Gareth sat cross-legged on the edge of the rooftop, staring at the faint red-blue glow of Town Magma's morning sky.
What is the Veil… really? he asked himself, voice low and deliberate. And now that I think deeply… how does a person truly access it?
He flexed his fingers, letting the memory of the fight and the mask flicker at the edge of his mind. How can I ascend to the second stage of the Veil?
His eyes narrowed, scanning the streets below, the scattered warriors moving through the outer skirts, the chaos of daily life.
It's not just raw power… it's control, understanding, perception… awareness beyond the body itself.
Gareth leaned forward, tapping a finger against his chin, thoughts moving in precise patterns.
Every movement, every Veil resonance… I need to feel it, predict it, bend it without letting it bend me. That's the key.
He closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath, letting the faint hum of the city and the distant chaos of Town Magma settle in.
I have to think smarter. I can't rely on strength alone. Not anymore.
Gareth leaned over the edge of the rooftop, eyes scanning the streets below, mind sharp and alert.
His gaze fell on a small procession moving through the crowded paths—a slave trader flanked by rough-looking guards.
Chains clinked harshly, linking several people by the neck, their faces pale with fear and exhaustion.
The trader barked orders, voice sharp and commanding, while the captives shuffled forward, bodies bent under the weight of both iron and despair.
Gareth stared deeply at the scene, voice quiet, almost to himself. Am I… a slave?
Gareth shook his head slowly, a small, bitter laugh escaping him. "No… I'm not a slave," he muttered, trying to shrug the thought away.
But then, a cold, harsh voice slithered through his mind, echoing like a whisper in a dark room:
Why did you join the academy?
Why didn't you get swayed into battles?
Why did you survive?
Why are you such a pathetic person?
Gareth froze, a shiver running down his spine, eyes narrowing as he scanned the streets below, trying to locate the source of the voice—but it wasn't coming from outside.
It was inside him.
The voice returned, sharper this time, threading through Gareth's mind like ice.
You call yourself free… but you're a slave.
Think back. Every mission you were sent on, every path you were forced to follow… did you ever truly choose it? Or did you simply obey?
You learned that your actions don't matter as much as following orders. That your choices are meaningless unless someone else grants them weight. You became a being trained to comply, to act without questioning, to keep moving forward even when you had no say in the matter.
And the people you failed… the deaths you couldn't prevent… that guilt clung to you like chains. Every soul lost, every failure, forced you to keep going. You think you're paying a debt, saving the next person, but all it does is tighten the chains around your mind, turning duty into a burden you can never escape.
Then there's the new world, harsh and unforgiving. Terrifying. Survival meant obeying, following orders, keeping your head down. To live, you learned to survive at the cost of yourself, letting others' will decide your path. That's why you survived… that's why you're still here… pathetic, obedient, a slave in every sense that matters.
Gareth's breath caught, his body stiffening, eyes widening as the words sank deep, scraping at every memory of fear, pain, and obedience he had buried.
The voice pressed deeper, no longer whispering—now speaking with the cruel clarity of truth:
You are a psychological slave, Gareth.
Every command you obeyed carved another mark into your mind. Every time you followed instead of choosing, the chains tightened. You move when others tell you. You fight when they push you. You survive because you're too afraid to stop.
And worst of all…
The air around him seemed to pulse, the rooftop suddenly colder.
…you are the Marked One. The cursed one.
They fear you, hunt you, use you—but never once did you ask why. Because you're too broken inside to question your place. You cling to survival like a wounded animal, hoping the next order will keep you alive for one more day.
The words hit him like hammer blows.
His hands trembled. His breath shuddered.
He felt naked—exposed—seen too clearly.
Gareth lowered his head.
For a moment, everything inside him went silent.
"...I was never free." he whispered.
The admission left his lips like a confession, a truth he had denied for far too long.
hand suddenly clapped Gareth on the back.
He jerked, the world snapping back into place.
Jaless stood beside him, holding two wrapped meals.
"Hey," he said lightly, though his eyes searched Gareth's face. "Bought some food."
Gareth blinked away the haze in his mind and stepped closer.
"Give me one," he muttered.
Jaless handed it over. Gareth unwrapped it slowly, staring at the dull, overcooked mess inside. He took a bite—
and nearly gagged. The taste was bitter, stale, lifeless.
As the flavor hit him, the voice slid back into his skull like a blade returning to a sheath:
Look at you…
Eating scraps. Accepting whatever is handed to you.
A poor slave, enslaved to himself—humiliating, honestly.
Gareth's fingers tightened around the food.
How much more pathetic can you continue to be?
The voice was colder now. Clearer. Closer.
Like it was no longer just in his head—
but part of him.
Gareth chewed slowly, forcing himself to swallow, but the taste made him almost gag.
Jaless, watching him, took a bite himself—and his face twisted with the same disgust, nearly spitting it out.
He stared at Gareth, raising an eyebrow. "So… that plan of yours—multiplying the rings… do you really think it can work?"
Gareth shook his head, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "No… it's impossible. Toravon's work isn't just skill—it's a masterpiece. Nothing I do could replicate it."
Jaless let out a low whistle, shaking his head. "Figures… I should've expected that."
Gareth glanced down at the food, grimacing, the bitter taste lingering as a reminder of both their hunger and the impossibility before them.
Gareth pushed the plate aside, face still twisted from the taste. "Fine… then how do we earn money? We can't keep living like this."
Jaless leaned back, thinking for a moment, then shrugged. "What about joining the ranks of the Outer March? They're always looking for fighters, scouts… people who can handle themselves."
Gareth tilted his head, curiosity flickering in his eyes. "The Outer March…? You mean the ones guarding the territories, like Toravon's divisions?"
Jaless nodded. "Exactly. Tough work, but it pays. And it keeps you alive if you're smart about it."
Gareth's expression darkened slightly, mind already racing.
Pay… survive… gain experience… maybe even gather information. "Hmm… that could work," he muttered, eyes narrowing as the wheels in his mind began to turn.
As Gareth considered the Outer March, a cold, sharp whisper slithered into his mind.
Going to be ordered again, hey…
Gareth froze, his hand trembling slightly. "Jaless… can you hear that? A voice… it's in my head?"
Jaless looked at him, frowning, shaking his head. "No. I don't hear anything. You're imagining it."
Gareth's eyes narrowed, unease curling in his chest. It's not imagining… it's real…
The whisper returned, softer but insistent, threading through his thoughts. You know you can't escape it. Orders. Obedience. Chains…
Gareth straightened, determination hardening his expression. "Yeah… we should go join now. No point waiting."
He paused, eyes scanning the streets, mind working quickly. I need to think smarter… move smarter. No mistakes this time.
The two of them left the tavern, stepping out into the bustling streets of Town Magma.
The morning sun cast the outer skirts in faint red and blue hues, painting the worn buildings with an eerie light.
Warriors moved past, shouting to one another, while traders barked orders and children ran between their legs.
Instead of taking the main streets, Gareth veered into the narrow alleyways, dark and winding, letting shadows conceal their movements.
Jaless frowned, keeping pace beside him. "Why the alleys? You're acting… paranoid."
Gareth didn't look back. "He might find us. Toravon… he's got ears everywhere. We can't risk being seen."
The alleys twisted like a labyrinth, damp with early morning mist, shadows stretching long and sharp along cracked walls.
Every footstep echoed faintly, but Gareth moved with purpose, eyes flicking constantly, mind calculating every risk.
Gareth and Jaless stepped into a wide courtyard, the large building before them run-down, bricks cracked and paint peeling, but surprisingly bustling with life.
Inside, young people filled the space—none strong by outward appearance, many malnourished, some limping from old injuries—but each carried a weight in their eyes, a story etched into their expressions.
One sat quietly in the corner, head bowed, anonymous, lost in thought. Another shouted at the top of his lungs, frustrations spilling into the air like fire.
A group in the middle spoke softly, murmuring secrets and plans barely audible, while nearby, a lone figure sang mournfully about how hard life had become, the melody cutting through the chaos like a knife.
Everywhere Gareth looked, there were stories—pain, hope, fear, defiance—all layered over one another, creating a living tapestry of struggle and survival within these walls.