"Ten slabs of stormfang meat," the beastkin trader growled, "and I'll throw in the scaled bindings."
Zaruun stood silent beneath the shadow of a jagged war-arch, his arms folded, his broad form wrapped in weathered crimson robes. Heat shimmered off the arena sands around them, but no one flinched.
"Scaled bindings aren't worth salt," Zaruun said, voice deep, blunt. "I've seen firebeetles chew through them in seconds."
The trader bared his fangs. "They're ceremonial!"
"Ceremonial doesn't stop blood from leaking," Zaruun replied.
He reached into his belt pouch, pulled out a gleaming Earth-packaged protein bar, and held it up like a relic. "You want a real trade? One of these will feed three squads for a raid day. High calories. Compressed nutrients."
The beastkin's eyes widened. "That… smells like peanut butter."
"I'll take twenty pelts," Zaruun said calmly, "and your best mana bone. You get one bar."
A pause.
Then a slow nod. "Deal."
They clasped wrists—one blood-stained, the other wrapped in faintly glowing battle-thread.
From the stone steps of the coliseum, a younger war-student called out, "Another Earth relic, Warlord?"
Zaruun turned, expression neutral. "Earth trades sharper than it looks."
"But they lack clans. No creeds. No blood-courts," the student scoffed.
Zaruun raised one eyebrow. "Then how are their scraps feeding your raiding squad, Tarell?"
The student flushed and bowed his head. "I spoke too quickly."
"Good. Next time, think before speaking—or trade me your tongue."
The others around the court chuckled. The joke was ritual. But the lesson? Serious.
Zaruun turned to leave, ascending the Forge Tower's steps alone.
Stone cracked beneath his boots. Wind carried ash and the echo of practiced chants from below.
He reached the overlook.
Smoke rolled over the plains, where four smaller war-tribes conducted training duels with ledger scrolls and combat kits. Each blow matched by a traded item. Each parry tallied like coin.
One of his senior traders approached, armor humming with aura-reactive etching. "Warlord. Shall I ready the next cross-realm barter with the automaton guild?"
Zaruun shook his head. "Not yet. The gears can wait. I want to see how far Earth climbs before we extend another thread."
The trader bowed and departed.
Then—
Pulse.
His comm-sigil flared crimson.
Zaruun frowned.
Not guild. Not system-tiered.
This was encrypted. Direct.
He tapped it open, and Sarina's face shimmered into view—trapped within a containment ring, her hair damp with glyphlight.
"Zaruun," she said tightly, "I've been compromised."
His voice didn't change. "By who?"
"Frank Hagan. Earth trader."
A beat of silence.
"...The Tier E?" Zaruun asked.
"Not anymore. He accessed the external ledger. Stole a core token. Used a field trap I didn't see coming."
Zaruun's nostrils flared.
"You were supposed to recruit him."
"He out-traded me."
That hit harder than a punch.
Zaruun stepped back into the tower's shade, expression shadowed. "Then mark this moment."
He reached into his coat and pulled a forged honor-scroll—a duel-trade challenge.
With a snap of his fingers, he ignited it.
> [NEW DUEL-TRADE RECORD LOGGED]
[Target: Frank Hagan]
[Location: Unstable – Sync Pending]
His eyes gleamed with the fire in the scroll.
"Let Earth's clever merchant stand where warriors trade in blood and legacy."
Then, almost softly:
"If he wishes access… let him earn the handshake."
"Ten slabs of stormfang meat," the beastkin trader growled, "and I'll throw in the scaled bindings."
Zaruun stood silent beneath the shadow of a jagged war-arch, his arms folded, his broad form wrapped in weathered crimson robes. Heat shimmered off the arena sands around them, but no one flinched.
"Scaled bindings aren't worth salt," Zaruun said, voice deep, blunt. "I've seen firebeetles chew through them in seconds."
The trader bared his fangs. "They're ceremonial!"
"Ceremonial doesn't stop blood from leaking," Zaruun replied.
He reached into his belt pouch, pulled out a gleaming Earth-packaged protein bar, and held it up like a relic. "You want a real trade? One of these will feed three squads for a raid day. High calories. Compressed nutrients."
The beastkin's eyes widened. "That… smells like peanut butter."
"I'll take twenty pelts," Zaruun said calmly, "and your best mana bone. You get one bar."
A pause.
Then a slow nod. "Deal."
They clasped wrists—one blood-stained, the other wrapped in faintly glowing battle-thread.
From the stone steps of the coliseum, a younger war-student called out, "Another Earth relic, Warlord?"
Zaruun turned, expression neutral. "Earth trades sharper than it looks."
"But they lack clans. No creeds. No blood-courts," the student scoffed.
Zaruun raised one eyebrow. "Then how are their scraps feeding your raiding squad, Tarell?"
The student flushed and bowed his head. "I spoke too quickly."
"Good. Next time, think before speaking—or trade me your tongue."
The others around the court chuckled. The joke was ritual. But the lesson? Serious.
Zaruun turned to leave, ascending the Forge Tower's steps alone.
Stone cracked beneath his boots. Wind carried ash and the echo of practiced chants from below.
He reached the overlook.
Smoke rolled over the plains, where four smaller war-tribes conducted training duels with ledger scrolls and combat kits. Each blow matched by a traded item. Each parry tallied like coin.
One of his senior traders approached, armor humming with aura-reactive etching. "Warlord. Shall I ready the next cross-realm barter with the automaton guild?"
Zaruun shook his head. "Not yet. The gears can wait. I want to see how far Earth climbs before we extend another thread."
The trader bowed and departed.
Then—
Pulse.
His comm-sigil flared crimson.
Zaruun frowned.
Not guild. Not system-tiered.
This was encrypted. Direct.
He tapped it open, and Sarina's face shimmered into view—trapped within a containment ring, her hair damp with glyphlight.
"Zaruun," she said tightly, "I've been compromised."
His voice didn't change. "By who?"
"Frank Hagan. Earth trader."
A beat of silence.
"...The Tier E?" Zaruun asked.
"Not anymore. He accessed the external ledger. Stole a core token. Used a field trap I didn't see coming."
Zaruun's nostrils flared.
"You were supposed to recruit him."
"He out-traded me."
That hit harder than a punch.
Zaruun stepped back into the tower's shade, expression shadowed. "Then mark this moment."
He reached into his coat and pulled a forged honor-scroll—a duel-trade challenge.
With a snap of his fingers, he ignited it.
> [NEW DUEL-TRADE RECORD LOGGED]
[Target: Frank Hagan]
[Location: Unstable – Sync Pending]
His eyes gleamed with the fire in the scroll.
"Let Earth's clever merchant stand where warriors trade in blood and legacy."
Then, almost softly:
"If he wishes access… let him earn the handshake."
****
Frank stepped through the portal and staggered slightly, blinking against the sudden shift from shifting glyphlight to fluorescent kitchen lamps.
His apartment.
Still small. Still cluttered with half-finished gadgets, overworked rune plates, and a stack of unopened protein pouches. A half-finished schematic glowed dimly from his holotable, still waiting for him to return.
Frank dropped his gear with a tired grunt.
He stared at the floor for a second, then exhaled.
"I just tricked a cross-realm recruiter, activated an illegal system tier, and walked out with a black token that might rewrite how reality sees me," he muttered.
A beat.
Then he added, "...And I still forgot to pick up milk."
He moved toward the terminal to sync his logs. Dozens of alerts were waiting.
> [Consequence Tier Activated]
[Memory Lock Created – Review Pending]
[Trade Ledger Warning: Duel Request Pending… Error: Signal Unstable]
"Yeah, yeah," he muttered, waving the window aside. "You can fight me later."
Then another notification pinged—this one quieter. Familiar.
> [Private Message – Juliet Raithe]
[Subject: You still owe me an explanation, Hagan.]
He paused.
Another message immediately followed:
> [Correction: Dinner. You owe me dinner. Or lunch. Or tea. Pick something that doesn't involve you bleeding.]
Frank blinked. Then, slowly, let out a quiet chuckle.
"Of course," he muttered. "I break into a cross-dimensional black market and that's when Juliet asks me out."
He tapped the reply box.
> [Reply: I prefer tea. Less risk of stab wounds. When and where?]
Before he could hit send, another message appeared.
> [Juliet: You pick. I'm free tomorrow. And don't bring a smoke bomb. I swear to god.]
Frank smiled faintly and leaned back in his chair.
For the first time in days, the hum of danger wasn't vibrating through his skull.
Just the light static of a good day… maybe.
He hit send.
Then muttered to himself:
"Romance, sabotage, and ancient cults. Should've known they'd all show up in the same week."
****
"Light the last torch," the cult leader ordered, voice rough from age and smoke.
Joren, the youngest, hesitated. "But the circle—Master, it's not complete."
"It doesn't have to be," the leader snapped. "The pattern just needs to echo enough power to draw it in."
The others shifted nervously in the underground chamber. Moss clung to cracked pillars. The ritual chalk had bled slightly from moisture in the stone.
"This place reeks," one muttered. "Rot. Old magic."
The leader ignored him, dropping a handful of dark ash into the basin at the center of the circle.
Another cultist wrinkled her nose. "Where'd that come from?"
"From a sealed tomb beneath Vellrun," the leader replied. "Something was buried there before the guilds even had names."
Joren looked around. "What are we calling?"
The leader's eyes gleamed. "Something that predates the systems. A being that was locked away before spells had structure. We don't need to understand it. We just need it to rise."
"What if it wants payment?"
"Then we pay."
"And what if it wants blood?"
The leader grinned. "Then we give it yours."
Nervous laughter flickered around the room. Half-sincere.
Then the torches dimmed.
A sudden pressure filled the chamber—like a hand pressing against everyone's chest.
The basin bubbled.
Runes—not drawn, but branded into the floor itself—flared to life beneath the circle.
The youngest cultist took a step back. "This doesn't feel right."
"Power never does," the leader said.
A sound echoed from the walls. Not speech.
Just a vibration—low, grinding, endless.
Joren swallowed hard. "Do we even know its name?"
"No," the leader said softly. "Only that it was sealed by force. And that force fades."
A deep cracking sound echoed from beneath the basin.
The stone fractured.
From within the break, black vapor bled out like ink in water.
One of the cultists gasped. "It's waking—"
The torches blew out