The door clicked shut behind him with the same dull finality it always had. Aryl stepped inside, his shoes soaked from the drizzle outside, the scent of rain and asphalt still clinging to him. He set the plastic bag down on the small table beside the sink. Steam curled from the edges of the containers inside — white rice, soybean stew, grilled beef, a few seasoned sides. The kind of meal people called "basic" in restaurants. The kind of meal they hadn't had in weeks.
Asha was sitting cross-legged on the couch, sketchbook in her lap, pencil unmoving. She looked up, eyes meeting his. No words. There never were. But she looked at the bag, then back to him, as if to confirm it was real. As if she hadn't just imagined it.
Aryl didn't say anything. Just peeled off his damp jacket, slung it over the back of a chair, and sat down. The containers made soft plastic sounds as he unpacked them. The scent of cooked meat and soup spread slowly through the air, replacing the mold and detergent smell that had become normal in this place.
Asha moved only after he pushed one tray toward her. She set her pencil down carefully and approached like someone waking from a long dream. Her steps were light, tentative. She didn't ask where it came from. She never asked.
They ate in silence. Just the clink of chopsticks, the occasional rustle of clothes. Aryl chewed slowly, not because he wanted to savor the food, but because it felt strange to eat something warm and decent without worrying if there would be more tomorrow.
Across from him, Asha ate quietly. She didn't smile. Didn't react. But he noticed the way her shoulders relaxed. The way her hand trembled less when she reached for the next bite. She was hungry, but not starving. She'd hidden her own hunger well, as always.
He stared at the rice for a while, then glanced at the sketchbook she'd left open. A rough pencil outline — a boy sitting on a rooftop, head tilted to the sky, stars smeared across the paper in jagged lines. It wasn't him. Not really. But it was close.
Asha never drew him directly. She always twisted it, disguised it with shadows or made it into something symbolic. But he recognized himself in her drawings more than any mirror could show.
The food started to settle in his stomach. Warmth spread, unfamiliar and heavy. He leaned back in the chair, eyes drifting to the ceiling. The rain hadn't stopped. Drops tapped against the window like fingers too shy to knock properly.
Asha finished before he did. She stood, picked up the empty tray, and washed it without being told. The water ran steady. She was always like that. Quiet efficiency. The world could burn around her, and she'd still rinse the dishes and fold the blanket before bed.
Aryl closed his eyes.
Aryl closed his eyes.
He saw flames.
Only this time, they weren't imaginary.
It had been four days since he put his hand in the fire. Since he forced his body to burn, to heal, to grow stronger. The pain had been real, so real that even now, his nerves remembered it in flashes. But it had worked. His stats had jumped. The system had rewarded him. Not just for enduring, but for breaking past his limits.
Strength and Dexterity had risen. Endurance, too. But it was the reward that had surprised him most — those four extra points. A gift for madness. He'd poured them in recklessly, curious to see what Charisma even meant in this cursed world. And now? His body felt lighter, faster. His reflection had changed subtly, jawline sharper, posture more upright. Even the students at school had noticed.
He didn't care much about the stares.
But he cared about Asha.
That was why he had to survive.
That was why he trained like a demon when no one was looking, tearing muscles apart in the park at night, lifting weights made from sandbags and ropes. Running laps until his legs gave out. Every drop of sweat bought another second of safety for the only person in the world who mattered.
And still, he was falling short.
He blinked slowly, eyes adjusting to the dark as the weight of fatigue started to settle. Asha had fallen asleep on the couch, sketchbook still balanced on her chest, pencil resting lightly against her fingers. Her breathing was calm. Unbothered. Safe — at least for tonight.
Aryl leaned his head back against the wall, staring at the water stains blooming across the ceiling. They looked like hollow flowers. Rot creeping outward from some old pipe. Familiar. Ugly. Honest.
He exhaled through his nose.
The system had been quiet today. No quests. No alerts. Just the steady hum in the back of his mind like a second pulse, buried deep beneath thought and bone.
[Welcome]
[System Status: Active]
User: Aryl rehn vasel
Classification: [Unclassified]
Player Level: 2 EXP: 33 / 100
▶ Strength 5
▶ Dexterity 5
▶ Perception 9
▶ Intelligence 8
▶ Charisma 5
▶ Endurance 8
▶ Vitality 4
hah
The silence in the room pressed down like a weight. Everything was too clean. Too still. It felt less like a place to live and more like a test chamber. Sterile. Designed to watch, not protect.
Aryl sat on the edge of the bed, fingers curled loosely around the black wristband. The screen on the wall remained dark, but the system still hummed quietly beneath his thoughts — dormant, waiting. The kind of quiet that wasn't peace. Just the pause before movement.
He looked toward the door. No lock from the inside. No window. No clock. Time didn't matter here. The academy would keep track for him. Like a leash wrapped in silk.
Outside, rain had started to fall. Soft at first, then harder — drumming on the steel frame of the building, filling the silence with a constant rhythm. The kind of rain that made most people stay in, wrap themselves in blankets and let the day slip away.
For a moment, he considered doing the same.
The bed creaked under his weight as he leaned back, staring up at the ceiling.
He could rest. Just for a while. Let his muscles relax. Let his mind go quiet. After all, it had been a long night, and tomorrow would be worse. and no one expected him to be anything yet. Creedshift hadn't given him any deadlines
But the thought made his stomach twist.
He cant rest. This wasn't a vacation. And whatever waited at this academy — instructors, students, that guy— it wouldn't wait for him to catch up.
He stood.
The rain hadn't slowed. If anything, it had thickened into a curtain of grey outside the narrow hallway windows.
Aryl slipped the wristband on, feeling it lock snug against his skin. No sound, no light — just a quiet activation. He pulled on his hoodie, tied the laces on his worn shoes, and stepped out side.
[your shadows respect your tenacity]