Integration 2nd Year Atlantic Ocean, Earth 13 Years, 7 Months Before System Reset

The days had passed as noisily as Alex expected. It had started when Eric climbed the ladder to his bunk and tried whacking him in the face with a pillow. Half-asleep, Alex had groggily drawn his dagger and nearly gutted Eric—or at least, the man had pretended so for dramatic effect. Somehow, this hadn't ruined the party's festivities. The gutted feathers were swept beneath the rug, and their ongoing meddling presence settled into something Alex just had to endure.

The party overall was a mixed bag. Eric was extremely sociable and he was the only person Alex talked to for more than a few minutes—mostly due to being persistently unavoidable. Dalton on the other hand was antisocial unless there was an argument brewing; which made him tolerable. Jory was sociable enough but spoke few words—also tolerable. Alice… was intolerable. She communicated only through invasive teasing or by trying to drag out his secrets, so Alex pretty much avoided her. Individually, the rest of them were… yeah, tolerable. But when you put them all together?

Chaos.

As for Laura, Alex had hardly engaged with her at all since that first day—beyond pleasantries and eating her food. Which was… good. But anytime they found themselves alone, the atmosphere turned tense. She hid it well-enough to not trigger his trait, but he could tell she hated him as much as he hated her so he avoided her the most.

…Oh, right. And then there was Donovan.

"...And that's how we came to rule the seven seas," Donovan said, recounting the Marine Corps naval wars as if he'd fought in them himself. "Heck, they can have America. We're so filthy rich out here I don't even know what to do with the Essence. Not like I got any relatives to send it back to."

He swirled his wine glass and tipped it back, accidentally staining his Hawaiian button-up.

Alex hmm'd. He doubted most of the Marine Corps or other military dissenters were so flippant about losing their homeland as Donovan was. "Yeah… uh, thanks, Don. Interesting story. I've only heard bits and pieces."

"Sure, anytime, my man!"

Donovan hummed a tune and returned to piloting the submersible as something on the radar caught his attention. Though he was definitely exaggerating the tale, especially his part in it, an insider recounting of events was surprisingly insightful for Alex. It almost made it worth speaking to him.

The Marine Corps—or rather, the Marine Corps Trading Company—didn't rule the seven seas, but they had its most crucial trading routes on martial lockdown. Even the Mage families most invested in U.S. annexation—and the naval wars that resulted from the debacle—were forced, ultimately, to set their grudge aside and legitimize the company's existence. This left the Marine Corps flush with resources, and more importantly, placed them in a unique position to transform those resources into direct power, given their pre-established military.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk. Never underestimate the unbreakable spirit of a Marine Corps soldier," Donovan kept repeating.

Notably though, all Donovan had done was lend them his rich daddy's submarine collection in the early days of Capt. Jack Daniel's resistance. He coasted off their victories without seeing a single day of fighting, then established a smuggling business to skim some more off the top—the damn weasel.

He was living an entirely different apocalypse from Alex.

"Well, well, well…" Donovan eventually murmured. "Looks like we'll be resurfacing. Tell the others they'll be tasting fresh air soon. There's an island not far from here, so we'll make a stop for some prime relaxation."

"Is something wrong?" Alex asked.

"Haha—hmm… yeah. Mayhaps there is…"

Donovan was glued to his screen and didn't elaborate further. Taking that as his cue to leave, Alex stepped out of the navigation room. Though this had once been an old naval vessel, it was now refurbished with essence-tech, so thankfully, he didn't have to manhandle any hatches every time he wanted to open a door. The sensors just opened it for him.

"Hey guys, Don says—"

A projectile splattered against Alex's face.

He blinked. His dangersense had not activated, so he hadn't dodged it.

By the time he could even find in him the energy to process, the room had frozen in a scene so deranged it hurt his brain to make sense of. On one side of the common table, Eric stood on a chair, his hand full of mashed substance. Jory sat back beside him, grinning. On the other side, Dalton cowered irritably behind a lunch tray, while Alice smiled callously at Eric, waving a banana around like a weapon. They blinked too, oh shit written on their lips; then, slowly, their heads turned toward Eric.

"What?" he hissed. "It was a misfire! I'm… sorry, Alex."

The runny substance oozed down Alex's check. He touched, tasted it, and sighed miserably.

Mashed potatoes… What are these people, children? How am I younger than them?

"We'll be resurfacing soon," he said instead. "Stopping by an island nearby to restock."

"Why?" Dalton asked.

"Don't know. Ask him yourself. And… Laura?"

"Living quarters," Alice answered.

Go figure. There were only so many places on an enclosed submarine where one could hide from these animals. He wiped the mashed potato off his face and flicked his hand. Seriously… these people.

A hint of a smile tugged at Alex's lips—one that shouldn't be there. He didn't feel like sharing it. Turning on his heel, he headed off to the living quarters. He entered, and locked the door behind him.

"Laura, we need to talk."

Laura looked up from the book she was reading, a vignette collection of true crime stories. "If you wish to talk to me I am always here, Alex, but did you really need to lock the door?"

"It's a private conversation. How certain are you that this place isn't bugged?"

"I'm certain it is," she said. The summoned a privacy ward-stone that shimmered as it crumbled to dust in her palm. "Now you can speak freely, Alex. Does this have anything to do with the untoward glances you've sent my way these past days?"

Alex blushed, aghast. "Untoward—"

"I meant merely suspicious, Alex. Please be at ease."

He coughed. "I don't know what else you'd be insinuating, and yes, it does. You weren't just sent to observe the conflict between the Vampires and Vampire Hunters, Laura. What is the true purpose behind your mission?"

"I'm afraid that's highly personal, Alex. But I assure you—"

"Your assurance doesn't mean anything to me, Laura. You've given me no reason for it to."

"That's… regrettable. I understand where you are coming from, but—"

"Okay, I'm sick of this song and dance," Alex snapped. "Your kind sisterly act might fool the rest of those idiots, but not me, Laura. And I'm not naive enough to think we'll be walking onto an island full of fucking vampires and not fighting them. Whatever your real aim is, look me in the eyes right now and swear on Murphy's law there's absolutely zero chance it will bring harm to the rest of us."

She looked Alex in the eyes and smiled kindly. "I won't—"

"Yeah, that's what I thought," he interrupted. "I didn't come in here expecting you to be compliant. Instead, I'm offering a trade."

"Alex, I don't understand why you feel the need to be so antagonistic—"

"Do you really not understand?" he asked. "Do you need me to explain it to you?"

Laura pursed her lip. "...No. I said I'd hear you out, and I'll do that. Please."

She gestured to the seat across from her lounge and Alex sat down, well aware that what he was doing was risky. But not as much since he'd negotiated a secrecy clause into the contract for his part too.

He hadn't noticed he'd been tapping his finger on the coffee-table until Laura reached across with her hand. Alex slapped the table, startling her. "If even Eric knew, then I'm sure you've dug your nose into my past, too. Right, priestess?"

"You mean that you came from Nightmare?" She asked.

Alex scowled. "Yes. But what I'm certain your intelligence doesn't tell you is what I did over there."

She remained silent, so Alex continued. "In Nightmare, there are these quests called Crucibles. I took one off of some dead guy somewhere, and ended up taking part in it with my party. We beat it, and for that, gained access to the Crucible's vault. Which is where we found this…"

Alex summoned and donned thick gloves then placed a large ice-cloth-covered stone on the table between them, undoing its wrappings. Laura's eyes went wide and she gasped.

"A Sunstone…"

"So you know what it is," Alex said. "My offer should be clear then: I will use a small fraction of it to outfit your team with weapons meant for killing vampires. And in return, you will tell me about everything that we'll be walking into over there."

Her eyes were still caught on the stone's sheer luminance. As she returned them to Alex, they regained their composure. "This is… very generous, Alex. And still… I'm afraid I can't."

"Why?" he demanded. "What point was there in making me suffer that contract if you're going to be this tight lipped and uppity?!"

"I'm… sorry, Alex. I know what this gesture means to you, but I—"

"How could you possibly know?!" he yelled. Then he clicked his tongue, and began re-wrapping the Sunstone. "Apologies for not using my indoor voice, priestess. Come find me when you've reconsidered."

He stood. Laura flinched, an ugly, pained expression on her face before she smoothed it over. "Alex, I don't mean to offend you. I know the weight you carry on your shoulders, and it's—"

"Don't speak of them."

She halted, half standing. Then she sat back down. "The sunstone is valuable, and I'm deeply appreciative of your offering it. If these were my secrets to tell—"

"Spare the nice lies for someone who wants to hear them, Mage. My party died putting this stone in my hands. It would have been wasted on you anyway."

Alex paused at the door. "Oh yeah, and Donovan says we'll be resurfacing."

"Did he mention why—"

Alex closed the door behind him. At last, they would be leaving this wretched coffin under the sea.

* * *

A few hours later, Alex trudged onto the sandy beach, drenched from head to toe. His strength stat was one of his strong suits, but he had never been a very strong swimmer. By the time he reached shore, almost everyone was already gathered there—even Donovan.

He huffed. "You… run a smuggling business, and you're telling me… you didn't have even a single inflatable on board?"

His shortness of breath wasn't just from his poor swimming or rising temper; the waves had been much choppier than he would have expected this close to land. But Donovan ignored him, staring off into the distance, clad head to toe in his enchanted wetsuit.

Alex couldn't help but be irritated by the man. When Jordan had told him about this job, he'd been struggling to pay his expenses nearly as much as he had before Nightmare, and here was a man born with a silver spoon so fucking sterling that it had carried him not just through life but through the apocalypse. He was just so privileged.

"Oh… sorry Alex." Eric blanched guiltily. "I really should've checked with you first. It was my suggestion. I just thought it would be more fun this way. Perfect weather and all."

Oh, so this is Eric's fault.

In that moment, the only thing holding Alex's anger back was the sight of Dalton stumbling onto shore behind him, even more furious. He sputtered, "Perfect weather… you say?!"

Alex decided that Dalton could express their shared frustration more effectively, so he left that to him. He hadn't talked much with the man, having spent most of his days searching what little quiet he could find, but he felt a sort of kinship with him. Dalton, too, suffered under Eric's leadership. The rest of the party were just enablers. Alice seemed to find sadistic pleasure in humiliation, Laura just sat there smiling undisturbed like some saint, and Jory…

No, this isn't important right now.

Alex ignored Jory, who sat hunched in the distance, casually building a sandcastle. He turned toward Laura, Alice, and Donovan, who all wore serious expressions. From the look of concentration on Donovan's face and the tug of mana Alex felt, it seemed the man hadn't just been ignoring him out of flippancy. He was reading the horizon.

"The waters aren't supposed to be this way," Alex noted.

"No," Alice said. "They aren't. And now look—my blouse is all drenched!"

Alex couldn't believe he actually looked. He flushed and hated that he had, so his voice came out both higher-pitched and harsher than intended. "Don't act like you didn't have other clothes in your inventory! Don't you have any decency?"

Alice smiled. Of course she didn't. Alex didn't know what Laura had told her, but ever since that first day, she had seemed to get a kick out of his reactions.

"Oh! A sandcastle!" She pursed her lip in Jory's direction. "Looks like Don might take a while. I trust I can leave this in your guy's capable hands?"

"You can leave this to us, Alice," Laura said kindly. Then she leaned in and whispered, "Go on, work your magic."

With smiles in their eyes, the two women conversed silently in a language Alex neither understood nor had any interest in learning. Alice gave her thanks, then said something about "gullible" being written in the sand, which Alex ignored. Finally, it was just him and Laura standing alone on the shoreline. And Donovan, but he was preoccupied, and Alex doubted even Laura cared about him—so essentially, they were alone.

Whenever that happened, Alex couldn't help noticing the way Laura's smile strained slightly, the way she shifted uncomfortably, as if wondering whether there was any point in maintaining her saintly act around someone as pathetic and spiteful as Alex. Yet as always, she persisted.

"She may come off a little flirty, but she's actually quite innocent where it matters," Laura said, smiling in Alice's direction.

Alex sighed. "Jory's not the jealous type, so what's even the point? He's never going to understand how she feels if she keeps acting like that."

"Oh? You actually have a decent understanding of a woman's heart, Alex. I didn't expect that."

No, he didn't. And this conversation was tiring out his patience. His clothes stank of ocean brine, and he wanted to find a fire or heater so he could warm himself and don some dry clothes and weapons. He didn't like storing his swords in his inventory. He preferred to have them close at hand.

"Still, I wouldn't worry about the two of them," Laura continued. "Every person moves at their own pace, and that goes for Jory too."

"Uh-huh."

Laura undid her braids, squeezing the water from her hair with a look of refreshment: her eyes puckered and her lips in a tight smile. Her toes scrunched as the ocean washed and receded on white sands. Rocky crags jutted out on both the shore's ends, creating a secluded beach straight out of a travel brochure. Further inland, the vegetation was tropical. It occurred to him that he had never actually been on an island before—or on any vacation at all, really. But he had always imagined taking his sister to a place like this.

At some point, Laura had commented on the scenery as well, and Alex had just echoed the sentiment without paying much attention. She didn't bother with pointless small talk after that, and they just stood there. It was the only time Alex would ever be thankful for Donovan's presence, as he soon stirred out of his trance.

"Seriously? You guys couldn't save the love talk until I was able to respond?" he asked.

"I don't need a rehash of the topic," Alex said. "What did you see?"

"Yeah, yeah… right." Donovan's eyes regained their focus. "It's a storm, all right. Could be there for weeks, if I had to guess."

"A storm? Then why are we stopped? That shouldn't affect us a hundred meters below water."

Donovan clicked his tongue, waving his finger back and forth like a detective. "Well… ordinarily, you'd be right, Alex. But there's a fatal flaw in your assessment. Because that's assuming—"

"The storm's cause is unnatural," Laura interrupted.

Alex frowned at her words, but in the way she stared down the endless sea, he felt her determination. "Is it the vampires or the guilds?" she asked.

Donovan scoffed. "Amaryllis may not look like much, but I've spent a small fortune on her upgrades. If this storm is impeding us, then there's no way the guilds are getting through on their boats."

"So it's the vampires, then. They must know what's coming."

Well, that was just great. Even Alex didn't know the full purpose of their mission yet, but apparently, the vampires did. He wasn't so daft as to broach the subject in front of a slime like Donovan, though. He doubted passage was the only thing he sold.

Just because he hasn't shown ill-intent doesn't mean that won't change for the right pri…

A sudden gust of wind blew past, fluttering Laura's hair and scattering Alex's thoughts. He shielded his eyes, but she just stood there, facing it head-on. Clouds obscured the sun, casting a shadow over her skin and darkening the horizon with a foreboding gloom. Yet her gaze remained unwavering. And despite his disdain for her organization, Alex had to admire that about her. She was steadfast.

His only wish was that she would stop pretending his presence didn't make her uncomfortable. They were both skirting around the obvious, and it would be far less exhausting if she just said what she felt.

Instead, Laura turned on her heel, stretched her arms, and flashed him a smile he couldn't fully enjoy. "I guess there's nothing to do about it then," she said. "There's been nothing but work, work, and more work since the apocalypse. It's nice to have a vacation forced on you every now and then."

The sun peeked through the clouds, glinting off her hair and giving its black hue a briefly auburn tint. She strutted toward the others, her shoulders more relaxed. She'd had the foresight to wear a swimsuit under her clothes and now wore only that. Begrudgingly, Alex had to admit something else at that moment. Laura was drop-dead…

He rubbed his eyes.

Donovan whistled. "Well, I'll be damned, a girl so fine—"

"Shut up, Don," Alex snapped. "Where the hell even are we?"

Donovan clicked his tongue at Alex's harsh tone but recovered his sly smile in an instant. "What, you've never visited the infamous island of Thule?"

* * *

Isolated by the vast expanse of the Atlantic Ocean, the small island of Thule sat undisturbed by the larger world. Its concrete homes were painted a mix of bright and pastel colors, and stood beautiful, yet weathered—cracked and overgrown with invasive vines. From one such house, with its roof caved in and walls draped in moss, a steady clanging sound rang out. From dawn's first light to its languid descent, metal struck metal in rhythmic bursts, filling the quiet town with an almost meditative beat.

And so, it had been for nearly a week.

That morning, as on many others, Eric arrived outside Alex's temporary abode. He knocked on the door, raising his voice over the noise. "Hey, Alex! We're grabbing a bite and heading back to the beach. You coming?!"

"Uh… maybe later!" Alex said between his strikes.

"Okay! But you should really get some sunlight today! Otherwise, you'll miss your chance to tan!"

"...Sure! Got it!"

"Don't neglect your stomach, either! Laura's serving her—"

Clang! Clang! Clang!

When the sun rose that noon, it bathed the town and its multitude of colors in golden light, but when it slowly dipped toward the horizon, that's when the island was really set aglow. The hammering continued, its rhythm reaching beyond the island's outskirts and into the heart of town. The island's residents were drawn by it, and it didn't take long for them to notice something different about today's forging.

At first, it was just one child. Standing on his toes, he'd peered through a window, wide-eyed. When he realized the metal was finally taking shape, he sprinted off to find his friends, who then sprinted off to find their little crushes. Excitement buzzed among the children, spreading like disease, and by the time the final strikes and hot sizzles sounded, and the last sparks spit from the grindstone—Alex became acutely aware of the small army of children jostling for a view.

He sighed, pinched his eyes, and ignored his creeping stage fright as he fitted the blade to its pommel. Finished, he considered using stealth to sneak past the onlookers but, for some reason, decided against it. He swung open his door and faced the crowd.

"Blacksmith!" a boy shouted. "Is it done? Did you actually forge a blade?!"

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A small girl shoved past him. "Show me! I couldn't see it!"

"Why'd you pick the broken house, mister?" another asked. "It's a long walk! Can I touch your eye?"

"Is it sharp? Will it kill a goblin?! I want to touch it!"

Their voices began to overlap, swelling into a chant. "Show us the sword! Show us the sword! Show us the sword! Show…"

Their excitement made Alex smile. It reminded him of how he and his sister used to watch their father in his backyard smithy. He had no other fondness for the bastard, but even back then, they had both understood—what he created in that place was magic.

Begrudgingly, Alex relented. He lifted the sword high, striking a pose like some chosen hero of prophecy. The children fell silent, awe-struck. As if they hadn't seen beasts torn apart by swords very much like the one he'd forged. As if there were no magic in that at all.

But this here… this was magic.

Alex flushed, suddenly self-conscious. When he could no longer stand their stares, he stored the sword in his inventory and knelt before a chip-toothed girl. "Do you know where the instructor is this time of day?"

Still spellbound, thumb in her mouth, she pointed. Training grounds. Go figure. He did enter stealth then, and slowed his pace to a walk once he'd lost his pursuers, taking in the apocalyptic sight.

Thule wasn't always an island, as Alex had learned. It was once part of Puerto Rico's coast, ripped from the mainland in a freak display of terraformation and carried hundreds of miles across the Atlantic. This town wasn't even a proper town—just a handful of neighborhoods that drifted along with it. On the opposite coast from where they'd benched earlier that week, along Thule's farthest edge, sat remnants of shattered buildings that faced open against the cliffs and ocean, an ocean away from their other halves. It was Eerie.

Although, even terraformation couldn't cause that to happen overnight. It had been a gradual process. The fractures had been apparent long before the final break, giving residents time to flee before it became irreversible. That explained why so few natives remained.

Regarding adults, in anycase.

Alex stepped back as a young boy bolted around a corner. The boy nearly crashed into him but pivoted at the last second, disappearing down another alley. He barely had time to process before a pack of children followed, chasing at impossible speeds. These days, tag wasn't segregated by grade, age, or even gender—just by whether you had movement skills or not.

Christ, I'm too young to be feeling like a boomer.

He shook his head. The roads grew cleaner as he moved further into town. Laughter echoed, and the houses looked better maintained—cracks patched up, vibes torn away, moss scrubbed off. He passed a woman sweeping. She smiled and waved.

She was the only adult he saw. Listening closer, all the laughter belonged to the children. He'd thought that was strange initially, but when he stopped to think about it for a second, the explanation was painfully simple.

When the System came, adults were either invited to Nightmare or left to fend for themselves on Earth. For children, though, it worked a little differently. The System saw survival as a numbers game, but even it recognized that putting children through the apocalypse was just a waste of life. Not out of morality, of course—If ethics were of any importance, they would've been placed in a daycare on some distant planet. And hell, the System would have never returned them to Earth.

Instead? It put the children in stasis.

For children twelve and under, the process was automatic. One second, they were eating dinner with their family; the next, they were gone—unmoving, unthinking, practically nonexistent. It was the equivalent of shoving a useless toy into a forgotten donation bin, stored away until it might amount to something. It was no mercy, but it was still better than the alternative.

Children ages thirteen to fifteen got a choice to opt out of stasis. No parental consent was required. Then those sixteen and older? They were seen as adults. They suffered the apocalypse like the rest.

But at least those who'd survived were equipped to continue doing so. Those in stasis weren't. And now that the apocalypse had ended, with the population sufficiently culled, did the System bother finding proper homes for these lost children?

No, of course not.

It dumped them right back where they'd been taken from. It didn't matter if their home had drifted across the ocean, becoming an island. Or if a child opened their eyes to find their parents dead and decaying at the dinner table. The System only cared about numbers. And as much as Alex wanted to think it was good that so many children had survived, it… wasn't.

Because throwing an entire generation of orphans into a world on the brink of war was not a mercy.

Alex averted his gaze as another group of kids ran past, shoving the thought from his mind. Eventually, his walk brought him to the old school. Two men stood guard with Essence-rifles at the entrance, but they recognized him. More importantly, they had been paid enough not to care that he strode right past them into the school's courtyard. There, a small army of children—a real army—faced off in pairs with their practice swords, bruised and sweat-battered.

They were older than the ones playing tag further in town but still a far cry from adults. Marine Instructor Sawyer walked through their ranks, barking reprimands and giving out advice. When Alex waved to get his attention, he strolled over with a smile.

"Alex! Good to see you here this evening! What brings you by?"

"The sword you commissioned," Alex said.

"Oh! Wow! It's… already?" There was skepticism in the marine's tone, and Alex noticed a tinge of disappointment in his expression. Six days would normally be considered extraordinarily fast for such a complicated request. Probably, the instructor had assumed he hit a roadblock or needed input on something, and seeing that wasn't the case, Alex noticed the man's hopes for a well-made sword die on his expression.

"Follow me, then," he said. "I don't want this to become a distraction for the kids."

Alex followed him to the side, under the shade of an overhang. Sawyer was tall and well-built for a man in his fifties. There was some gray in his hair, but his motions were as swift and crisp as one would expect from a man who'd spent most his life saluting. He eyed Alex dubiously and requested to see the finished product.

And, Alex understood. From the instructor's perspective, he was just a convenient outlet for the obscene amount of Essence Donovan had paid him in hush money—a low-cost experiment: an unknown quantity of a blacksmith and probably the only one to step foot on this island since its inception. Alex didn't take offense at his doubt, and when he revealed what he had forged, none of that stopped him from relishing the man's expression.

The sergeant gasped. "This is… more than I paid for. How—I mean, I thought you were unlicensed! How have the Craftsman Guilds not discovered you?"

Well, that was kind of the problem. They had discovered him.

"Having full creative control is its own kind of reward," Alex said instead. "Though you could always tip."

The man nodded, ignoring that last part. His eyes were still drawn to the blade, and he stepped out of the shade to see the sun's glint on its edge. "It's truly marvelous," he said. "Far better than I expected! To be honest, I thought you'd swindled me after I realized there was no smithy on your vessel."

Not too bright, this one.

"How… how did you even forge this?"

"Sorry, that's a trade secret," Alex said.

The instructor slapped his back, laughing. "Oh, who doesn't love a good secret or two." His forced laugh soon lost its luster, his expression stern. "I don't know how you did it, Alex, but your talents will no doubt be needed in the times to come. This grace period will not last forever, and it's looking like we'll be at war long before our true enemy shows themselves. Those war-mongering Clans in the East, the Houses and their insatiable greed in the West… times aren't looking up, my friend. But if you wish to be put to use, I will surely put in a good word for you with my superiors."

Right… If only it were that simple.

But Alex held his tongue, hiding his disdain. The instructor's attention was elsewhere now, trained on the children who sweat and bled in the courtyard under the summer heat.

"Don't you dare drop your weapon, Tomas!" he bellowed. "Do you think your enemies will give you time to breathe?! Noa! Sofia! Don't think I don't see you two taking it easy! And Pablo, tighten your goddamn form! Your slash is so wide even a retard would see it coming! You'll never learn the proper skill like that!"

Alex could tell exactly which children the instructor had singled out from the way they jolted and stood straighter. "How long have they been at it?" he asked.

"Since lunch," the instructor admitted. There was no guilt in his expression, only determination.

"Don't you think you're pushing them a little hard?"

"No," he said simply. "It's a different world now, young man, and they've been getting spoiled ever since that Seven Sisters woman took up in the abandoned church. These aren't your average kids, either. Do you know the history of this island?"

Alex grimaced. "Yeah…I've been told."

"Then you should know that Thule wasn't exactly peaceful when we discovered it. It was filled with dangerous monsters, and these kids—they sharpened their teeth on them. When our expeditionary teams came to this island, they found these kids governing themselves, running better patrols than I'd expect from most adults in the apocalypse. They'll no doubt be a pillar force in the Marines if they develop properly."

The instructor's eyes took on a fevered shimmer as they locked onto one of the children. "But even among such an exemplary pool, one among them will go further than the rest. Yara!" he barked. "Get over here!"

The girl perked up, then bowed to her training partner—a strange gesture. She jogged over to them and stood at attention. If Alex had to guess, he'd put her at twelve years old, though her eyes didn't look it. None of theirs did.

"You see, Yara was one of the children selected for Celestial Development—and she ranked near the top of the graduates too." The instructor grinned. "We have her to thank that these kids had so few losses."

Her mouth twitched at the mention of losses.

"Yara, show Alex here the forms I've been teaching you."

"Yes sir."

She'd been about to begin, when the marine stopped her and took away her practice weapon. He placed the sword Alex had just forged in this young girl's hands, instead. A pit formed in his stomach as the instructor motioned for her to continue.

She started in a peculiar guard stance that left her blade down and her body exposed, but he understood why when he felt a thrum of mana. Her blade whipped up in an instant, skewering whatever imaginary fool had just rushed her. She twisted around into a dance, stepping back into several defensive stances that were clearly meant to utilize the Deflect skill. Then she pushed forward with heavy counterattacks, made quicker by Slash and Winding Slash. Her motions were swift and unerring. The performance ended with a sweeping blow that summoned a gust of wind barreling toward them.

Alex's hair flew awry. He knew it wasn't his sword's effect but the sheer force of her attack that had summoned such a gust. She was the real deal. When she returned to a neutral stance, the instructor clapped, pride clear in his voice.

"Well done, Yara! Are you making progress with your other skills?"

"Yes, sir. I'm going to get Slash to the next tier before I acquire them."

"Good, that's acceptable."

The instructor turned to Alex now, expectation in his expression, a smile in his eyes that Alex didn't like. "Well? What do you think of my protégé's forms, Alex?"

The pit in his stomach yawned wider. He scratched at the scars on his eye, and sighed. "If you want the truth they were complete trash," he said. "Congratulations, Sawyer, she's a waste of rare talent. It was a pleasure doing business with you, but I have somewhere else I need to be."

The instructor stood there slack-jawed as Alex left. He wasn't going to tip anyways.

Truthfully, he was just happy to be paid for once, even if it was well below market price. It had been refreshing to get some forging done after being cooped up in the submarine. But he had assumed he was forging that sword for the instructor, not some little girl with smaller hands and a shorter stature.

"Oh, what does it even matter?" he mumbled.

Smithing wasn't the only area where Alex needed to make up for lost time. Instead of walking back to his residence in the southern outskirts, he walked north of the town and into the tropical jungle beyond.

Albeit, calling it a jungle wasn't entirely accurate. The urban sprawl didn't exactly have an end, but nobody lived this far north, and so no one had bothered to cull the overgrowth. Massive trees sprouted through concrete roads, shading the once vibrant colors in gloom, and the entire area was rampant with plants and animal life. If that didn't make it a jungle, then Alex didn't know what else to call it—maybe ruins, he supposed.

It was dark by the time he reached his favorite piece of rubble near the island's end. Its top side was rounded by moss, and he perched on it, reading by the moonlight in the clearing between the overbearing canopy and the island's northern cliffs.

When he finished reading, he summoned a falcata blade from his inventory and began moving through clumsy forms. The falcata was an ancient Iberian short sword used during the Roman conquest. Its shape was concaved and front-heavy, like a modern day kukri, but with a slightly straighter edge meant for hacking and slashing.

Unfortunately, like many other swords from that era, the art of its use had largely been lost to time, and the apocalypse hadn't helped matters. Internet archives were incomplete and expensive to access. So Alex usually kept a keen eye on the niche markets for book trades on historical or hobbyist documents. Whenever he found anything in-depth about swordplay, he bought it instantly, even if most of it was either impractical or too vague on important details.

Then the real fun began. Not every bit of recorded history had been perfectly preserved, nor did any of it account for superhuman attributes and capabilities from skills and traits. Adding new weapons to his arsenal was like piecing together a secondhand puzzle with missing pieces. He either brute-forced its completion—filling gaps in knowledge with his own experience and ingenuity—or, after many nights deliberating, simply decided things weren't clicking and gave up.

The falcata, he'd been trying to crack for a solid week. The one he held was just a test product—little more than a replica slab of iron—so it wouldn't matter much if Alex couldn't make it work in combat. Still, he wouldn't know unless he tried. He gave it a few more test swings, reread the texts he'd gathered, then approached his forms from a different perspective, jotting down notes as he went.

Blacksmith wasn't a combat class by any means, but it enabled him to develop a fighting style aligned with his Warrior skill-tree that involved rapidly switching weapons to something clinically augmented for the situation. He hadn't come out of Nightmare with any particular love for swordplay, but the more he learned about smithing swords, the more artistry he saw in the ways they could be wielded. The only time he'd choose a falcata over his current line-up of short swords was if he was already in motion, using the forward momentum from its weighted tip—so he gave that a try. He charged toward a practice tree with an arming sword in hand, then, midstep, traded it with the falcata from his inventory. The difference in weight distribution was hard to adjust to swiftly, but he pivoted and—

A twig snapped.

Alex suddenly halted, alert. He extended his senses and, after a minute of waiting, sheathed his sword. "I know you're there," he called. "Just come out already."

A moment later the Marine instructor's protégé or whatever—Yara—walked out of the bushes, sneering. "Your forms weren't any good either."

"They aren't," Alex agreed. "Did you follow me all the way out here just to say that?"

The girl balked, her expressions more animated than they were in front of her instructor. "I don't understand," She said. "Why did you call my forms bad? I did them exactly as instructed!"

Then the fault lies with the instructions. He wouldn't say that aloud, though. This wasn't his problem, and that wasn't really the core of the issue anyway.

"Why does my opinion matter to you? I'm just a blacksmith."

She unsheathed the sword he'd forged. "When I wielded it, I felt so… swift. Only the pills they gave us at the Institution made me concentrate like that. I'd never done those forms so flawlessly! And your eyes—you were tracking my movements the entire time! Not even Sargeant Sawyer does that so… why?"

She glared and Alex was reminded this wasn't just some random kid he was dealing with. Where adults with the most potential were invited to Nightmare, children with the greatest potential were carted off to the System's Celestial Development Program. Alex knew very little about what that entailed, but he doubted he'd shake her interest that easily.

"Your name's Yara right?"

She nodded.

"You've clearly got talent. And I only ever said the forms were trash, not you. Now, look, you could stand there and let a stranger tell you everything he thinks is wrong, but what does it even matter? What do you plan to do about it if I did?"

Yara blanked on a proper response to that. From her demeanor, Alex guessed that she'd only come here intent on proving him wrong. He sighed.

It had been clear to him from the start that the instructor's style was a terrible fit for her, but what would telling her that accomplish? From what little Alex had heard about Celestial Development, he knew the Institutions didn't encourage much free thinking in their talents. Tearing into this girl's forms would only do her more harm than good. After all, it was better to have conviction in a bad technique than to wield a sword with doubt.

But that was hardly something he could tell someone so young and pigheaded outright. He motioned for her to come sit next to him. "How old are you, Yara?"

"Thirteen," she said.

Thirteen? She's rather small for her age.

He found it a wonder she could even wield a broadsword so deftly at her stature but knew better than to tell her that.

"Thirteen… So barely a teenager then, huh? You know, normally a girl your age would be going to school, right? Playing with your friends, dreaming about the future and stuff. You wouldn't even consider picking up a sword."

Alex could tell from her expression that she already knew this. "I know, I know, a pointless tangent. You're just lucky to be alive with how things are now."

"It wasn't luck," she said defensively.

He weighed that, then shrugged. "No, not entirely. But a lot really does just come down to luck."

"No! I worked hard to get strong! I'm—"

"You're special, Yara." Alex interrupted. "I know, I get it. I am too, in certain ways, and so was my sister. But it's all just luck when it comes down to it. That's nothing to be ashamed of."

Yara was about to argue with him but paused. "Your sister… is she…"

"Dead?" He pursed his lips. "Yes. She is. But more importantly, there's a reason she is and you aren't. Do you want to know it?"

She looked confused but nodded.

"It's because you were lucky enough to be born a few years later, Yara. That's it."

"Wh-what? What do you mean?"

He watched a seedling of doubt take root in her expression. It was a dreadful thing to say, and it pained Alex too. But he stifled the urge to drop the topic there and pressed forward with his explanation.

"My… sister," he said. "Her name was Alyssa, and she'd turned sixteen only weeks before the apocalypse began. I searched and searched for even just a mention of her existence, but I couldn't find anything, and I'm almost certain that she went into Nightmare. So, I can't help thinking. What if your fates had been reversed? What if she'd been the one taken for Celestial Development and you were the one given that invitation to Nightmare? You seem like a self-assured girl, and so was Alyssa. Do you see now what I mean by luck?"

"I… but that's not luck. It's…"

"It's just the way the world works, right? The world isn't fair, or right, it just is. We live and we die. We control nothing beyond that except our struggle. And that force that decides who lives and dies, you can call that luck, fate, or even God if you're so inclined, but can you deny its existence?"

"But…" Yara stammered. "But that's just… that's not—"

Her eyes were unfocused; she flinched when Alex touched her shoulder. That in itself was a sort of answer.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm not trying to be cruel, but I won't treat you like a child and feed you nice lies. In a perfect world, your parents would be here to guide you through any decision you make. But they're gone, and now you have no one looking out for you."

"That's not… that's not true!" She cried. "Instructor Sawyer is—"

Alex scoffed, "Least of all him, kid. What does he do for you? Tell you you're special? Give you an Essence crystal every now and then? Do you think you'd still be on an island in the middle of nowhere if he'd told his superiors about your existence? Do you really think he spends each day training you all to be his perfect little soldiers because he's kind?"

Yara stammered but failed to muster a response. On some level she must have already known. Tears formed in the corners of her eyes.

"Fuck… what am I even doing…"

Some kid comes to settle a spat, and I tell her that her parents are dead?

"Look, I'm just a stranger to you," he said. "You have no reason to listen to me, and I know you just came here because you felt insulted. But let's say I did tell you what I saw wrong, and you, for some reason, decided to take my advice to heart. Even then—even if you listened and changed your sword style—I'd still be gone in a week or two. And then what? You'd just be lost without my guidance."

There was some indignation in her expression, beneath the grief his words inflicted. Her eyes were hazel green and lately, every girl seemed to look like her. Lately Alex seemed to forget what she had looked like. He ground his jaw. "No. The way I see it, your real problem isn't technique, Yara. It's that you're blind. You are special, but do you even know what that means? It means people are going to use you. Those who rise in this world do so through the efforts of people who can do things they can't. And to people like Instructor Sawyer, you're nothing but a commodity. They're going to send you into dangers they're unwilling to face themselves, and they'll do it repeatedly until one of those times, you don't come back. Because that's just your shitty luck. That's just how the world is!

"And that's why you can only ever rely on yourself, Yara," he continued. "You can't just do what others tell you or follow whatever instructions they give, because they don't care! Your parents might. But do you know why no one's parents have come for them? Maybe it's cause they're all dead. Maybe it's cause they don't care. Or maybe it's because that piss-poor Instructor is using you all and hiding this place from the world. So your problem isn't some fault in your sword forms, Yara, it's that you're a child. But you can't be a child anymore! This world won't—"

A soft whimper cut through the humid night.

Alex stopped, short for breath. He looked to the side and met the small girl's eyes, watching the tears fall. She pushed off the rock and ran off into the jungle, sobbing. Because therein lay the cruelty of it all. Regardless of everything he'd told her, Yara was a child.

You fucking dumbass… Alex pushed himself up, brushing dust off his kneecaps. You went too far.

Yeah… he'd lost his temper. Afterall… good influences, proper schooling, parents that fed him—he'd never had any of those growing up either. So he'd told the girl what he wished someone had told him when he was her age. It was all just self-serving. There wasn't any need for it, really. She was just a stranger, just one child out of the countless being screwed over right now. And oh, how he so desperately wished it had been his sister there instead.

Alex walked forward a few steps to the edge of the cliff bluffs.

This really was an eerie place. Entire homes yawned emptily open as though yearning for their other halves across the ocean.

In one of them, the architecture miraculously held up a second story, where Alex spotted a small bed. Its covers were strewn aside, and he briefly imagined the boy who must've tossed them off that morning as he rushed downstairs for breakfast. The door he would have left through lay across that dark expanse of ocean now. In another world entirely.

He looked down.

Waves crashed against jagged rocks below like impassioned fists of water, mesmerizing in the way only the ocean at night could be. The more he peered at it, the deeper his gaze seemed to plunge. The ground beneath him wasn't sturdy. He stood closer than he should to the cliff's edge, listening.

Was it just him? Could anyone else feel the allure of this storm? That rhythmic crash and sizzle?

White noise.

The impulse came, as it did in these moments. This time, he lifted his foot, giving it a moment of purchase. Then—almost as though they were actually there—Alex felt three ethereal sets of hands on his shoulder.

Julia, Douglas, Oscar.

They reached from beyond the veil, wresting from his darkest temptations. He stumbled back, tripped on a rock, and landed on his ass, panting. And then, it wasn't just the three of them whose hands found purchase.

"It's not mine to do what I please with," he said. "I know."

Somberly, he got up, turned and began the long walk toward his residence. If only one of his party members had been there instead of him. They surely would have known what to say to that child. Instead, she'd gotten Alex. And he wasn't one for half measures.

He already poked his nose where it didn't belong. It would be crueler now if he didn't tell Yara the issues with her path. So when he reached the outskirts of the town where his quiet shack rested, he opened a notebook and started writing.

Truthfully, the Instructor's combat forms themselves weren't terrible, but the way he treated his personal style as one-size-fits-all was atrocious. The first problem was that it relied too much on skill usage. He and Yara might both have close-combat classes, but the instructor's stats were far inferior to what hers would become. She wouldn't need mediocre skills just to compensate for what her raw strength could accomplish on its own. At that point, they just became wasted movements and drained her mana unnecessarily.

Alex was sure the instructor recognized that on some level, but so what? It was the only way he could claim that he was the one who had trained her, after all.

Still, the bigger concern was the weapon.

If Alex had known he'd been forging that broadsword for a girl who, at her peak, wouldn't stand taller than five foot two, he never would've taken the request. Perhaps the instructor planned to give her artificial growth at some point. But those had known side-effects, and even if all went well, it would still be a waste. Because it was clear to him, just from a glance, that Yara's highest stat wasn't Strength but Dexterity. A bigger frame wouldn't capitalize on that level of maneuverability. Neither could the broadsword he'd poured his fucking heart into. Sawyer—that goddamn cocksucker.

Alex stretched his back in the office chair he pulled from his inventory. He sat hunched over his desk, writing by lantern light and the stars visible through the crumpled roof. In his notebook, he told Yara all of this. And when he was done, he recorded a style he'd long since developed that he thought did suit her.

It was only a start, really, and his stick figures were still shitty. But it was far better than anything he'd had to go off of. And if it was true that these children on Thule had survived on their own all those months, then perhaps she really could make something from all this. Who knew? There was always a sliver of hope.

When Alex was finished, he closed the notebook. He could hear birds twittering their songs; the stars had faded beneath the darker shades of early morning. He pulled a sword from his inventory. His prized machete—forged from the core and emerald scales of a manticore.

Damn it. Am I really doing this?

He hesitated for just a moment. Then he sheathed and boxed it alongside the notebook.

Yes, he was doing this. It was what they would've done, and that was a pretty good moral compass for when he should do things, even if they really sucked. Finally done, he yawned under the morning's first light. Then hung up a sign on his front door before wrapping himself in his sleeping bag.

It read: Do not disturb. And no, I don't want to go to the beach today, Eric.

He laid down on his pillow and nodded off. That night, the evil spirits were appeased for once; he had pleasant dreams.

But alas, he woke up irritable all the same less than two hours later. He'd chosen this place since he knew he'd be spending his time here forging. But the unfortunate reality of not having a roof over his head was that there was no goddamn roof to block out the sun. By the time he woke up enough to recognize why his grasping hands found no bedside curtains in their drowsy search he decided he'd had enough. Enough of those rowdy bunk beds. Enough of this stupid island in the middle of the ocean. Enough of not knowing exactly what he'd be walking into once that storm cleared.

He would have his answers today, even if he had to tear them from that priestess's throat.

Well. No. Not literally. That wouldn't bode well for his paycheck. Or for his life.

But he wouldn't back down anymore. If Laura still refused to tell him her agenda, then he'd have her screaming at him in a tirade rather than sitting there prim and proper with that semi-regretful smile. He was sick of her false niceties. So as soon as he put on new clothes, Alex stormed toward the abandoned church where Laura had taken up residence.

It was about time he gave her a piece of his mind.

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