Weaver stood at the head of the classroom, his presence quiet but commanding. In his hand, he held a golden talisman—its front etched with the intricate image of a scorpion. When he turned it around, the symbol transformed into something stranger: a closed eye, as if caught in restless sleep. Kaz had given him the artifact earlier, asking for it to be explained. Now, as the dim light caught the talisman's gleam, Weaver began to speak.His voice was calm. Deep. Soothing.
"As it says in your books," Weaver began, his voice a low echo against the hum of the classroom, "Talismans are gifts from the Curse. You usually receive them from creatures you've killed. These are Talismans."
He turned to the digital whiteboard, scrawling as he spoke. Armor, weapons, charms, utility. Each word appeared in bold strokes, glowing faintly on the screen.
Kaz watched silently, the golden talisman still glinting faintly on Weaver's desk. He had always wondered why Talismans were given. Not how—they all knew the mechanics by now—but why. What was the purpose behind the Curse offering gifts for bloodshed?
There was no harm in asking.
So he did.
"Weaver," Kaz asked, voice steady but curious, "why does the Curse give us Talismans… if it was built for human suffering?"
Weaver paused, then looked at him—disappointed, not angry.
"Well, you see, Kazeem…" He exhaled through his nose, eyes narrowing slightly. "Humans don't truly know what the Curse was made for. We assume it exists to make us suffer—but what if that's not its purpose at all? What if it was built to give us a chance?"
He turned back to the whiteboard as if the answer might appear there if he stared hard enough.
"We don't know the specifics. As a researcher, just like many others before me, our greatest failure is this: we don't know. Not the truth of the Rift. Not the truth of the Curse. Not even the origin of Eden."
He turned back to Kaz, his voice now firm with a reprimand.
"So don't think so narrow-mindedly, Novice Kaz."
Sophie shot Kaz a look—half amusement, half mockery. Her lips curled into a smirk, the kind that said "Really? You?" She wasn't trying to be cruel, but the message was clear.
Kaz had no real schooling to speak of. Not like the others. The average person knew at least something about the Rift—taught through clan-run academies or passed down through generations. But Kaz wasn't from a Gen Clan. He wasn't part of any bloodline, legacy, or lineage. He knew nothing of the Curse beyond what it had personally done to him.
One Rift. One brutal experience.
That was all he had. So when he tried to speak with authority, to ask the questions others took for granted, it always came out sounding… hollow. Like he was reaching for a world that didn't belong to him.
Weaver continued speaking, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
"That's okay, though," he said calmly. "With everything you've learned in this class… you should be ready for Eden."
And Weaver was right.
Kaz had learned more here than he ever expected. Weaver's class wasn't just about Rift survival—it had become something broader. It filled in the gaps left by the rest of his scattered education. He'd learned woodworking, ancient texts, even the fundamentals of Aetherium theory.
The other teachers barely bothered. They napped through lessons or barked at students to keep quiet. Most of them had already written Kaz off, their patience long worn thin by his "antics."
But not Weaver.
Weaver taught him. Taught him. And he cared—Kaz could feel it. That care confused him. Bothered him, even.
Why did Weaver care so much?
The question gnawed at him until he finally spoke.
"…Why do you care, Weaver?"
"It wouldn't be your fault if we died," Kaz said quietly, a note of confusion threading his voice.
That question had hovered over him since the first day of class. Why did Weaver care? Why did he try so hard when no one else did?
Kaz had been kicked from school before—discarded because no teacher would bother with a student who couldn't pay. Even here, where the teachers were paid just to show up, most treated the lessons like chores. He never truly relaxed during class. He couldn't.
But Weaver… Weaver was different.
Weaver paused for a fraction of a second. His hand lingered above the digital whiteboard. Then he resumed writing, his voice softer now—measured, almost heavy.
"Death is inevitable," he said. "But I'd much prefer you survive… grow old, even if that's unrealistic."
Kaz frowned, slightly irritated by Weaver's answer. It felt too simple. Too… detached.
Sophie was useful—sure. But without a team to back her up, she'd die out in the Rift. She was fast, clever, but fragile. Kaz, on the other hand, was an all-rounder… yet he didn't even know the basics of proper combat. No stance. No form. Just instincts and desperation.
The weight of it all pressed on him, slow and suffocating. He felt tired. Tired of the questions. Tired of the expectations. Tired of feeling like the weak link.
When does this class even end…? he wondered, eyes drifting toward the corner of his desk.
As if the universe had heard him, a soft chime buzzed from his timer. Right on cue. He had to time every class himself—none of the clocks worked here. After all, these sessions took place in the dead of night.
Like everything else in his life, he had to keep track alone.
Kaz glanced sideways—and blinked.
Sophie was asleep at her desk, completely unbothered. Wisps of black mist curled gently around her, rising and falling with each breath. It was her Trait—Dreamer. A strange one. Passive, quiet, and eerie. It always made her look like she was slipping between this world and another.
Kaz found himself wondering what her life was like before the Rift. She didn't carry herself like a Gen Clan member—no arrogance, no ceremonial weight. But she also didn't act like someone fresh from the middle class, someone recently thrown into this chaos.
She laughed too easily. At the wrong things. Sometimes at everything. Sophie was… strange. Not in a bad way. Just in a way that made Kaz realize he'd never really figured her out.
As he stared, lost in thought, he felt a light tap on his shoulder.
Kaz turned—and found himself face to face with Weaver.
That face. Too perfect. Too composed.
What does this beautiful jerk want now? Kaz thought, scowling inwardly.
But Weaver didn't say a word.
Instead, he pulled Kaz into a tight, unexpected hug.