The board hadn't changed.
Still the same battered slab of enchanted wood, nailed crookedly into the outer wall of the trade guild. Still covered in a mess of parchment sheets, notices half-ripped, overlapping, stained by rain and careless hands.
Lucas scanned it with sharp, tired eyes.
Most of the high-paying jobs were already gone—claimed by stronger Awakeneds backed by families, or those with contracts tying them to noble banners. What remained were scraps.
Low risk. Low reward. Low dignity.
He ran a finger down one sheet that advertised "mana weed collection in the outer swamps." No thanks. Another offered guard duty in a remote settlement… for seven days. Too long. Another wanted "rat extermination" inside a crumbling inn.
Lucas almost moved on, until something caught his eye near the bottom corner of the board.
It was clean. Fresh ink. Simple.
"Help needed for single-day caravan escort. No prior combat required. Reasonable silver reward."
– Signed: Varnis. Meet at Eastern Gate, dawn."
He narrowed his eyes. No seal from a noble house. No family crest. Just a name.
That meant independence—someone operating outside the noble structure. Risky, but potentially less restrictive. Probably a merchant too cheap to hire real guards.
He tapped the paper once, then pulled it free and folded it into his pocket.
The streets were still quiet when he left the board behind. Morning fog drifted low along the stone pathways, and the outer district smelled like ash and damp cloth.
Lucas walked with his hands in his coat pockets, head down, eyes forward.
He didn't care what the cargo was. He didn't care where they were going.
He just needed the silver.
Something in his chest stirred—a reminder that time was running out.
The bag of coins on his hip had barely enough to cover another night at the inn. And he still had no home. No base. No backup. Only his scythe, hidden in the depths of his soul space, and a class no one understood.
He passed a trio of noble-affiliated Awakeneds on the way—laughing, confident, radiant in enchanted coats. One of them carried a blade that shimmered in the fog, a weapon far above Lucas's paygrade.
They didn't even look at him.
Good.
By the time he reached the East Gate, the sun had barely begun to rise, painting the sky with dull streaks of orange.
A small caravan waited near the post station.
Two wagons. One covered, one open. A pair of armored figures stood nearby, already smoking something bitter and sharp-smelling. Behind them, a stout man in a merchant's coat argued with a stablehand over harness straps.
Lucas recognized him immediately.
Varnis.
Round-bellied, hair slicked flat with sweat, and eyes too sharp for a man that soft.
Varnis caught sight of Lucas approaching and grinned wide, as if they were old friends.
"You're here for the job?" he asked, wiping his hands on his tunic.
Lucas nodded once.
"Good. You're breathing, that's all I need. Climb on the second cart. Don't talk to the guards. Don't open anything. Do what I say, you get paid. Easy."
He didn't wait for agreement.
The two mercenaries didn't acknowledge Lucas at all. One leaned on a long-handled spear, his armor engraved with a flickering sigil—Kindled Soul. The other rested a heavy axe on his shoulder, gaze cold and unreadable beneath a half-mask.
Lucas kept his head low and climbed into the back of the second cart.
There was no welcome.
Only silence.
And something he didn't quite notice until the wagon started to move—
a faint hum from beneath the tarp.
Like magic. Caged and sealed.
The caravan rolled out just past sunrise.
The roads outside the Stronghold were old, uneven, and half-swallowed by creeping vines and black grass. Some paths shimmered faintly with residual æther—scars from past battles or unstable ley lines. Lucas kept his eyes low, sitting at the rear of the second cart, feeling the wooden wheels rattle beneath him.
The other cart held crates and barrels, stacked tight and covered with oilcloth. Standard merchant stuff—provisions, sealed containers, maybe enchanted trinkets wrapped for trade.
But the one he was on…
There was only one object in it.
A single large crate.
Bolted to the floorboards. Reinforced with rune-carved steel plates along its edges. Thick chains wrapped around it for no practical reason—clearly just for show. But more than that, the thing hummed. Like it was alive. Or something inside was.
Lucas didn't ask.
Because he didn't want to know.
The two mercenaries rode on either side of the carts, occasionally switching positions but always keeping their distance. They didn't talk to Lucas. Not once. One smoked a thin black pipe that smelled like burning metal. The other sharpened his axe with a small, rune-lit whetstone as they moved.
Professional. Distant. Dangerous.
Kindled Soul level—easily twice as strong as Lucas.
Even looking at them too long felt like inviting trouble.
Varnis rode up front on a horse that looked too expensive for a man who dressed like him. Every so often, he'd glance back at the second cart, eyes flicking toward the crate.
Checking.
Always checking.
Lucas noticed.
And he noticed something else too—
Every few minutes, the covered crate would pulse, ever so slightly. A faint light beneath the tarp. A soft, rhythmic glow like a heart beating too slow.
And there was a smell.
Not rot. Not æther residue.
Sweat.
Skin.
Someone—or something—was inside.
By the time midday hit, they stopped at a broken rest post just off the road. Old stone benches, a shattered column, and an overgrown well long dry. The mercs made a small fire and unpacked their own supplies.
Varnis handed Lucas a stale loaf of bread and a strip of dried meat. No words.
Lucas sat by the cart, eating slowly, staring out at the trees.
He could feel the hum of the crate behind him.
Faint vibrations in the wood.
He didn't turn.
Didn't ask.
Didn't want to.
But a cold thought crept into the back of his mind like fog under a door:
'Whatever's in there… it's not cargo.'
The fire crackled low.
Most of the second night passed in silence. The mercenaries took turns sleeping while one kept watch. Lucas sat near the rear wheel of the second cart, arms crossed, head tilted toward the canopy of dark clouds overhead. There were no stars here. Not above The Crucible.
Just a heavy sky and the soft, rhythmic sound of insects hissing through the trees.
Then the hum returned.
He felt it in the wood, more than heard it—vibrations from the crate behind him.
Lucas turned his head slowly.
The runes on the metal frame were glowing again—barely visible beneath the tarp, but there. Not reacting to movement. Reacting to presence.
Something inside was awake.
There was a faint sound… a shift. A scrape of skin against wood. A quiet, choked breath.
He glanced toward the fire.
The mercs weren't paying attention. One leaned on his spear, nodding off. The other, sharpening his axe, eyes fixed on a branch above.
Lucas stood slowly, silently.
He crept around the side of the cart and lifted the tarp just enough to expose the lock. The front of the crate had a small hatch with a metal latch—standard for ventilation or inspection.
He hesitated.
Then opened it.
Inside, pressed against the far corner, was a girl.
Thin. Pale. Her arms bound in cuffs, ankles chained. Silver-blonde hair fell in tangled curtains around her face. Her skin was marked with scratches, and a faint violet bruise bloomed across her temple.
And her ears—
Pointed.
Slightly curved back. Not sharp like storybooks. But real.
An elf.
One of the native races of The Crucible. Once proud. Now sold like commodities by the highest bidders.
Her eyes opened slowly—glassy and unfocused.
She blinked twice before meeting his gaze.
No fear. No shock.
Just a tired, broken awareness.
Then she whispered, voice barely audible:
"Please…"
Lucas froze.
His mind went still for a moment.
The rune on her collar glowed faintly—deep red against her pale skin. A brand.
A slave seal.
'...They're selling her.'
He gritted his teeth.
'Of course they are. Nobles love this kind of shit. Pretty things to show off or break.'
She coughed softly. Her throat was dry.
"Don't let them take me," she rasped.
Lucas stared at her for a moment longer.
Then he shut the hatch.
Refastened the latch.
And pulled the tarp back into place.
He walked back to the side of the cart and sat down, eyes forward.
The forest creaked around him.
He said nothing.
Thought nothing.
Until the silence became unbearable.
He closed his eyes and muttered under his breath:
"I can't be bothered. Not my problem."
But the words didn't sound right this time.
They echoed in his head long after he stopped moving.
The fire had long since turned to embers.
Lucas sat with his back to the cart, knees bent, arms resting on top of them. He stared at the darkness between the trees—not looking for anything, not expecting anything. Just… listening.
The forest was alive.
Faint screeches in the distance. Shuffling in the underbrush. Echoes of creatures that roamed The Crucible when humans dared to sleep.
He didn't move.
The crate behind him had gone quiet again, but the echo of her voice lingered in his mind.
"Don't let them take me."
He flexed his fingers once. Tightened them into fists. Let go.
Then leaned his head back against the wood and closed his eyes.
'What am I supposed to do?'
He saw it again—her wrists, the brand, the chains. The exhaustion in her gaze.
'Even if I tried… even if I helped her escape… then what? I can't fight two Kindled Souls. I'd die before I even got close.'
He exhaled through his nose.
Slow. Controlled.
'And I'm not going to die for someone I don't know.'
His own words tasted bitter.
'It's not like this is new. This world… it's built on who owns who.'
He opened his eyes and stared at the dull sky above.
The sun wouldn't rise here. Not really. Not like on Earth.
Only the illusion of day.
The fire behind him crackled softly.
Lucas didn't turn around. Didn't look at the crate.
Didn't listen for breath.
He just muttered again, almost like a ritual:
"I can't be bothered. Not my problem."
Then fell into silence.
The kind that didn't feel like peace.
The kind that stuck to your skin like blood that wouldn't wash off.