"Welcome, Wakers of the Old World."
The voice was thunder wrapped in silk—deep, clear, and resonant with a kind of solemn reverence.
"I greet you in the name of Hollowrest," the golden holographic figure announced, arms wide. "A haven carved into the stone heart of the Fortier Mountains. A place for the brave. The lost. The ones daring enough to defy fate and carve new purpose."
It stood tall, its robe of light shimmering with every word, casting glints across the stone walls. For the first time since waking, something like warmth stirred in the chamber—not physical, but a strange, surreal comfort.
"Though severed from the history of the world before," it continued, "you have been given a sacred chance. A gift, bestowed by Terra, Goddess of the Realm. Her final mercy—the System—shall now guide your rebirth."
Lucas felt the weight of those words ripple through him. Rebirth. The idea tasted bitter. Like a lie told too often.
A voice cut through the quiet.
"What do you mean 'severed from history'?" asked a man near the back, his stance rigid, the dust-caked uniform he wore hinting at command—though no insignia remained. His voice was hoarse. Tired.
The holographic figure didn't respond to him directly. Its gaze remained fixed on the center of the room, sightless, as if reading from some script written into the stone.
"You are no longer bound by the wars of before," it said. "No longer defined by the ruin that claimed your world. What you once were… has been unmade."
A murmur of fear moved through the crowd. Some stepped back. Others looked down at their hands as if searching for the missing pieces of their identity.
"The System will awaken within you in three cycles," it continued, the cadence of a ritual taking hold. "Until then, survive. Learn. Choose."
The runes at its feet began to pulse brighter, each syllable stirring a tremor in the air.
"There are no masters here. No chains but those you forge yourself. The System does not demand obedience. It merely reflects your will. Rise—or fall. The world will not stop for either."
And with that, the figure froze—then fractured.
Light shattered like glass, scattering golden shards through the air before fading to nothing.
Silence returned.
And as quickly as the being had arrived, it was gone.
'Now what?' The question echoed through Lucas's mind as he watched the rest of the people glance around, as if searching for an answer—some clue about what to do next.
He turned toward Lira, hoping to glean something from her expression, anything to hint at what she was thinking.
She stood still, but her fingers twitched near her side, instinctively reaching for something. Something like a weapon.
'Perhaps a sword?' Lucas wondered. 'Was my sister… a fighter?'
The question rang in his mind. At first, the image of Lira in battle felt strange—out of place. But then, he started to notice the subtler things.
Her stance. Feet spread just past shoulder-width. Knees slightly bent; body angled—poised to move at a moment's notice. The way her posture coiled, not rigid but ready.
It all suggested something unmistakable: a person forged for combat. Someone who didn't hesitate to throw themselves into a fight.
'But what about me?'
Lucas looked down at himself.
Without realizing it, he had already taken a step back. One hand hovered near the small of his back, curling slightly as if searching for something—something he expected to find there. His other hand rested slightly out to the side, as if it were meant to grip something already in place. His stance was like hers… but different. Measured. Lighter on the feet. Like someone ready to move—not strike.
His feet mirrored hers—but the intention behind them was something else entirely.
'Am I a fighter too?'
A sharp cough snapped Lucas from his thoughts.
"Well then," came the familiar rasp of the man in the worn military coat, arms folded across his chest. "Any ideas on how to get out of here?"
The silence that followed was tight, brittle. No one offered a response.
Until Lira did.
"What about that door?" she said, pointing toward the far end of the chamber.
Lucas followed her gaze. He hadn't noticed it before—maybe none of them had. Tucked into the curve of the wall, half-shadowed and unremarkable, was a door. Wood, aged and weathered, almost identical to the one they'd come through.
It stood closed, but not locked.
The man grunted. "Better than standing here till that thing comes back."
No one disagreed.
Lira approached first. Lucas fell into step beside her, and the others, hesitant but moving, followed. As she reached for the handle, her hand paused—just briefly, as if waiting for something.
Then she pushed.
The door creaked open on groaning hinges, revealing a narrow corridor carved into raw mountain stone. The walls were smooth, damp with age. Blue lanterns hung at intervals along the path, glowing with that same cold, silent hum. Their light painted the tunnel in pale shades of ghostlight and shadow.
No one spoke.
The air was colder here—cleaner, too. It smelled of moss and frost, of places undisturbed for some time.
They moved as a group, footsteps echoing off the stone, swallowed by the tunnel behind them. Lucas kept his eyes ahead, but his ears were alert. Listening for anything. Breathing. Movement. Anything unnatural.
There was only silence.
And then, another door.
This one was heavier, iron-banded and inset into the mountain's outer face. Lira reached out, fingers brushing the frost-covered wood. She looked back, and for a moment, Lucas saw it—the hesitation. The awareness that something was about to change.
She opened it.
The wind hit first.
Cold, wild, alive. It swept into the corridor like a warning, tugging at clothes and hair, stirring the scent of pine and stone and fire smoke.
Lucas stepped out behind her.
And stopped.
The tunnel had led to a cliffside overlook, a wide stone archway cut into the mountain wall. Below them, nestled in a vast mountain basin, was a town—alive and sprawling. Lights flickered across its tiers like constellations caught in iron and timber. Smoke curled from chimneys. Bells rang in the far distance. Voices—faint but real—rose with the wind.
Hollowrest.
Built into the bones of the mountain, stretching down into the valley, ringed with massive walls and outposts like jagged teeth. From here, it looked like a fortress from another age. Watchtowers. Rune-lit pathways threading the cliffside roads. The town didn't just exist—it endured.
Lucas stared.
The wind tore at him in short, sharp bursts, and even layered beneath a hooded coat, he felt the cold dig through the seams. It bit his cheeks, numbed his fingers. The thin mountain air stung with each breath, like dragging frost into his lungs.
Behind him, the others filtered out one by one. No words at first—just silence, the kind born from awe and weariness. They stood there, staring down at Hollowrest as if trying to make sense of it. A monument to survival, carved from stone and stubbornness.
"Can we hurry up? It's getting cold," came a voice—sharp, frustrated.
The dancer girl.
Lucas turned just enough to see her—barefoot still, wrapped in little more than gauze and silk that might've belonged on a stage, not a mountaintop. Her arms were crossed tight over her chest, and her breath steamed in short, uneven huffs.
No one argued.
A narrow path led downward, cut into the side of the cliff—winding, steep, edged by a rusted railing in places, but mostly exposed. The stone beneath their feet had been worn smooth, chipped in others, as if the mountain itself had resisted every attempt to tame it.
They moved in single file. Slow. Careful.
The wind howled louder here—caught between the stone faces, funneled into gales that threatened to shove them sideways. Lucas walked second, just behind Lira, watching how she moved.
'Just like when we went to school.'
The thought echoed through his mind, unbidden. Something in the way she moved, stirred it loose. A glimpse of childhood, something he knew as truth.
They used to walk together like this. Marching in line. Side by side. Maybe to school. Maybe to someplace else. It didn't matter. The feeling was real.
And just as quickly a the feeling came, it was gone.
The memory scattered—whipped away by the mountain wind like ash from a dying fire.
'What was I thinking about?' the sense of lost hit him again only this time he found it more annoying.
However he must move on.
The path wound tighter as they descended, hugging the mountain's spine. Each step brought them closer to the valley floor, and with it, Hollowrest's details came into sharper focus.
Below them, nestled against the cliffside, stood a structure—a house, or maybe something grander. Gated. Manor-sized. Built from the same gray stone as the mountain itself. The walls were thick, solid, weathered by years of wind and silence. The fencing that surrounded it was wrought iron, twisted and tall, shrouding the grounds like a skeletal barrier.
They approached the gate in silence.
A light flickered inside the manor—a dim orange glow behind one of the narrow windows. Smoke still drifted from the chimney, curling into the pale sky, which had begun to shift from cold silver to the faint blue of early morning.
Lira was the first to reach for the gate, but before her fingers could close around the iron bars, it creaked open on its own.
A figure stood there.
Older, broad-shouldered beneath a heavy wool cloak. His face was weathered—deep lines worn into tanned skin, eyes sunken but sharp. He held a lantern in one hand, and when its light fell across their group, his expression froze.
"By the old stones…" he breathed. "You're early."
Lucas blinked. "What?"
The man didn't answer right away. His gaze swept across them—torn clothes, gaunt faces, the confusion still clinging to their posture like fog. Then he muttered something under his breath, turned on his heel, and waved them in.
"No matter. Inside. You'll freeze out here."
They followed him through the gate and across a narrow stone path. The manor loomed closer—its presence quiet but solid, like a watchtower built not to defend, but to remember.
Inside, the air was warmer, thick with the scent of burnt pine and old fabric. A wide hearth crackled at the far end of the main room, firelight dancing across aged rugs and mismatched chairs. The windows were small, lead-glassed. Shelves lined the walls—books, jars, tools. A life lived here, tucked between stone and wind.
"Sit," the man said, voice gruff but not unkind. "You've come down the mountain. That's trial enough."
Lucas sat, the warmth sinking into his bones like it belonged there. The others followed, gathering around the hearth. No one spoke. No one knew what to ask yet.
The man moved with practiced ease. He filled mugs from a kettle that steamed faintly near the fire, handing them out without ceremony. The drink inside was hot, bitter, tinged with something earthy. It didn't taste good—but it didn't have to. It was warm.
A moment later, he returned with a bundle of thick cloth—blankets, coats, woolen garments that smelled faintly of cedar and storage. He handed them out the same way. No questions. No hesitation.
"Eat, warm yourselves," he said. "Names can come later."
From a low cabinet, he retrieved a wooden tray of dried meat, hard bread, and a crock of soft white cheese. Survival food—but real.
Lucas took the cup, the blanket, the bread. His fingers trembled a little as they wrapped around the warmth. It wasn't until that moment that he realized how cold he'd actually been.
Across the fire, the man finally sat—leaned back, exhaled through his nose like someone trying to recenter himself.
"Name's Barrik," he said at last. "Caretaker of the Waypoint, welcome to Hollowrest."