"ARGH!"
The door slammed so hard the hinges shuddered. A small cloud of dust drifted from the rafters and hung in the air like a silent witness to yet another failed return.
Ashen stood in the entryway for several long breaths, his gloved hand still gripping the iron latch. His chest rose and fell heavily, each exhale sharp enough to sting his lungs. The faint glow from the portal residue still lingered on his coat — tiny motes of blue light fading slowly into the fabric.
Then he moved, jerking his travel pack from his shoulder and sending it flying across the room. It landed against a pile of books with a dull thud, scattering loose pages across the cluttered floor.
"Damn it! Three weeks, three worlds, and not a trace. Nothing but sand, water and damned echoes!" he hissed through his teeth.
The apartment was a chaos of obsession. Maps of fractured worlds and unstable ley lines plastered on almost every wall, overlapping like scales. Thin red threads connected certain points in a vast web of destinations, some circled, others crossed out.
There was barely room to even walk; every surface was occupied — compasses, cracked crystals, coils of wire, canisters labelled with faded ink. A pair of boots lay near the bed, their soles half-melted from exposure to inter-dimensional energy.
He ran a hand through his hair and muttered something in a dialect long dead, pacing like a caged beast. The dark strands of his hair caught the light — except for that one streak of grey that shone stark against the black, like a scar.
That grey lock of hair. He both hated it and loved it — as it was a reminder of the good days of his life… he had lost. It wasn't because of age. It was a Resonance scar, a mark left by a Gate Rift that happened in his hometown when he was a child.
…And that mark hadn't quite let him go.
'Well, at least it isn't entirely grey like hers.' He thought bitterly.
[Your blood pressure is elevated, Ashen.] Came a calm, melodic, yet strangely mechanical voice from behind him.
The voice lingered for a bit and continued:
[Perhaps, claiming your payment from the Guild would improve your mood.]
The sound came from a small, spherical contraption floating a few metres off the ground. Its shell was polished metal, etched with faint glowing lines that pulsed like a heartbeat. A single digital blue eye blinked open in its centre, focusing on him.
Ashen shot it a glare, sharp enough to dent steel.
"You think money is going to fix this?"
[Statistical probability suggests a temporary improvement of mood, at least.] The orb replied evenly.
'Her' tone was always just slightly too human to ignore.
[Your cortisol levels are high. Hydration and compensation are recommended.]
"Shut up, Nyra."
[As you wish~] The orb dimmed a little, humming faintly as it hovered back toward the corner.
Ashen exhaled through his nose and leaned against the wall, staring at the mess around him. His fingertips twitched unconsciously, tracing the pattern of a portal glyph into the air.
He could still feel the static from the last jump under his skin — the half-second before arrival, when all matter felt like it might dissolve.
He had risked that again and again.
…For what? Mostly empty ruins and corrupted signals.
The Wanderer snatched his identification card off the desk, stuffing it into his coat pocket.
"Fine. Let's go get insulted and underpaid."
Nyra's blue eye brightened again.
[Acknowledged. Shall I record the emotional spike as reluctant compliance?] she said with an almost amused tone.
"Record it as me barely tolerating you."
[Logged.]
He almost smiled despite himself.
***
Outside, Silurad was alive with noise.
The moment Ashen stepped into the streets of the Central District, the scent of hot metal, ozone, and spice filled his lungs. Twin suns hung low in the hazy, teal sky, their light reflecting off the steam that rose from vents in the cobblestone.
The streets were a labyrinth of copper and stone, where towers built from old machinery loomed over wooden balconies draped with drying laundry.
Everywhere, people moved with purpose — mechanics, traders, mercenaries, and children running errands for the Guild… or some simply playing. Small hover-carts floated just above the road, their engines whining softly as they glided past.
The air shimmered faintly with traces of ether from the day's portal traffic. A faint vibration lingered underfoot, like the city itself was humming.
'Ah… I already miss the Western District.'
Ashen walked with his head down, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his long coat. His steps were measured but tense, shoulders locked, and jaw clenched. The crowd seemed to part around him, some out of respect, others out of superstition.
Wanderers like him carried an aura — the faint hum of energy, the subtle distortion in the air that said they'd been somewhere "else".
Most people didn't even meet his eyes.
"Welcome back, Traveller! Long trip, eh?" a vendor called from a nearby stall, lifting a tray of spiced bread.
Ashen gave him a halfhearted wave, but didn't stop. His mood was already too much in a bad state to even make the effort of entertaining a conversation he didn't want to have.
Nyra hovered beside him, occasionally flicking its lens toward faces in the crowd, running silent scans.
[Heart rate stabilising. You respond positively to routine environments.] she noted.
"Routine? Pwah! This city's never routine. Every week, something explodes." Ashen muttered.
As if on cue, a burst of sparks erupted from a workshop down the street, followed by shouting and laughter.
Ashen didn't even flinch.
Well, he knew the messed-up atmosphere of this city by heart… so no surprises.
The main road opened into the Central Plaza, a vast expanse of smooth stone surrounded by banners bearing the Guild's crest — a broken ring intersected by a sword of light.
At its centre stood the Guild Hall, an obsidian spire webbed with silver veins of power that pulsed rhythmically like veins beneath the skin.
The structure dominated everything around it, radiating authority and a faint hum that set Ashen's teeth on edge.
He paused at the base of the stairs, looking up. The Hall always seemed larger than he remembered. Its gates were guarded by two sentinels clad in silver armour that shimmered faintly, their helmets featureless except for glowing visors.
Above the entrance, etched in runic script, were the words:
[Through the Portals, We Advance Civilisation.]
He snorted.
"Through the Portals, we lose our sanity, yeah!" he murmured.
Nyra's blue glow pulsed in soft amusement.
[Your cynicism has increased by seven percent since your last visit. It's good!]
"Well… Guess I'm improving."
Ashen adjusted the strap of his coat, the grey lock of hair falling once more across his eye. The wind caught it, a cold whisper through the plaza, carrying the distant chime of metal and the murmur of engines.
For a brief second, he let himself feel it. The pulse of Silurad, the city that had built him up and worn him down in equal measure.
Then, without another word, Ashen climbed the steps.
The doors of the Guild Hall slid open with a low, mechanical sigh, flooding him in sterile white light. The sound of his boots echoed as he stepped inside, leaving behind the chaos of the city for the calculated calm of the Guild's heart.
Inside, reports waited. Accusations waited. And maybe — just maybe — a clue that his last journey hadn't been as fruitless as it seemed.
'Better not count too much on that.'
For now, all Ashen could really think of was: "another day, another disappointment."
Actually, by this point, this young man had been living with the philosophy of: Disappointment is the only reminder of the harsh reality of life, in a world that has gone mad.
The doors closed behind him with a resonant thunk, sealing him once again between his unwanted duty and despair.
'Ah, dammit!'
***
The air inside the Guild of Wanderers always felt unnaturally clean… morbidly sterile even.
Ashen's boots clattered on the polished porcelain floor as he entered, the sound muffled by the vastness of the room. High vaulted ceilings rose above him, supported by pillars carved with intricate runes that glowed faintly with Kovatar energy.
Light streamed in through translucent glass panels set directly into the ceiling, which distributed the light from the twin suns in refracted colours. It was magnificent...
…In the way a well-kept cage is beautiful.
At the far end stretched the main concourse — rows of counters, terminals, and attendants processing returning Wanderers.
The place hummed with quiet chaos: boots scraping, papers and parchments rustling, muffled laughter and curses tangled in the same air.
To Ashen's left, a pair of Travellers in desert gear were animatedly showing off a glowing artefact, its pulse matching their excitement.
Another stood alone near the wall, head in his hands, shoulders trembling — the look of someone who'd seen too much on the other side.
'Who could blame the poor lad?'
Still…
Ashen ignored them all. His steps slowly carried him to the payment counter, where a clerk, pale and disinterested, tapped lazily at a console.
"ID?" the man droned without even looking up.
Ashen slid his card across the counter.
"Ashen Valyreon. Codename: Greylock. Portal World Route 7A — Denathis Region. Mission code seven-four-one."
The clerk finally raised his eyes, scanning the identification chip.
"No registered artefact recovered. No samples returned. Expedition incomplete."
Ashen's jaw flexed.
"The portal collapsed ahead of schedule. I barely made it through alive."
"Hmm."
The clerk's tone didn't change.
"That would explain the system anomaly in your return logs. You'll receive partial compensation."
"Yeah, I know the policy." Ashen retorted, his grumpy mood coming back.
He waited while the clerk's fingers tapped across the glass interface, the sound soft and infuriating.
The Guild always acted as though the impossible were routine.
'Such a bunch of scammers'
Behind him, voices rose and fell. Someone laughed. Someone argued with a registrar. The smell of oil and ozone was stronger here, beneath the massive ventilation vents that hummed faintly in the ceiling.
Finally, the clerk pushed a small data chit across the counter.
"Payment confirmed. Two hundred and—"
The rest of his sentence was obliterated by a sudden, bone-shaking wail.
A klaxon screamed through the hall — sharp, metallic, and ear-splitting. The lights flickered once, twice, then bathed everything in crimson.
"Gate breach! Gate breach. Location: Market District!"
The voice came over the intercom, distorted by panic.
The entire Guild froze—
…Then chaos.
Tables overturned, chairs clattered, and papers scattered like white birds in the storm of movement. Wanderers surged toward the exits — some yelling, others already activating defensive charms. The massive runes carved into the walls flared with containment light, reacting instinctively to the energy spike beyond the city's perimeter.
The ground trembled beneath Ashen's boots.
A flash — bright and blinding — split the world outside the windows, painting every shadow into stark relief.
Ashen's device jolted awake with a piercing beep:
[Warning! Unauthorised gate detected! Energy pattern matches 'Hopper' signatures.] Nyra announced, her voice sharper than usual.
Ashen's heart slammed in his chest.
'Hoppers? Now?!'
It was very bad news. These creatures were what he tended to define as: 'If hell exists, then these creatures are its spawn!'
And in a sense, he wasn't entirely wrong…
Hoppers — they were feral gate-born entities that slipped through and lived in the cracks between worlds. Wild, unstable, and extremely often hostile.
His hand was already moving, fingers brushing against the hilt of his sidearm — a compact resonance pistol shaped from crystallised ethersteel. The weapon buzzed faintly as it recognised his touch, runes crawling alive along its barrel.
He turned on his heel, pushing through the tide of Wanderers.
"Out of the way!" Ashen barked, shouldering past a pair of panicking recruits.
"Ashen—!" the clerk called after him, but his voice drowned in the din.
The payment chit still lay on the counter, unclaimed, glinting in the red light like a forgotten promise.
"Gate coordinates?" he snapped to Nyra as he ran, his boots pounding against the floor.
[Market Alleys, Central Square.] The orb replied, hovering beside him at full speed.
Nyra lingered for a half a second and continued:
[Dimensional tear radius expanding at twenty-three metres per second. Guild response teams not yet deployed.]
"Of course they're not."
The main doors loomed ahead, already half-shut as containment protocols activated. Ashen ducked under them just as they sealed, the hiss of locking mechanisms echoing behind him.
The air outside was hot and electric — a storm of reality distortion bleeding into the atmosphere.
He looked toward the city's heart. Over the rooftops, the skyline of Silurad burned red.
And at its centre, where the Market District should have been, a wound hung in the air: a swirling vortex of light and darkness, twisting space like torn silk.
People were screaming. Buildings shook.
Ashen clenched his jaw, eyes narrowing.
"Looks like we're not done working today after all!" he muttered.
Nyra's blue eye brightened.
[Acknowledged. Combat protocol engaged.]
Together, they ran toward the breach.