Fifth Island [Topper most] :
Galloping hooves echoed beneath the darkened sky .
A lone rider surged forward, his white-and-black cloak billowing like a banner of defiance. Mounted on a tall black steed, he cut a striking figure—shoulder-length brown hair whipping in the wind, his face shadowed by a short, unshaved beard. His brown eyes burned with urgency.
The road beneath him was tiled marble, clean and polished. Towering fungal growths shimmered faintly, bioluminescence illuminating the dark world with an otherworldly glow. Buildings rose like blades—elegant and immaculate—their spires piercing the low-hanging mist.
At the city's heart stood a monolith, casting its vast shadow over all: the King's Domain.
It sat beneath the center of the islands—massive and impenetrable—its towering spires reaching high enough to kiss the sky, nearly eclipsing the crimson moon that shimmered beyond. Though night surrounded them, the crystal dome above gave the illusion of day. The city lived in a dream, but the rider's urgency made it clear—a nightmare was coming.
He galloped past the outer walls, ignoring the guards' startled salutes.
"Sir Stephen!" They called after him.
The castle gleamed—smooth marble layered with red rugs, guards stationed at every door. Stephen dismounted and stormed toward the central chamber, pushing past anyone in his way. The grand wooden doors bore intricate carvings: a box, shifting shapes, and a eight unblinking eyes symbol.
He shoved the doors open and entered the high council chamber—unannounced.
Gasps scattered through the room. Robed nobles and armored generals turned from a massive obsidian table etched with ancient runes.
"What insolence!" one barked.
Stephen didn't flinch. His voice boomed across the room.
"It's been four years since the breach occurred."
Silence. Only the crackle of magical torches filled the void.
"Our scouts are too few. Our borders—exposed. Our food supply dwindles. How long will you sit in this prison, waiting for salvation that will never come?"
At the head of the table, the king—an older man slouched beneath a golden crown—lifted his head. His eyes were tired, but sharp.
"And what would you have me do, Stephen?" he asked. "March into the wastelands with the last of our blood?"
"We need more men. We need to leave. Send searchers beyond the layers—beyond the islands."
A heavy pause followed.
"How long until the lower-layer rations run dry?" one advisor asked.
Stephen responded without hesitation. "At best? A year. At worst? A season. Time is no longer a friend."
A woman stirred from the upper rows.
"If I may, my king…"
She rose with poised elegance. Dark-skinned, framed by golden strands flowing from her hair, she wore white silk. A giant golden necklace hung around her neck. Her eyes seemed deeper than the world itself. Though seated among several generals, her presence outshone them all.
"Go on, Cleopatra," the king said.
Her gaze locked onto Stephen's.
"Tell me, Sir Stephen—have the lower districts not swelled past their limits?"
"You are correct," Stephen replied, voice steady.
"Then perhaps the solution lies not beyond the islands, but within it," she said, tone icy and precise. "Strategic reduction of unsustainable sectors may preserve the whole."
Stephen's voice rose, fierce and unshaken.
"No. Those are people too. You want to discard them because they're not your people? You may be royal, but that doesn't make you above reproach."
Cleopatra's grin faltered, her brow twitching—but before she could respond, a figure beside her moved.
A tall man beside her in simple leather stepped forward, his face veiled beneath a tarp. A black cat symbol was emblazoned across his chest.
He didn't speak. He didn't hesitate.
His sword hissed from its sheath, flashing beneath the torchlight as he leapt from the upper seats.
A blur of motion—silent, precise.
The crowd barely had time to gasp.
But Stephen was quicker.
With one smooth motion, he unsheathed his blade. Steel met steel with a deafening ring.
Sparks danced. The room gasped.
"Enough!" the king's voice cut through the chaos like thunder.
Silence fell. Tension gripped the air.
"There will be no blood spilled today."
Cleopatra returned to her seat, expression unreadable. Her lips curled—not into a grin, but into something that hovered between irritation and satisfaction. Her guard quickly came to her side .
"Stephen," the king said slowly, "Your presence suggests you have a plan?"
Stephen lowered his blade, his voice calm but resolute.
"Yes, my king. I believe we should send them to join the scouts."
A beat of silence.
The nobles said nothing. The generals held their breath. Even Cleopatra turned, eyes narrowing.
Then—laughter.
"Is that a joke?" a lord scoffed. "Do you also intend to kill them yourself, Sir Stephen?"
The speaker was golden-haired with piercing blue eyes. He wore a fine suit stitched with silver thread, his beard shaped so precisely it looked crafted by design, not vanity. His words were sharp and aristocratic.
Stephen planted his feet, unwavering. "It's the only way to cover more ground!"
The King raised a hand, stilling the room.
"Surely you know what it means to be a scout," the King said. "They would need months—years—of physical training. Even then, it might not be enough."
"I know, Your Highness," Stephen replied. "That is why I suggest we use configuration."
Stunned silence.
Then whispers erupted across the room.
"Have your journeys driven you mad?" the golden-haired lord snapped. "Configuration is experimental! Reserved for elites! You're trying to dance where kings sit."
He sneered. "Don't overstep, lowly knight."
Stephen flinched—not from the insult, but from how many in the room silently agreed.
"I don't entirely detest the idea, Sir Londrich," said a smooth, cold voice.
A woman with long pink hair spoke. Her dark helm covered only her eyes. She wore blackened steel armour with a crimson cape draped across one shoulder. She sat below the high table beside Londrich.
Londrich gave her a sidelong glance but said nothing.
"But unfortunately, Stephen…" she continued, voice calm and clinical, "we cannot give configuration to everyone."
Her tone was flat. "You speak with heart, not sense. I raised you better."
She paused. "Still… I admire the sentiment."
Stephen looked at her, unsure whether he'd just been praised or condemned.
"So what do you suggest?" he asked.
"We hold a test," she replied. "A selection trial. Those who pass will join the scouts and undergo configuration. That way, we can evaluate their physical capabilities and determine if they can open their doors."
Cleopatra's voice dripped with amusement. "And the unfortunates?"
The general grinned. "They shall be thrown outside the dome… to survive."
Stephen's eyes widened. He gasped—but said nothing. Opposing her meant treason. She wasn't just a general. She was his captain.
"Any problem with that, Stephen?" she asked, voice cold.
He lowered his head. "No, Captain."
The King rose. His voice rang with finality.
"Then I declare this decision law. Preparations for the selection shall begin immediately. The coordinators will be four: General Igris, Sir Londrich, Sir Kalvin… and Lady Cleopatra."
"What?" Stephen stepped forward in shock. "Cleopatra?"
He knew what it meant. It wouldn't be fair—not with her involved.
"Any problem with your King's judgment?" the King asked, voice sharpened like a blade.
A heavy aura blanketed the room—oppressive, choking.
Stephen lowered his gaze. "No, Your Majesty."
"Then it is settled…"
Stephen stormed out of the castle, fists clenched.
Outside, his stallion neighed softly. He stroked her gently.
"Woah, steady girl... steady."
He took a deep breath, letting the cold air calm his thoughts.
"The test, huh?"
He gazed up at the crimson moon as its light danced across the island.
Is there really hope out there? Can I truly save everyone...?
"Stephen!"
A voice snapped him from his thoughts. A girl flung herself into his arms, throwing off his balance.
Thud.
"Ouch—ouch!"
"You really can't carry a girl properly," she giggled.
"Sorry!" he laughed, rising. "I wasn't ready to carry the weight of a house."
"W-What?! I'm not heavy, am I?"
Her expression trembled—almost tearful—until Stephen burst into laughter, calming her.
She looked his age, dressed in slim fencing gear. Her blonde hair caught the dome's light, blue eyes gazing up at him.
He helped her onto the horse. The way she moved felt... familiar.
"I heard about the meeting with my father," she said softly.
"I failed to create a method to save everyone."
"You will," she smiled. "And even if you don't—I'll become a knight and do it myself."
He grinned. "Come on, Soffy. If I had a cerrycoin for every time your father scolded you about becoming a knight, I'd be richer than Lady Cleopatra."
"My father's old now! And just because I'm a girl doesn't mean I can't fight!"
Stephen sighed, holding her hand. "Soffy… being a knight is dangerous."
"But you're a knight."
"That's different."
"Why? Because I'm a girl?"
She yanked her hand away, leapt off the horse, and shoved him.
"I'm not weak!" she shouted—and ran off.
"Soffy, wait—!"
He reached out, but she was gone.
He sighed, mounted his horse, and rode out of the castle.
Above the breach—on the weary Second Layer
"The mornings are the hardest…"
Ky'ren thought , teeth gritted as he pushed through another rep. Not being athletic by nature, his arms trembled, near collapse.
"Twenty-four! Twenty-five! Twenty-six!"
The voice came from a well-built, elderly man with brownish, receding hair. He surveyed the trainees with a hard eye as they struggled through the pushups.
Is he really making us do a hundred? Ky'ren thought, sweat pooling under his chin.
Yup, this is my life now. Still better than what they promised otherwise…
The sky bled with the light of the red moon. A faint green glow flickered from dark rocks. In Evernight, mushrooms and bioluminescent flora were their only source of light.
After morning drills, the trainees were allowed to rest. They trained on the balcony of a massive, secluded bungalow—crafted stone, medieval in style. It was fitted with walls for climbing, rope lines, obstacle courses, and more. Trainees are people who are old enough to join the military forces . It wasn't compulsory to join the Scouts after training ,they were other options to pick from, knights, to researchers or you could be educated in biology or engineering.
Outside, etched atop the building:
"Ashen's Ford Training Grounds."
Ky'ren sipped water from a cup-shaped leaf, exhaling with relief.
The town bustled beyond. Children ran with paper kites, using momentum to lift them. Men and women hurried in every direction—frustrated, focused, or confused.
Some rode horse-drawn carriages. The wealthiest lived in the center, protected in case of invasion: clergies, dukes, and rulers.
Buyers, sellers, beggars, and givers—all moved to the scent of mushrooms and damp earth.
Ky'ren squinted his emerald eyes, searching.
"He should be... somewhere here," he muttered.
"Looking for someone?"
A deep voice from behind. Ky'ren turned to see a tall, dark-haired guy in black spectacles. Handsome. Smart-looking.
"You're the only one with the apartment key!" Ky'ren snapped, cursing inwardly.
"I had… errands," the man replied.
Ky'ren sniffed the air—a faint smell of beer .
"That's bar stench , isn't it ?"
"Excuse me?" the man said, feigning innocence.
"One day, you'll end up in the sewage pipe . Whatever. I don't care."
He stormed off.
"I didn't even take a sip! Just went to look!"
Their apartment lay on the town's edge. Buildings stacked close, medieval-style. The town's ruler was Lodric Kendall IV. Although the apartment given to trainees was owned by the Valtheris tribe , they were free for trainees only but didn't come with supplies .
Glowing mushrooms the size of trees flanked each building. Crystals pulsed red and blue.
They reached their small bungalow apartment . A newspaper lay outside. Ky'ren picked it up.
"I'm using the bathroom first! The gods have spoken—I must listen!" he declared heroically.
Ky'ren sat in the toilet as he read the news.
"The Valtheris may own these flats, but you'd think they could toss in a towel or two" Ky'ren grumbled.
"In your dreams , those guys only bought this place for fame . There won't be any modifications any time soon ." Elyon jested .
The apartment was small—just a bedroom, toilet, and kitchen. Bunk beds. Crystals outlined in blue and green lit the interior.
"What's in the news?" Elyon asked, removing his socks and unbuttoning his shirt.
"Hmm… Oh yeah! The Melvar Scout returned today."
"Did they say what they brought back?"
Ky'ren paused before answering. "Nothing. Just that… It was a successful mission."
"Hmph. Knowing the media, that's not the whole truth."
"They're liars," Ky'ren agreed.
"Oh and also they say there's some kind of serial killer running rampant in the Island above ." Ky'ren added
"A serial killer? , That's —" Elyon paused, sniffed—and recoiled.
The stench was unbearable. He pinched his nose.
"Come on, man, what did you eat?"
"It's not that bad!"
Elyon walked out, opening the door to air out the poison.
Later, Ky'ren read from a book in the lower bunk. Elyon lay above, lost in thought.
That night, Ky'ren couldn't sleep. He stepped outside quietly.
He sat beneath a massive mushroom tree, its blue glow casting a soft light around him. Opening his wooden notebook, he flipped to the latest page and wrote:
"It's been four years now since the incident...
Maybe it was meant to happen... "