Iris said coolly. [Most of the time, it doesn't even allow it.]
The killer spit on the corpse and vanished into the labyrinth of alleys.
Kaisen waited a moment, then stepped out.
He crouched beside the dead man and began to work. His hands were steady. Efficient. He took what he needed—a belt, a pouch of metallic credits, a serrated knife.
Then he stripped the body.
The clothes were rough but practical: black tunic stitched with hide, one scaled pauldron, heavy boots engraved with faded runes.
[Good. Adrina make. Locals wear that. You'll blend in.]
So that was it. This hadn't been luck. Iris had led him here—to watch, to wait, to take.
His first lesson in survival.
---
Dressed in stolen life, Kaisen stepped into the main street.
The city hit him like a storm. Noise. Light. Motion.
Merchants shouted in a dozen dialects—clicking, growling, melodic. Crowds pressed around him—men with scales and horns, some with too many eyes.
[You have two paths to strength,] Iris began. [First—register as a mercenary. Take contracts. Earn credits. Buy Rift Rights. Harvest soul energy. Slow, steady, civilized.]
Kaisen watched armed groups swagger through the streets, confidence radiating off them.
He sighed. "And the other path?"
[Keep walking. I'll guide you.]
He followed her unseen pull through the crowd as she continued her lesson.
[Your world's rules don't apply here. What you called power back there barely registers. Here, strength is currency.]
[Everyone in the Expanse carries a Mark on their back. It shows where they came from.]
[Left turn.]
He obeyed.
[Three types. One-Stroke Marks—born here. They range from gutter trash to warlords. Half the population's like that.]
[Next alley.]
[Two-Stroke Marks—your kind. Outsiders who entered through transit runes. Usually dangerous. Usually connected. Don't cross them without reason.]
[Three-Stroke Marks—those who came through world gateways. Level seventy and up. If you see one, walk away.]
[Now. That building. Go in.]
---
The structure was squat, its stone black and scarred. Inside, heat and noise hit like a blow. The air stank of blood and cheap alcohol. Off-duty mercs filled the room, shouting in tongues Kaisen didn't understand.
He pushed through to a narrow stairway and descended.
At the bottom stood a guard—pale skin, matted hair, black tattoos crawling up his throat. His eyes, sunken and mean, fixed on Kaisen.
"Ska'len dra vas hakra?"
Kaisen blinked. "What language is that?"
[Millions of tongues here. You'll need a translator implant.]
"And how do I get one?"
[You can't afford one.]
The guard repeated the question, this time with his hand hovering over a blade.
[Say this: 'Arkai Iki Hagara.']
The words felt foreign on his tongue. "Arkai Iki Hagara."
The effect was immediate. The guard froze, then nodded once, stiffly respectful. He gestured for Kaisen to follow through a damp corridor that smelled of mold and iron.
"What did I just say?" Kaisen asked.
[That you no longer have a reason to live.]
At the end of the hall waited a heavy, iron door. The guard shoved it open.
A roar slammed into Kaisen—a crowd's frenzy, hot and raw. The scent of blood, sharp enough to taste.
He stepped inside.
The chamber was a vast pit, ringed with tiers of screaming spectators.
Below, men and monsters tore each other apart with bare hands, teeth, and claws. Sand was soaked dark with blood. Chains hung from above, cages rattling with the next victims waiting their turn.
It was chaos distilled to a ritual.
Iris's voice echoed softly in his mind.
[Welcome to the Dregs—where the desperate come to die.]