Lying on my thin, lumpy mattress back in the North District, I felt the world just... drop out from under me. It wasn't a gentle slide into sleep. It was more like my soul got snagged on a fishing hook and yanked through a keyhole at Mach 5. My vision went dark, then exploded into a kaleidoscope of neon streaks that made my stomach do somersaults. I squeezed my eyes shut, praying I wouldn't lose my dinner as the lights burned through my eyelids.
When my feet finally hit solid ground, the transition was so abrupt I almost fell over. The air didn't smell like the Base anymore—no recycled oxygen, no faint scent of industrial exhaust. It smelled like damp earth and ozone.
I waited a beat for the vertigo to pass, my heart thudding against my ribs, before slowly peeling my eyes open.
"Whoa," I breathed, the word disappearing into the thick white mist surrounding me.
I was standing in the dead center of a massive stone platform that looked like it had been carved from a single, miles-wide block of polished obsidian. It was so smooth I could see my own pale, anxious reflection under my feet. Around the edges, a swirling wall of mist cut off the rest of the world, making it feel like I was standing on an island floating in the middle of a dream.
But it wasn't the platform that caught my breath—it was the statues.
Towering figures stood in a perfect circle around the edge, like silent sentinels. These were the "Profession Statues," the avatars of every path a human could take. I started to walk, my boots clicking rhythmically on the stone. I passed the Knight first. He was clad in plate armor that looked like it had been forged from actual starlight, holding a sword that was probably longer than I was tall. Next was the Mage, draped in silk robes that rippled with actual violet lightning, his stone eyes glowing with a faint, terrifying intelligence.
I felt that familiar, bitter twinge of envy. That was the dream, right? To be the guy on the recruitment posters, the hero who stands between humanity and the Disasters. I'd spent eight years training my body to the breaking point just to earn a spot in that circle.
Then I stopped.
I was standing in front of the Farmer statue.
It was a total 180 from the others. No glowing armor. No flaming staves. Just an old man. He looked like he'd been carved from a piece of weathered oak rather than obsidian. His skin was dark and wrinkled like a dried-up prune, and his hands... man, those hands were huge. They were calloused, scarred, and strong, resting heavily on the handle of a simple wooden plough. He wore a linen shirt, a coarse belt, and shoes that looked like they'd walked across the entire planet twice.
He didn't look like a hero. He looked tired. He looked like he'd worked a double shift for eighty years straight and was just waiting for the sun to go down so he could finally rest his bones.
Most eighteen-year-olds would've looked at this guy and felt their heart sink. This is my future? A backache and some dirty overalls? But looking at him, I didn't feel pity. I felt... kinship. Maybe it was because I'd been the one carrying the weight for Sierra since I was ten, but I saw something in those stone wrinkles. I saw a guy who didn't quit when the world got ugly. I saw the dignity in the grind.
I walked up to the statue and, without really thinking about it, I gave him a deep, respectful bow. It wasn't just for the statue; it was a salute to the work. To everyone who'd ever kept the world running while the "heroes" took all the credit.
I didn't see the statue's eyes flicker. I didn't see the stone lips curve into a tiny, relieved smile. And I definitely didn't notice the faint, golden spark that shot out from the old man's forehead and sank right into the bridge of my nose.
"Welcome, young professional," a voice echoed, seemingly from the air itself. It was deep and resonant, like the rumble of distant thunder. "The path is long, but the harvest is certain. Approach your statue and claim your name."
I stepped forward, my mind racing. I needed a name. A handle that would follow me through the Star Origin World. I thought about a quote I'd read in a tattered old history book—about how even the smallest spark can start a fire that clears away the dead wood to make room for new growth.
"Wildfire," I said, my voice finally steady. "Call me Wildfire."
[Name: Wildfire (Shane Miller) accepted.]
[Performing unique association setup...]
[Setup successful. Would you like to enter the Star Origin World?]
"Let's go," I said. "Enter."