Gray, alongside the others, stepped cautiously onto the humming deck of the ship. No one spoke. The sound of their boots on the grooved steel plating echoed through the hollow, cavernous corridors. Every few steps, the frantic scurrying of unseen things—mice, or worse—darted from the shadows beneath crates or vanished behind loose floor panels. The entire vessel felt aged, worn thin by time and something more sinister, a history of hard use that seeped from its very rivets.
They were led below deck by a silent officer, his face as expressionless as his strange black uniform. Eventually, they arrived at a wide, circular chamber of heavily corroded metal. It reeked faintly of rust, salt, and stale, recycled air. The atmosphere inside was bitterly, artificially cold.
The room was nearly empty, save for a few rusted chairs bolted to the floor and a large, dark glass panel embedded into the far wall. Lines of dim, phosphorescent light ran through the ceiling like faint, dying veins, pulsing with a slow, hypnotic rhythm.
Gray was the first to sit, claiming a seat near the front. His fingers tapped a restless, silent rhythm against the cold armrest. The others shuffled in behind him, a collection of wary shadows. No one spoke. Fear hung in the air like a thick, suffocating mist.
A few minutes of heavy silence passed before a new figure stepped in.
He looked older than the recruiter—perhaps mid-thirties. His dark hair was slicked back and tied into a severe, short knot. He wore a stark white labsuit, its high collar smudged with a rusty, brownish stain. A small, metallic clipboard rested in his hands. His glasses reflected the dim ceiling lights, perfectly obscuring his eyes. But when he spoke, the clinical coldness in his voice told them everything they needed to know.
"Alright. Listen carefully. I won't repeat myself."
The tone was dry, devoid of all inflection, but it carried enough weight to silence even the twitchiest among them.
"I'm sure you all know this already, but I will inform you again. Nearly a century ago, a new landmass rose from the sea. We call it Nyxterra. With it came disease, nightmares, and creatures not meant to exist."
Everyone knew this story. It was the only history they were allowed to learn back in Ironhold, a foundational myth of their broken world. But hearing it here, in this sterile, metallic tomb, made it feel terrifyingly real in a way dusty textbooks never could.
Nyxterra had not always been part of their world. It tore itself into existence in a single, cataclysmic night of geological upheaval, a wound ripped open across the ocean floor. Mountains of black rock rose where there had been only abyssal water, the tectonic plates groaning as if the earth itself tried to reject the intrusion. Or atleast that's as the tale goes.
In its wake came permanent storms that churned the skies, seas that boiled with black salt, and creatures that bore no resemblance to any known biology.
The history of mankind was brutally rewritten in those years. Scholars spoke of Three Generations that followed. The First Generation bled and burned, crushed beneath Nyxterra's sudden appearance and the terrors it unleashed. The Second Generation built walled cities on shattered earth, taming fragments of Vyre—a mystical, volatile energy found only on Nyxterra—and learning to bend it to their will. The Third Generation—the present—lives in the shadow of that inheritance, heirs not only to the strength of their ancestors, but to their profound scars. Every story, every legend, every drop of blood spilled could be traced back to the night Nyxterra appeared, when the world itself was forced to change.
Gray had memorized it by heart, yet still struggled to truly believe it. The description was factual, but felt distant, too grand and horrific to be real.
"You've been selected to deliver supply crates to our frontier camp. This ship will transport you through safe airspace. After landing, you will disembark, deliver your packages, and return." The man's voice, dry and precise, broke through his thoughts.
The air in the room shifted palpably.
One of the smaller recruits, a boy no older than fifteen, audibly whimpered. The girl with the braids clenched her fists, her knuckles turning white. Even the large man in the back, who had barely flinched until now, finally straightened in his chair, his stoic mask cracking for an instant.
Gray didn't move. But a cold, hard knot twisted deep in his stomach.
"Before you panic," the man continued, his flat tone offering no reassurance, "you'll have a handler and a trained combat escort. You're not expected to fight. You'll be entering a Rank 1 zone."
A few heads turned. Rank 1 meant minimal, manageable threat. At least, in theory.
On Nyxterra, regions were divided by threat levels. Rank 0 meant secure. Rank 5 meant nothing came back. It was a simple, brutal classification. But simplicity rarely meant honesty.
Gray narrowed his eyes. There was something missing from the explanation. A vital piece of the puzzle was being deliberately hidden.
The man gestured dismissively to the dark glass wall. It flickered and lit up, projecting a stark, topographical map of the new continent. Dozens of regions glowed a faint, warning red, while others were a void-like, absolute black. As the group stared, their names materialized along the bottom of the map in crisp, white text.
"Suiting is next," the man said without a shred of enthusiasm. "Your assigned uniforms will monitor vitals, provide minor environmental resistance, and sync with system protocol."
Gray raised an eyebrow.
'System protocol?'
Before he could ask, the room's side doors hissed open, releasing a cloud of white, frigid mist. A mechanical platform extended smoothly, each section holding a neatly folded, matte-black suit. They looked sleek and lightly reinforced, with faint blue traceries of light that pulsed with a slow, steady rhythm, like a sleeping heartbeat.
The group moved silently, each picking up their assigned gear. The younger boy fumbled, struggling to secure his gloves.
Gray stepped into his.
The material was shockingly cold at first, but it quickly adjusted, molding to his skin with a whisper-soft pressure. As the final segment sealed with a faint click at his spine, a low, internal hum vibrated through his chest, a sensation both alien and intimate.
Then came the flicker.
A soft, holographic light appeared in the periphery of his vision. Not in front of him, but in his mind.
It was a message, written in pale, sterile blue text. A calm, emotionless voice accompanied it, speaking directly into his consciousness.
***
[Name: Gray]
[Status: Malnourished]
[Rank: 0]
[Strain: None]
[Passive Trait: Unawakened]
[Skills: None]
[Affinity: Unknown]
***
He blinked, stunned. The message faded before he could fully process it.
'What in the hell?'
Gray was utterly confused. Rank? Strain? Passive trait? Affinity? It was a language he didn't understand, a system he never knew existed.
His chest tightened, but a glance around showed no one else seemed outwardly alarmed. Either they had experienced something similar and were hiding it, or they had no idea what had just happened.
The scientist glanced at them one last time, scribbled a final note on his clipboard, then turned and walked off without another word, his footsteps echoing into silence.
One of the black-clad officers gestured for them to follow.
They were led to a long, dark chamber filled with upright sleep pods lined up like rows of polished coffins. Each was tall and sleek, shaped like a standing capsule. Gray stepped toward one, his fingers trembling just slightly despite his efforts to still them.
The pod hissed open, revealing a contoured interior of soft blue light.
"Lay back. You'll arrive in ten hours," the officer muttered, his voice a dull monotone. "You'll be briefed on landing."
Gray nodded numbly.
He stepped inside, the padding conforming to his body.
As the pod sealed with a final, pressurized sigh, the hum of the ship's machinery became a soothing drone. A pale, scanning light swept through his suit. The world grew muffled, distant, and his vision blurred at the edges. The inside of the chamber grew soft, then faded away entirely.
Then there was only darkness.
He did not dream, and lay unmoving in the artificial void for a long time.
Outside the pod, beyond the ship's hull, the sun was rising over the blood-stained sands of Nyxterra.
And the doors to the outside world were hissing open.