"[Vein Energy: 75%]"
Ash exhaled slowly, his gaze sweeping over the land before him.
The desert was behind him, but this place—this was something else. The sand had vanished, replaced by a wasteland of cracked, blackened stone. The ground felt dead beneath his feet, brittle and dry, like it had been drained of life long ago. Jagged rocks jutted from the earth, twisted and sharp, the remains of something ancient and broken.
A cold prickle ran down his spine. The air here was wrong.
Above, the sky loomed heavy, its stars dim, struggling against a thick, unseen haze. Even the moon, once his guide through the dunes, looked faded—its glow weak, as if something was feeding on its light.
Then—movement.
Ash stilled.
At the far edge of the wasteland, nestled between shattered rocks, sat a cabin.
The structure leaned to one side, half-buried in the fractured earth. Its wooden walls were warped, blackened, scarred by time. The roof sagged, weighed down by years of neglect. A single window faced him—dark, hollow, watching. The door hung ajar, swaying gently as the wind whispered through the gaps.
A warning.
Every instinct screamed. Leave.
Ash stepped forward.
"[Activating Skill: Phantom's Stride]"
In an instant, he was at the threshold. The air here was heavier, thick with something ancient, something unseen. A scent clung to it—not rot, not decay… but absence.
His fingers twitched toward his weapon.
He forced himself to move.
And then—he stepped inside.
His steps echoed through the cabin, each one swallowed by the unnatural hush pressing against the walls. The air carried a scent—not rot, not dust, but something still, something left behind.
Inside, the room stood untouched by time. The fireplace against the far wall flickered with dying embers, their weak glow stretching long, skeletal shadows across the wooden floor. A table sat at the center, a chair pushed back just enough—like someone had risen in a hurry. A tin plate rested there, a half-eaten meal hardened to scraps.
Near the right wall, a bed lay beneath a rough wool blanket, the fabric wrinkled, holding warmth.
Ash's fingers curled at his sides.
Someone had been here. Minutes ago.
His gaze swept the cabin again, peeling back its silence. The air sat thick, waiting. The walls, the floor, the ceiling—watching.
Then, just at the edge of his vision, he caught it.
Near the bed, a tattered rug sagged oddly, its edges curling around something uneven beneath.
Ash shifted closer, his muscles coiling.
A seam. A handle.
In one motion, he seized the edge of the rug and tossed it aside. Wood, rough and worn, met his stare—a trapdoor set flush against the floor.
His pulse slowed.
Someone was hiding.
Without hesitation, he yanked it open.
Inside, a man curled into the corner, his gaunt frame trembling, bones pressing sharp against his skin. His breath hitched in shallow gasps, eyes darting, pupils blown wide like a cornered animal.
Then he saw Ash.
A shriek tore from his throat. He scrambled back, hands raised, shielding himself from a blow that never came. His whole body shuddered—not from hunger, not from cold, but from something deeper, something that had already hollowed him out.
"P-please… please don't kill me!"
Ash stood at the edge of the opening, arms crossed. His frown deepened. 'Kill him?'
The man's head shook violently. His fingers dug into his arms, nails pressing deep.
'Terror. Not at me—at something else.' ash thought.
"I'm just—" the man's voice cracked, barely holding together. "I'm just a Watchman."
Ash's gaze sharpened. 'Watchman?'
The man chanced another look, his terror momentarily slipping into confusion. His lips parted slightly, eyes scanning Ash's face.
"Oh… you're just a kid."
Then, the realization hit.
His body locked up, breath halting mid-inhale. Something shifted. Not relief. Not recognition. Dread.
Ash took a step forward. "What's wrong with you?"
The man flinched, arms tightening around himself, nails digging harder. The tremors didn't stop.
Ash exhaled. "Are you living here? Do you know where we are?"
No answer.
The man's gaze flicked toward the exit, frantic calculations running behind his eyes. Desperate. Trapped.
"Look, I'm not your enemy," Ash said, voice steady. "I need information. That's all."
The man's lips barely moved. "I… I have kids. They're waiting for me. Please… don't—"
Ash's patience thinned. "Does it make sense for a monster to keep you alive this long?"
The words landed. The man twitched, blinking rapidly, as if forcing himself to believe. But then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he muttered,
"The other Watchers told me… never trust anything that comes from Sandworm Valley."
Ash's expression hardened.
'Other Watchers?'
The man's breath hitched, shallow and ragged. His fingers twitched, curling like claws against the dirt floor. His wide eyes flickered between Ash and the exit, pupils blown with fear.
"How—" his voice cracked. "How the hell does a kid walk out of Sandworm Valley like it's nothing?" His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. "And you expect me to believe you're just… human?"
His body tensed, muscles coiling like a spring wound too tight. "For all I know, you're a Tier 7 creature—a shapeshifter—waiting for me to walk right into your mouth."
Ash's jaw tightened. 'This idiot.'
His patience, already worn thin, frayed at the edges.
"Tell me," Ash said, his voice turning sharp, cutting, "do you see a barrier between us?"
The man let out a strangled yelp, arms flying up like Ash had just sprouted fangs. His breath came in frantic bursts, chest rising and falling too fast.
Ash exhaled through his nose. 'This is ridiculous.'
He pinched the bridge of his nose, grounding himself before speaking again. This time, his tone was flat, deliberate. "I'm not here to kill you." His gaze darkened, the air around him growing heavier. "I don't care about the ghost stories you've been told."
The man stilled.
"A group of people are trapped in Sandworm Valley." Ash's words came slow, measured. "If I don't bring them food, they die." He let that sink in. "I need supplies."
A flicker of hesitation. The trembling lessened—just barely.
The man's lips parted. "A… large group?" His voice was hoarse, disbelief laced with something else. Hope
"Still alive?"
Ash gave a single nod.
The man's fingers twitched against his arms, gripping too tightly. His mind fought itself, teetering between fear and reason.
Ash crossed his arms. "So?" His voice cut through the thick air. "Do you want me to explain everything? Or are you going to keep hiding in your hole?"
————
The fire flickered weakly, its glow stretching shadows across the wooden walls. The scent of burnt wood and dust hung in the air. Outside, the wind howled through the cracks in the cabin, whispering like unseen ghosts.
Neither of them spoke.
The man sat stiffly, hands gripping his knees, his body still too tense—like a cornered animal ready to bolt.
Ash, leaning back against the creaky chair, exhaled. At least offer your guest some water or something…
Finally, the man let out a slow breath. "Sorry… about earlier," he muttered. His voice was quieter now, no longer laced with raw panic. "I only started this job last week."
Ash shrugged. "No problem." His tone was flat, indifferent.
The man's gaze lingered, still cautious but studying him now—measuring. "Where exactly did you come from? How did you even get here?"
Ash stretched his legs slightly. "Name's Ash," he said. "I came from Sandworm Valley."
The man's face hardened instantly.
His fingers twitched. His jaw clenched. "You expect me to believe that?" His voice dropped lower, eyes narrowing. "No one walks out of Sandworm Valley." His gaze swept over Ash, taking in his frame. "And you—" his brow furrowed "—you're just a kid."
Ash ran a hand over his face. I don't have time for this.
"Actually…" He met the man's eyes, voice calm. "I'm Ash Burns."
A sharp inhale.
The man stiffened, body going rigid as recognition flashed across his face. The doubt drained away, replaced by something else—something heavier.
"So… you have fire," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.
Ash raised his hand.
"[Activating skill: Scorch Palm]"
A wave of heat rippled through the air. Flames ignited in his palm—controlled, steady, burning with an intensity that distorted the space around it. The glow painted his face in flickering orange.
Then, just as easily, the fire vanished.
Silence.
The man swallowed. His fingers twitched again, but this time, it wasn't fear that held him still.
Ash lowered his hand. "So… do you believe me now?"
A slow, hesitant nod.
Ash pressed forward. "I don't have time to waste. People are trapped in Sandworm Valley. They need food. A lot of it."
The man didn't answer right away. His gaze stayed locked on Ash, as if seeing him for the first time. Then, after a beat, his lips quirked into something almost resembling a smirk.
"You ran all this way?" His voice was lighter now. "Aren't you hungry yourself?"
At that exact moment, Ash's stomach let out a deep, traitorous growl.
The smirk widened.
It was as if the man's words had summoned it.
Then he let out a low chuckle, shaking off the last remnants of tension. He pushed himself to his feet, the wooden floor creaking under his weight. "Alright, I'll get you something to eat. Then we'll head to the settlement and gather supplies for your people."
He strode toward a small storage area in the corner, his movements no longer hesitant.
Ash let out a slow breath. His shoulders, tight with exhaustion, eased just a little. "Thanks."
The man didn't turn around, but his voice carried something lighter now—something genuine. "No worries. Your father saved my life more times than I can count."
Ash's grip on his knee tightened. His fingers twitched.
"…You knew him?" His voice was steady, but his chest felt tight.
The man shook his head, reaching up to rummage through a wooden crate. "Not personally. But the things he did for our village? Unforgettable."
Ash's gaze sharpened. A village?
"Which one?" he asked.
The man finally turned, setting down a small loaf of bread and a jar in front of him. His expression was calm, but his eyes carried a weight of old memories. "Terra. After the explosion… after his sacrifice… I respected him even more." His jaw tensed, but his voice remained firm. "He risked his life to save all of us."
A stillness settled over the room.
Ash didn't move. The fire crackled softly, but the warmth felt distant, like a memory just out of reach.
Then, slowly, the corner of his lips twitched—just barely.
The man handed him the food.
Ash took it without a word, nodding.
The first bite was dry, but he didn't care. The fire popped in the hearth, the flickering embers painting the walls in shades of orange and gold.
The air felt a little less heavy now.
————
The bread crumbled between Ash's teeth, dry and flavorless, but he barely noticed. His thoughts were elsewhere—back with the others, waiting, hungry, counting on him to return. He swallowed quickly, ignoring the roughness in his throat, his fingers tightening around the sack of food.
Across from him, the man sat stiff, his hands twitching against his knees. His eyes flicked toward Ash every few seconds, like he was still trying to convince himself this wasn't a dream—that someone had actually walked out of that valley alive.
Ash pulled his cloak tighter. "We should go."
The man hesitated, then stood. He crossed the small room and pried open an old storage crate, pulling out a worn pack. Ration cubes, water canisters, and energy bars wrapped in metallic film disappeared inside.
"This is all I can spare," he muttered, tying the sack shut before handing it over. "The settlement's not much better off."
Ash slung it over his shoulder without complaint. "It's enough."
They stepped outside.
The wind hit first—sharp, carrying the scent of rust and something rotten beneath the earth. The landscape stretched endlessly, an expanse of cracked ground and twisted wreckage, the bones of a world that had been swallowed by time. Dunes rolled against jagged steel remains, the remnants of some long-forgotten war.
Ash moved effortlessly, his steps light, almost unnatural on the unstable ground. The man followed, slower, his boots sinking slightly with each step. The loose edges of his cloak snapped in the wind, but Ash barely heard it over the sound of his own breath.
After a while, the man spoke. "I heard stories about your father's fire. Said it burned without fuel, without air. Like it had a mind of its own."
Ash didn't slow. His expression remained unreadable. "I've seen it."
The image was seared into his memory—the fire moving like it was alive, devouring everything in its path. Something more than just heat. Something that refused to die.
The man exhaled through his nose. "That explains a lot."
Ash said nothing.
The terrain shifted beneath their feet, dunes giving way to jagged wreckage. Shattered buildings, fused with rock, jutted from the ground at unnatural angles. Shadows stretched long against the sand, shifting oddly with the flickering light of the twin moons overhead.
Then—movement.
Ash's gaze snapped to the horizon. A figure lurked among the ruins, its form blending seamlessly with the wreckage. At first, it was still, almost part of the landscape. Then, it twitched—long limbs bending at unnatural angles, eyes glinting faintly in the dim light.
Not a Sandworm.
The man stiffened. His breathing changed. "Void Stalker," he whispered.
Ash didn't need the warning. He was already moving.
The creature tilted its head, its long fingers dragging against the metal remains beside it, a slow, deliberate scrape that sent a chill through the air. Then, with inhuman speed, it twisted and vanished into the wreckage.
Ash's pace quickened. The man followed without question.
Minutes stretched into an eternity before the settlement came into view.
Half-buried in the canyon walls, reinforced barriers loomed over the landscape, their steel plating weathered but unbroken. Towering floodlights flickered against the rock, casting eerie shadows over the gates. Beyond them, figures moved along the walls, their silhouettes rigid, weapons at the ready.
Turrets tracked their approach. Drones hovered above, silent observers in the night.
Ash's eyes narrowed.
The man beside him tensed. "They don't trust outsiders."
Ash could feel it—the shift in the air, the weight of unseen gazes pressing down.
They knew.
They knew he wasn't normal.