The sound of muffled footsteps and faint voices outside the window stirred Lucas from a restless sleep. Morning light filtered through the thin curtains, casting pale strips of gold across the wooden floor.
He blinked once, then sat up slowly, rubbing a hand over his face.
His body ached, not from wounds, but from exhaustion. The kind that sank deeper than muscles or bones. The kind that sleep barely touched.
Lucas reached over to the small table beside the bed and pulled his satchel closer. He opened it, pouring the contents—several silver and copper coins—into his palm.
It wasn't much.
Maybe enough for another night or two at the inn. A few cheap meals if he stretched it. Certainly not enough to buy supplies. And definitely not enough to buy a home.
He sighed through his nose, letting the coins slide back into the pouch.
No roof. No place to return to. No anchor.
He'd survived worse, but he couldn't help but feel the weight of it. Constant motion, constant vigilance… it wore on a person.
'Can't keep living out of bags and corners.'
He leaned back against the headboard, arms folded behind his head, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
He didn't need luxury. He didn't want comfort.
He just wanted somewhere that was his.
A place where he could let his guard down—just a little.
Lucas was walking down a quieter street near the city's inner district when he felt someone's gaze linger too long.
He stopped near a corner, watching his surroundings without turning his head.
A few seconds later, someone approached—a young man, cleanly dressed in a dark coat with subtle silver embroidery at the cuffs. His posture was confident but not aggressive. Polished. Practiced.
"Excuse me," the man said smoothly, flashing a polite smile. "Are you, by any chance, an unaligned Awakened?"
Lucas didn't answer.
He simply stared.
Unbothered, the stranger continued, "My name's Iven Dareth. I represent House Dareth, one of the registered families here in the Crucible. We're currently expanding our talent base."
Lucas's jaw tightened slightly.
Iven reached into his coat and pulled out a small emblem, showing the house's insignia. "We offer residence, resources, and basic protection to independent Awakened in exchange for future collaboration—nothing binding, just mutual benefit."
Lucas's stare sharpened.
"No."
Iven blinked. "If you're concerned about obligation, I assure you—"
"I said no."
The answer was cold. Flat.
Lucas stepped past him without breaking stride.
Iven took half a step forward. "Look, I get it—everyone wants to be self-made. But in this world, alone doesn't last long."
Lucas paused just long enough to glance back over his shoulder.
"I'm not looking to last," he muttered. "I'm looking to live."
Then he walked away, leaving the representative frozen on the street.
The central marketplace buzzed with activity by midday.
Lucas moved through the rows of merchant stalls and open-front shops, blending into the flow of adventurers, mercenaries, and newly Awakened hopefuls. The air smelled of sweat, steel, spices, and magic—faint glows and sparks drifting from rune-etched tools and enchanted weapons.
Everywhere he looked, gold changed hands.
A stall selling basic healing salves listed them at ten silvers apiece. A worn but enchanted dagger sat behind glass with a label: "20 gold. Firebound."
Lucas passed by racks of lightweight armor, enchanted cloaks, scrolls for warding, maps of unexplored territories, even tamed creatures bred for scouting.
It was overwhelming.
And expensive.
'No wonder they all run to families. You'd have to be rich or stupid to survive this alone.'
He watched a pair of Awakened—barely older than him—bartering for soulbound gear while laughing and sipping something fizzy from crystal cups. Their robes were lined with silver thread. One of them wore a ring that shimmered with active enchantments.
Sponsored.
Lucas's gaze dropped to his own gear.
Second-hand light armor, slightly scorched. No enchantments. A single scythe that only he could summon—and even that was starting to draw attention.
Still… he had his soul.
And that was worth more than any sponsorship.
Maybe.
He moved on, ignoring the salesmen trying to pitch him crystals, traps, or "limited-time relics."
Every price tag he saw was a reminder: in The Crucible, strength wasn't earned—it was bought. Or taken.
And he had nothing to spare.
The wind was colder up here.
Lucas stood on a stone outcropping near the edge of the city, just outside the high inner walls. The city stretched below him in tiers—layers of life built atop ruin, trade routes, and blood-soaked soil.
Beyond the outer wall, The Crucible expanded like a living scar—wild terrain, scattered settlements, and shifting mists that never seemed to rest.
But his eyes weren't on the horizon.
They were fixed on the structure near the Stronghold's heart. A massive arch of black stone, pulsing faintly with runes that glowed deep crimson. The gate.
The only one.
It shimmered slightly, like heat above a flame, anchored to this Stronghold and nowhere else. Through it, one could return to Earth—or be recalled, if summoned by government directive.
It was beautiful.
And suffocating.
That arch was the bridge between two worlds… and a reminder that he belonged to neither.
He had no reason to go back. Nothing waited for him on the other side—no family, no home, no peace.
Here, at least, he could grow.
He could become something.
Someone.
Still, the question gnawed at him: where? Where would he sleep when the coins ran dry? Where would he stash his gear? Where would he run to if things went wrong?
He needed more than survival.
He needed ground beneath his feet. His ground.
Lucas turned away from the gate.
The wind tugged at his clothes, carrying the distant sounds of the city—the clang of metal, the murmur of crowds, the bark of orders. Life moved fast here. No one waited for anyone.
He descended the slope slowly, boots crunching against loose gravel and worn stone, each step steadier than the last.
The path ahead wouldn't be easy.
He'd need to fight harder. Hunt more. Sell everything he didn't need. Sleep less. Bleed more.
But it would be his.
Not borrowed. Not offered. Not granted out of pity or lineage.
His.
He glanced at the pouch on his belt, light and nearly empty.
'This won't cut it.'
Then up at the walls again, then the sky.
'But it's a start.'
He reached the main road and disappeared into the flow of people once more, quieter than most, head down, eyes focused.
But inside, something had shifted.
A decision. A promise.
"I won't be a stray forever. I'll carve out my place… even if I have to tear it from this world myself."