CHAPTER 7 — The World Beyond the Gate
Balik didn't sleep the night before the mission.
He lay on his bunk, eyes open, watching the faint lines of moonlight slide across the ceiling as the hours moved. The breathing of the others rose and fell around him—soft, harsh, steady, broken. Every now and then, someone whimpered in their sleep. Sometimes someone laughed.
His own chest felt tight, like someone had tied a rope around his ribs and slowly pulled.
Tomorrow, he was leaving the base properly.
Not dragged somewhere in a sack.Not marched between walls from one building to another.
Outside.
Into the city.
Into the world.
He turned onto his side and stared at Mira's silhouette three beds away.
She lay still, back to him, long braid trailing over her blanket. Even in the low light, he could see the sharp line of her shoulder, the relaxed but precise angle of her neck. She slept like someone who trusted nothing but herself.
Ishan snored on his back, one arm falling off the side of his bed, mouth slightly open. Every few breaths, a faint ember-glow shimmered near his chest, his awakened fire-core humming just under the skin.
Balik shut his eyes.
Shadow, Tejas whispered faintly inside him. You're walking into danger you didn't choose.
I'm walking into a chance I can't lose, Balik answered silently.
The rope around his ribs pulled tighter.
Morning came too fast.
The rod slammed into the pipe. Voices rose. Feet hit the floor.
Balik moved on instinct—up, wash, dress, line up.
But today, nobody called Tier 1 for drills.
"Tier 1, except Balik—yard," an instructor barked. "Balik, stay."
The others glanced at him, some with curiosity, some with pity. Then they turn and left out.
Balik stood alone for a beat, water dripping from his hair.
Footsteps approached.
Varun.
He walked into the washroom as if it were an office, coat neat, scar stark on his cheek, amber-brown eyes cool and alert. He didn't belong in any place like this—cold stone, rusted pipe, damp bucket water—but he owned the space anyway.
"Good," he said. "You're not shaking."
Balik straightened. "Should I be?"
Varun's lips twitched in something that was almost a smile, but not quite he never.
"Only if it makes you sharper," he said. "Come."
They stepped into an empty side room. No beds. No training dummies. Just a table, a chair, and a single mana-lamp glowing on the wall—soft, steady light without flame, glass etched with faint runes.
It was one of the few pieces of refined magic Balik saw inside the base. The rest of their world was steel, stone, and screaming.
Varun leaned against the table, crossing his arms.
"Repeat your role," he said.
Balik didn't hesitate.
"I enter the warehouse," he said. "Unseen. I count crates of contraband—beast parts, crystals, metal. I mark exits, guard positions, possible hidden compartments. I return without alerting anyone."
Varun nodded once.
"Good," he said. "Most brats your age would ask why we don't just burn it down."
Balik didn't smile. "Because you want to control it," he said. "Not destroy it."
Varun's eyes sharpened.
"You do listen," he murmured. "Remember that, Balik. Power isn't just about killing. It's about deciding what stays and who doesn't."
He tapped his own chest lightly.
"Out there," he continued, "people talk about cores, affinities, stats. Fire, earth, wind, shadow. STR, AGI, END. They worship numbers and elements."
He flicked a speck of dust from his cuff.
"We worship information," he said simply. "Mana makes you dangerous. Knowledge makes you untouchable."
Balik stirred uneasily at that.
"Your job," Varun said, "is to see what others can't. To notice what they think is beneath notice. To remember it all."
"I understand," Balik said.
"Do you?" Varun tilted his head. "Once you step outside, you will see more than this yard. More than trainees and Tier charts. You'll see merchants with mana lamps they didn't craft. Guards with enchanted weapons their hands didn't earn. Beastfolk selling their strength. Dwarves selling their metal. Humans selling everything else."
He straightened.
"It will remind you of what you don't have," he said. "A home. A nation. Freedom. Power."
He stepped closer. His eyes, for once, weren't just cold. There was something sharp and intent in them, like a blade being tested.
"Do not let that distract you," he said. "The world is bigger than you. But right now, your world is one job. One test. One path to Tier 2."
Balik held his gaze.
"I'm ready," he said.
Varun studied him for a long moment, then nodded.
"Let's find out," he said.
They left when the sun was low, turning the sky above the city from washed-out gray to dirty gold.
For once, they didn't slip out through the back.
They walked through the front gate.
Balik's heart kicked against his ribs.
The gate he'd been dragged through years ago groaned open again. The world outside didn't look different from the inside, but it felt different now. There was no sack over his head. No hand shoving him forward.
He stepped out on his own.
Mira walked to his left, cloak wrapped around her, brown braid tucked inside. Only her face showed—pale, calm, eyes always scanning. She carried herself like someone who had planted her feet in the ground and dared the world to move her.
Ishan walked on his right, relaxed, hands in his pockets, shoulders loose. He wore a short, worn jacket over his training shirt, and his red-brown hair stuck out in uneven tufts. His amber-gold eyes, half-lidded, swept everywhere with lazy alertness.
From a distance, they almost looked like siblings taking their smaller brother out.
Up close, anyone with sense would see it:
Weapons walking beside a knife that didn't know it was a knife yet.
The city district outside their base was low and cramped—stacked buildings leaning into each other, narrow alleys cutting between them like scars. Laundry flapped overhead. People shouted from windows. The air smelled of oil, smoke, and too many bodies.
Balik had seen hints of it before.
But today, they kept walking.
Down one alley, then another, onto broader streets where the ground changed from cracked stone to smoother slabs. The building walls straightened. The lamps overhead shifted from flickering torches to mana-lamps like the one he'd seen in Varun's room—steady, clean light powered by crystals inside glass.
"This is still lower ring," Ishan said casually. "Wait till we hit the middle."
"How many rings are there?" Balik asked.
"You don't know?" Ishan smirked, but there was no real mockery in it. "Kshavira's capital isn't some village, little ghost. This is Dharaja. Five rings. Rot on the outside, gold at the core."
"Rot doesn't disappear," Mira said quietly. "They just hide it under polished stone."
Balik looked around as they walked.
People looked different here.
Not just in clothes. In posture.
Lower ring: bent backs, fast steps, eyes down.
As they pushed toward the middle, spines straightened. Clothes turned from patched dull to dyed and layered. Jewelry flashed—cheap, then less cheap. The smell shifted from sweat and smoke to spices, fried food, incense.
"Look left," Ishan murmured.
Balik did.
A group of beastfolk—Tharok clans, if he remembered right from half-overheard lessons—walked together near a stall. One had fur along his arms and neck, ears pointed and twitching, eyes a bright, unnatural yellow. Another had dull scales along her jaw and thicker, clawed hands. Their bodies were stockier, their movements powerful. Even the way they stood, weight spread, screamed physical strength.
One of them laughed, a deep rumble that vibrated the air.
"That one's STR and END would crush your bones," Ishan said. "Beastfolk don't need high INT to be dangerous."
Balik swallowed, watching the way people moved around them. With respect. With caution.
On the right side of the street, near a cart filled with metal ingots, a shorter figure argued with a human merchant—the dwarf's braided beard tucked into his belt, thick arms folded over a chest wrapped in leather and metal. His eyes were a sharp steel gray, brows heavy, nose broad. The hammer at his side looked like it had seen more use than the cart wheels.
"Ironhold dwarf," Mira said without looking. "They'll sell enchanted weapons to Kshavira soldiers and whoever else pays enough."
"How do you know all this?" Balik asked.
"Listening," she said. "Watching. Existing longer than you."
Ishan chuckled. "She reads books sometimes, too," he added. "Nerd."
Mira ignored him.
Balik kept watching.
A group of robed figures walked past them, mana-lamps hanging from rods over their shoulders. Symbols glowed faintly on the fabric—Aetherion script.
"Elemental scholars," Mira said quietly. "Aetherion envoy. They think everything is numbers. Core stages. Mana capacity. Stat ranks. S, SS, SSS. They pretend they're above blood."
"And they're not?" Balik asked.
She snorted softly. "When nations fight, they die like everyone else."
He stored that away.
Fire, earth, wind, shadow. STR, AGI, END, INT, WIS, CHA. Nations. Rings. Races.
The world suddenly felt bigger than the yard. Bigger than Varun's cold voice and Tier charts.
It made him… uneasy.
This is what life is supposed to be, that inner voice whispered. Crowds. Noise. Laughter. Food stands. Not ropes and blood and cages.
Balik didn't argue.
He just walked.
Because he also understood something else:
This world had never known him.And if he slowed down, it would swallow him without noticing.
By the time they reached the fourth ring—the trade belt—he could feel the city pulsing.
The streets widened further, making room for carts, beasts of burden, and people who'd never had to use their hands for anything but signing papers and holding cups. Mana-lamps lined the way in regular intervals, their light clear and controlled. In the distance, he could see the faint silhouette of the central tower—Kshavira's administrative spire, cutting into the sky like a spear.
"Fourth ring," Ishan said. "Trade. Warehouses. Guild branches. People who pretend to be honest criminals."
Their path curved toward the river.
He smelled it before he saw it—water carrying hints of fish, mud, and metal.
Then the docks opened up before them.
Wide stone platforms jutted into the river, where boats and barges were tied. Some bore Kshavira colors. Others carried sigils Balik didn't recognize—foreign houses, clans, factions. Cranes creaked as workers offloaded crates. Shouts echoed across the water. Dwarves checked shipment lists. Beastfolk hauled heavy boxes. Humans argued over tariffs.
Mira slowed a fraction, her eyes half-lidded as she scanned.
"Don't stare too long," she murmured. "We're ghosts, remember. Not tourists."
Balik dropped his gaze slightly, but his eyes stayed active.
He noticed the guards near the river—spears, light armor, cheap enchanted bracers. He noted the symbols on the banners—Kshavira's lion, Ironhold's hammer, Tharok claw markings, Lumeria's leaf sign on a single slender river ship tethered farther down.
The world wasn't a story whispered in the dark anymore.
He was standing in it.
"Here," Ishan said quietly.
They veered away from the busiest dock and slipped into a narrower lane between stacked warehouses. The noise dulled. The light dimmed. The stone underfoot grew rougher again.
They stopped in the shadow of a tall building.
Its walls were thick, its windows small. The faint smell of treated leather, herbs, and something metallic seeped out.
"Target's there." Ishan jerked his chin toward a long, low structure at the end of the lane. "Warehouse B-17."
Balik recognized the layout from the map burned into his memory.
Front entrance: guarded, two men minimum.Side alley: narrow, one window half-jammed.Roof: accessible from the neighboring building.
"Too exposed to go from the ground," Mira said. "We go up."
She led them to a stacked pile of crates beside a smaller warehouse. With the ease of long practice, she climbed up, fingers hooking into grooves, bare feet finding purchase. Her movements were efficient, no wasted motion.
Ishan followed more casually, grunting once when a crate edge scraped his shin.
Balik climbed last.
He moved like a memory—silent, precise, body hugging the surface. His fingers and toes found holds almost without thought. Years of balance beams, rope drills, and "don't fall or eat nothing" had carved this into his bones.
They reached the rooftop.
From there, they crossed.
The city felt different from above—less crowded, more patterned. Balik could see the way the streets cut through the rings, how the docks connected to everything like veins.
They stopped at the edge of the target warehouse.
Mira crouched, her cloak pooled around her. Her earth-brown eyes glowed faintly as she scanned the gaps in the roof.
"Four guards," she whispered. "Two at the main door. One bored, one alert. One patrolling the alley. One inside, pacing. Hear that footstep pattern? Heavy, slow. Armor."
Balik listened.
She was right.
"How?" he asked softly.
"WIS," Ishan said with a crooked grin. "Perception. Hers is high. Old man Varun said she's probably B-rank already."
"And you?" Balik murmured.
Ishan smirked. "STR and AGI. C+ and C. END is catching up. INT…" He shrugged. "Eh. Hit things hard enough and you don't need complicated spells, But we both are at Tempered Core which is too good for our age ."
Mira's mouth twitched. "Your CHA is low. Very low."
"It's incredibly high," Ishan said. "I'm charming."
Balik almost snorted.
Almost.
Mira pointed at a small broken section of roof, near the far left.
"That's your way in," she said.
He saw it now—a jagged gap where boards had rotted, patched with a sheet of cheap metal that hadn't been nailed properly. Just big enough for an underfed eleven-year-old who knew how to make himself smaller than he was.
"Remember," she said, eyes pinning him. "You do not engage, no matter what you see. You do not speak. You do not hesitate unless hesitation keeps you alive. You count, you watch, you leave."
Ishan's hand landed briefly on his shoulder.
His grip was warm, firm, reassuring.
"Hey," he said quietly. "You've been training for this since before you even knew what mana was. You're good at this. You're better at this than anyone here, Balik."
He squeezed once.
"Stick to the plan," he said. "We'll be right here. You fall, I catch you. You trip, she'll mock you. But you don't go in alone."
Balik nodded, throat suddenly dry.
He crawled closer to the gap, heart thudding in his chest.
Tejas's voice trembled inside him.
This is the kind of thing you hated, remember? Being used. Being turned into a tool.
Balik swallowed.
Tools break, he answered. Shadows don't.
He reached the edge and looked down into the darkness of the warehouse.
Crates. Rows and stacks of them. Narrow aisles. Occasional flickers of mana-lamp light. Shadows deep enough to hide in.
He exhaled slowly.
The world outside was big. Beautiful in its ugliness. Terrifying in its indifference.
He would not be swallowed by it.
He hooked his fingers into the edge of the broken board.
Mira's hand brushed his back—just once, steadying.
"Go," she whispered.
He slid into the gap.
The mission began.