Vance sat at the edge of a worn-out mattress, letting the sound of that leaky faucet in the hall fill the silence. He needed to check himself — figure out if he was really back to square one. He closed his eyes and shifted inward, searching for the Inner Stratum, that mental space every awakened human could access.
Back in the day, his Stratum had been epic. Imagine an endless cavern of glossy black stone, lined with remnants of the monsters he'd slain. Eidolons—just waiting, resting, ready to be summoned. Weapons of light, armor from bones, wings shaped from shadows.
Now, as he dropped into that mental terrain, he braced for nothingness — the brutal emptiness of a newbie with no power.
But instead, what he found was wild: a graveyard for gods.
He stood at the center of his mind, staring upward in disbelief. The armory was gone. All he saw was an infinite dark sky, swirling with nebulas. And dominating that mental horizon? The shattered body of the Aethelgard Watcher, caught in mid-detonation — gigantic golden gears floating like broken satellites. From its cracked chest, ribbons of starlight spilled out, making everything look ghostly and pale.
It followed me, he realized, sweat prickling along his skin. The core didn't just send me back. It latched to my soul, barely surviving the tear in time.
He stepped closer. The Watcher's huge gears groaned, and one massive cog shifted. A beam of brilliant starlight shot down, hitting the invisible floor right at Vance's feet. Text started weaving together in the air, glowing and sharp. Not basic feedback like normal Cores. This was deep, analytical tech, something only a Mythic-tier entity could manage.
[Temporal Anchor Established. Inner Stratum Integrity: 12%.]
[Warning: Host body lacks the genetic density to sustain Mythic-tier presence. Temporal degradation imminent without stabilization.]
[Astral Engine currently locked. Repair requires: 100 Tier-1 Cores.]
Vance squinted at the script. The Watcher had become something else — both parasite and symbiote. It was a system now, an "Astral Engine" capable of picking apart genetics in the Fracture. But it was busted, leaking its power into him. If he didn't feed it energy, it'd rip him apart from the inside.
"One hundred Tier-1 Cores," he muttered, yanking himself out of the Stratum and blinking hard in the dingy apartment.
Getting one of those Cores took a fully-equipped squad at least a week. To collect a hundred? That was a year's grind for someone experienced. Vance didn't have a year. He barely had any time, and he was flat broke.
He stepped to the mirror, unbuttoned his faded shirt, and there it was — over his heart, glowing faintly beneath the skin, a scar shaped like a clock face. It ached with every pulse.
He buttoned back up, right to the collar. If the Vanguard Syndicate or the Internal Regulators saw that mark, they wouldn't just kill him. They'd drag him out to a secret lab and tear him apart.
He grabbed his beat-up duffel bag, shrugged into a ragged old trench coat, and walked out into the smoggy dawn of Sector 4.
The Global Initiation staging grounds were monstrous, built like a fortress bordering doom. Massive walls of concrete and blast-steel soared overhead, keeping the chaos and violence of the Fracture at bay. The plaza was stuffed with young people — all nineteen, practically humming with nerves, ozone, and the flash of Syndicate wealth.
Vance slipped into the shadows near a pillar, collar up against the biting wind. He felt invisible, just a ghost watching a memory.
Off to the left, a pack of Syndicate initiates was busy showing off. In the middle stood Sterling Prescott, stupidly young, dressed in shining armor so fancy it probably cost more than everything Vance owned. He laughed as he spun a glowing Tier-1 Flame-Macaque Core in his hand — a toy, bought by his billionaire father.
Vance's hand twitched, hungry for the feel of a blade. Not yet, he reminded himself, forcing his heart to slow. If I take him out now, the Syndicate just finds someone worse. I've got to hit their foundation first.
He scanned the crowd, mapping faces — future generals, future traitors, and kids who wouldn't live to see tomorrow.
Then he stopped.
Near the huge obsidian gates stood a young man, propped up on an ornate cane, in a midnight-blue suit, no armor. His face was pale, sharp, and hidden behind dark, round glasses.
A chill hit Vance like a punch. Julian Thorne. Only heir of the Obsidian Cartel.
Julian was supposed to be bedridden, locked away in Sector 1's medical wing — not here, not today. In the old timeline, his genetic illness kept him out for two years. But this version? Julian would go on to start a war that drenched half the globe in blood.
What changed? Vance tried to steady his breathing. Had the Watcher's explosion rippled backward, rewriting history?
Julian suddenly turned, almost sensing Vance's attention. Even through those glasses, Vance felt the pressure — like a tiger spotting its prey. Julian gave the barest smile, razor sharp, then faced the gates again.
[Warning: Unknown Temporal Anomaly Detected in Proximity.]
The golden text flashed in his vision, courtesy of the busted Astral Engine.
Vance gripped his duffel bag. History was off the rails. The game board had reset, and the pieces moved on their own.
A horn blared, shaking the plaza. The obsidian gates creaked open, revealing a violent vortex of purple clouds. The whole place smelled of ancient forest and raw, electric energy.
"Initiates!" came a voice, loud and distorted from the towers above. "The Fracture is open. Survive, hunt, and ascend. May the Resonance favor you."
The crowd surged — armor and ambition crashing through the gates, rushing east to the Crimson Woods, the so-called safe zone.
But Vance didn't join. When he stepped through, the sky changed from grey to a terrifying crimson. He pulled up his hood and slipped west, straight into the foggy ravines called the Weeping Canyons.
He didn't have time for safety. He needed a hundred Cores, or he'd lose his soul. And he knew — deep in those shadows, a nest of Vesper-Lynxe
s waited. No one else would dare go after them, but Vance was ready.