Lucas woke with his throat burning and the taste of rust thick on his tongue.
For a moment, he didn't know where he was. Then the pain returned—sharp, dull, everywhere—and the rough stone beneath his back reminded him exactly what had happened.
He groaned softly.
'Still alive.'
Barely.
He pushed himself upright with trembling arms, wincing as his muscles protested. Every breath scraped through his throat like sandpaper.
His mouth was dry—too dry. His lips were cracked, and the metallic flavor clung to his teeth like dried blood.
He wiped his face with the back of his hand and felt something sticky. He glanced down.
Red. Dark red.
Lucas blinked.
He rubbed at his teeth with his fingers, and when he pulled them away, they were stained. His gums, too. His whole mouth.
'What the hell did I drink…?'
It came back to him all at once—the jar, the thick red liquid, the awful taste, the way it clung to his throat like oil.
He turned his head. The jar still sat in the corner, half-covered in dust and shadow. Silent. Innocent. Like it hadn't just filled his body with something he couldn't name.
His stomach churned, but it was too late.
'Whatever it was… it's already inside me.'
He leaned back against the wall, let out a long breath, and closed his eyes for a moment.
Nothing hurt more than usual.
But something felt different.
Just under the surface.
Waiting.
The ruin was quiet.
Too quiet.
Lucas sat still for a few minutes, listening. No wind. No screeching monster outside. No shifting sand. Just the echo of his own heartbeat in his ears.
He finally dragged himself toward the opening.
The stone doorway was cracked and half-buried, but wide enough to peer through without stepping into the open. He crouched low and leaned just enough to get a view of the horizon.
And there it was.
That shape.
Far in the distance, dark against the purplish sky, like a jagged blade stabbed into the earth. A towering structure—too symmetrical to be natural, too large to be human. Sharp edges. Spires. Maybe towers. He couldn't tell from this far.
But it was there.
And it hadn't moved.
Lucas narrowed his eyes.
'That's the same thing I saw before I passed out...'
It looked distant. Really distant.
And yet, something about it felt wrong. Like it was watching him. Like it had always been there, waiting.
He didn't know what it was.
He didn't know what was inside.
He didn't know why his gut told him to go there.
But it did.
And he couldn't ignore it.
'Maybe someone's there. Maybe they can help. Maybe there's a way out.'
He sighed.
'Or maybe it's just another fucked-up piece of this world ready to kill me.'
Didn't matter.
He had to go.
Lucas slumped back against the wall, pulling his legs close to his chest.
The cold hadn't gone away.
But it wasn't biting anymore. Just numb. Like everything else.
He stared at the distant silhouette on the horizon, eyes half-lidded, mind foggy.
He didn't know what time it was.
Didn't know how long he'd been unconscious.
Didn't know if that giant scorpion was still out there.
But if it was…
It was waiting.
Just like that tower.
Lucas rubbed his eyes and exhaled slowly.
'What am I even doing?'
He had no plan. No supplies. No weapons.
No class.
No idea what was inside him after drinking whatever the hell that was.
But staying here wasn't an option.
That tower—it was the only thing in this world that even resembled a direction.
And direction meant purpose.
Even if it was a lie.
'Maybe there's someone there. Maybe answers. Maybe a way back to Earth.'
The thought was weak, but it was hope. And right now, that was enough.
The air inside the ruin felt heavier now.
Lucas shifted to the corner farthest from the door, dragging a thin layer of sand around himself to trap what little body heat he had left. It was rough and uncomfortable, but it worked—barely.
His eyelids were already falling shut. Every bone ached. His brain buzzed with exhaustion and the residue of fear.
But even as his body screamed for rest, his mind stayed wired.
'If that thing's still out there…'
He imagined the giant scorpion, just beyond the dunes, waiting with that awful stillness. Watching. Patient.
Lucas glanced at the jar again.
Whatever he had drunk—he didn't feel any different. No superpowers. No second wind. Just the same broken, naked, exhausted mess.
'...I better wake up faster than it does.'
He curled into himself, pulling his arms close, and closed his eyes.
Darkness took him again.
But this time, it was deeper.
Sleep came in fragments.
Lucas curled against the stone, buried in sand up to his shoulders, but the cold still crept in. It gnawed at his skin, wormed into his bones, and made every moment of rest feel like a slow punishment.
He dozed off… then woke again.
First from the cold.
Then from the dry ache in his throat.
Then because his stomach twisted in knots, threatening to turn itself inside out.
'That fucking liquid...'
He rolled onto his side and groaned, clutching his middle, waiting for the nausea to pass. It did. Eventually.
But the next time he woke, it wasn't pain that stirred him.
It was a sound.
A soft crunch—sand shifting just outside the ruin.
He didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
He listened.
There were more. Quiet steps in the dark. Low growls. The faint clicking of claws against stone. Different creatures. Different sizes.
They didn't come in.
But they were close.
Circling. Passing. Waiting.
Lucas kept still. Eyes open, staring at the broken ceiling above him.
Eventually, silence returned.
Then the cold.
And again, the pain.
He drifted in and out of restless sleep—each time less sure if he was resting or just losing his mind one hour at a time.
But he held on.
Because that's all he could do.