Waylon lay sprawled on the grass, chest heaving, the acrid stench of charred chitin and ash stinging his nose. The smoldering remains of the ant swarm stretched out before him—a blackened scar across the hillside, wisps of smoke curling lazily into the clear blue sky. The silence was deafening after the chaos, broken only by the faint crackle of cooling embers and the distant trill of birds oblivious to the carnage below.
He turned his head slowly, golden eyes narrowing as they settled on the figure who had unleashed that torrent of fire. The stranger stood motionless against the sun, a tall silhouette draped in flowing robes that rippled in the breeze. The wide brim of their hood cast a shadow over their face, rendering them an enigma—a savior or a threat, Waylon couldn't tell. His heart still thundered in his chest, adrenaline warring with exhaustion as he tried to process what had just happened.
Pushing himself up onto his knees, Waylon's hands sank into the soft earth, fingers curling into the dirt as he steadied himself. "Th-thank you," he rasped, voice rough and trembling from exertion. He lifted his gaze again, intending to say more, to ask who they were, how they'd done it—but the figure was gone.
He blinked, scanning the hilltop. Nothing. Just the wind rustling the grass and the faint shimmer of heat rising from the scorched ground. "Where…?" he started, confusion lacing his tone.
Then everything went black.
Waylon jolted awake, a sharp gasp tearing from his throat. His body ached as though he'd been tossed down a ravine—again—but the sensation of cold stone beneath him was gone, replaced by something softer, warmer. He blinked rapidly, vision swimming into focus. He was lying on a rough cot, a thin blanket tangled around his legs, in a small, dimly lit room. The walls were smooth, carved from some kind of dark stone, and a single lantern hung from the ceiling, casting a flickering orange glow.
Across from him, seated on a wooden stool at a sturdy table, was the hooded figure. The robes were the same—long, dark, and flowing—but the hood was pushed back slightly now, revealing a weathered face. The man's skin was tanned and lined, his jaw set beneath a short, grizzled beard streaked with gray. His eyes, sharp and piercing, studied Waylon with an intensity that made his skin prickle.
Waylon sat up abruptly, wincing as his bruised muscles protested. "What the hell was that for?" he demanded, voice cracking slightly. His hands gripped the edge of the cot, knuckles whitening as he stared at the man. "One second I'm out there, and then—bam—lights out! Did you knock me out or something?"
The man didn't answer. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table, and spoke in a low, guttural tongue Waylon couldn't begin to decipher. The words rolled off his tongue like stones tumbling down a cliff—harsh, rhythmic, and utterly foreign.
Waylon frowned, tilting his head. "What are you saying?"
The man's eyes narrowed, and he spoke again, slower this time, as if that might help. The language remained impenetrable, a string of unfamiliar syllables that grated against Waylon's ears.
Waylon shook his head, exasperated. "Buddy, it's useless. I don't understand a word you're saying." He waved a hand dismissively, slumping back against the wall behind the cot. "Might as well be talking to a rock."
The man's expression didn't change, but he straightened up, lifting one hand in a deliberate gesture. A faint shimmer rippled through the air, and with a flick of his wrist, two silver rings materialized between his fingers. They gleamed in the lantern light, simple yet intricately engraved with swirling patterns that seemed to shift if Waylon looked too long.
The man slipped one onto his own finger, then tossed the other across the room. It landed on the cot beside Waylon with a soft clink. He gestured sharply, pointing at the ring, then at Waylon's hand.
Waylon hesitated, eyeing the ring warily. "What, you want me to wear this?" He picked it up, turning it over in his palm. It was cool to the touch, heavier than it looked. The man's gaze bore into him, unyielding, and after a moment of reluctance, Waylon sighed and slid it onto his right index finger. It fit perfectly, snug but not tight, as though it had been made for him.
The man reached into his robe and produced a small red crystal, its surface glinting like polished ruby. He held it up for Waylon to see, then slotted it into a shallow groove on his own ring. Waylon mirrored him, noticing a similar slot on his band. He pressed the crystal in, and for a brief moment, the engravings flared with a soft, crimson light before fading back to silver.
The man spoke again, his voice steady and clear. "Can you understand me now?"
Waylon's jaw dropped. The words hit him like a punch—perfectly intelligible, as if the man had been speaking English all along. He stared at the ring, lifting his wrist to inspect it closer, turning it this way and that. "Holy shit," he breathed, eyes wide. "Is this, like, a magic item or something? A translator ring?" He tapped it with his other hand, half-expecting it to spark or glow again.
The man's lips twitched, the faintest hint of amusement breaking through his stern demeanor. "Something like that," he said gruffly. He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. "Now tell me—what are you looking for out here?"
Waylon was still marveling at the ring, twisting it around his finger, barely registering the question. "Huh? Oh, uh—an exit," he mumbled absently, running his thumb over the crystal. "I was just trying to get out of that damn cave."
The man's patience snapped. His fist slammed down on the table with a resounding crack, the sound echoing off the stone walls. Waylon flinched, nearly tumbling off the cot, his heart leaping into his throat. "Stop fucking around, boy!" the man barked, his voice a low growl that filled the room. "What does the Myriad Paths Sect want out here, and what are you doing sneaking around on my land?"
Waylon blinked, stunned, his hands raised instinctively as if to ward off the outburst. "Whoa, whoa—hold up! I don't know anything about a… what did you call it? Myriad Paths Sect?" He shook his head vigorously, confusion etching his features. "I'm not sneaking anywhere. I just woke up in that hellhole, okay? That's it!"
The man's eyes narrowed, suspicion deepening the lines on his face. "What do you mean, 'woke up'?" he pressed, leaning forward again. "Explain yourself."
Waylon swallowed hard, the intensity of the man's gaze pinning him in place. "It's just like I said," he began, voice unsteady but earnest. "One minute I was at school—sitting in class, minding my own business—and the next, the whole world just… collapsed. Sky cracked open, ground shook, everything went dark. Then I woke up in that monster-infested cave with no idea how I got there. That's the truth!"
The man didn't respond immediately. His expression shifted—still hard, but now tinged with something else. Doubt, maybe. Or curiosity. He reached into the air beside him, and with a faint ripple, pulled out a familiar pack and a folded letter, setting them on the table with a thud. "Don't lie to me, boy," he said, voice low and dangerous. "You bear an inscribed letter from them, and you're creeping around my territory. Explain that."
Waylon's eyes widened at the sight of the pack—his pack, the one he'd lost in the river. "Wait—that's mine!" he blurted, leaning forward. "How did you—?"
"So you do admit it's yours," the man cut in, his tone sharp as a blade.
"Yeah, of course it's mine!" Waylon nodded quickly, pointing at it. "That letter, the bag, a dagger, and some weird pills—that's all I had when I woke up. I swear, that's everything!"
The man tapped the letter with a calloused finger, his eyes never leaving Waylon's face. "What does it say?"
Waylon hesitated, then licked his dry lips and recounted it as best he could. "It said… uh, 'Congratulations on surviving the transfer.' Something about my world being picked from a bunch of others to move from the third dimension to the fourth. That everyone got sent to random spots in this new place—twenty-six planets, huge ones, like solar systems. It's hostile, full of wars and stuff, and they gave me that pack to survive. The dagger's for cutting 'Class G' beasts, whatever that means, and the pills were supposed to keep me alive for twenty days 'cause the food and water here could kill me. That's it. That's all it said."
He finished, breathless, and watched as the man's expression shifted again. The hardness remained, but his eyes grew distant, lost in thought. He leaned back, one hand resting on the table, fingers drumming slowly against the wood. The silence stretched on, heavy and awkward, and Waylon shifted uncomfortably on the cot.
Finally, unable to stand it any longer, he spoke up. "Hey, uh… how'd you pull that bag out of thin air, anyway? That was wild."
The man's head snapped up, as if startled out of his reverie. He stared at Waylon for a long moment before speaking, his voice quieter now, almost resigned. "It looks like the Myriad Paths controlled the Transfer this time," he said, almost to himself. "Just like their motto—'We only follow fate.'"
Waylon frowned, tilting his head. "Fate?"
The man sighed, a deep, weary sound that seemed to carry the weight of years. He didn't answer, just sat there, staring at the letter on the table as if it held secrets Waylon couldn't begin to fathom.