Cinder stood still, his gear ready. Nothing special—just the academy-issued sword at his hip and the weight of his pack on his shoulders. It wasn't much. Not compared to what some of the others had. But it was enough. It had to be.
He would have to earn better. Loot something from the Crucible itself. And since everything carried on your body came with you, he'd packed carefully. No luxuries. Just the basics. Steel and survival.
He looked around the chamber, eyes drifting across the other students. Most were his age. Some younger. They gathered in clusters, talking too fast, too loud mostly trying to hide the fear.
A few stood alone, silent like him. One girl spun a dagger between her fingers. Another leaned against the wall, eyes shut, lips moving in prayer.
Cinder didn't speak. Didn't move.
Then he heard it-heels on the cold floor.
The headmaster entered. Her boots rang out across the floor as she climbed the podium. The sound silenced the room.
"I'll tell you again," she said, voice steady. "I do not know where you will end up. There could be Abyssals of any tier. Any zone. Remain cautious. Once you return, you will receive your Awakened Name and access your Soul Core."
Silence followed.
"You are to enter your pods and wait. It won't be long."
Cinder nodded once to himself, checked the straps on his chest, and stepped into the nearest pod.
They were going to be separated. No one knew how. No one cared. Personally Cinder just wanted to live.
As the hatch sealed with a hiss, he looked out one last time. At the ones who would die. At the ones who might live. At the ones he would never see again.
He hoped Toma and Mirei made it.
But he knew the odds.
He leaned back into the pod's cold frame. The metal hummed faintly. His fingers tightened around the edge of his seat.
I've prepared all I can.
Then a sharp tone cut through the chamber of his skull.
And everything went dark.
[Entering First Crucible: Survive]
He opened his eyes to blinding light.
Wind roared around him.
He was falling.
The sky above was a sharp, alien blue. Below, a massive canopy of fungus—thick mushroom neon caps scattered between trees—racing up toward him. They pulsed with sickly color: purple, orange, green, red. A garden of rot.
Cinder screamed. He curled his limbs tight, angled himself, braced.
He crashed through a mushroom cap. The spongy flesh gave way with a wet, snapping sound. Branches tangled around his arms, his legs. He tumbled, bounced, slammed through vines and stalks—
Then he hit the ground hard.
Pain flared through his side.
He groaned and rolled onto his back, breath shallow.
Still breathing.
Bruised. Probably. But nothing broken. Not yet.
He pushed himself up slowly, one hand to his ribs.
'That could've been worse,' Cinder thought to himself.
His pack was intact. Sword still sheathed. The ground beneath him was soft and wet, made of dense fungal matter that twitched when he moved.
The forest stretched endlessly in every direction. Mushrooms rose like towers. Moss draped the branches like webbing. Strange bulbous sacks pulsed with light beneath the roots. It felt alive.
He reached into his pocket, fingers brushing one of the charcoal sticks he'd brought. Just having it there made him feel grounded him.
Then—snap.
A sound behind him. Sharp. Close.
Cinder froze.
Something moved through the underbrush. Slow. Heavy.
He turned, quiet, eyes scanning.
Then he saw it.
A stag.
Or what had once been one.
It towered over the undergrowth, its body wrapped in glowing fungus and thick cords of mold. Mushrooms bloomed from its shoulders. Its skin was gray and torn in places, sloughing off like dead bark. And its eyes—glass orbs, empty, unfocused.
Its antlers gleamed like rusted blades.
His breath caught in his throat.
An Abyssal.
He reached slowly for his sword. Drew it.
This is real.
It turned toward him, head twitching unnaturally. The moment their eyes met—if those empty things could still see—it charged.
Cinder moved.
Coalforged Reflex surged through him in a rush. His senses sharpened. Everything slowed. He sidestepped, pivoting hard to the left.
He was not fast enough.
The antlers caught his upper arm.
Pain tore through him, hot and sharp. He stumbled back, nearly dropped the blade. Blood ran down his sleeve, but the wound had already begun to cauterize. Heat pulsed from the skin around it.
He gritted his teeth.
The stag turned again. No hesitation. It charged once more.
Cinder stepped sideways, barely avoiding the horns. He slashed as it passed, the blade biting into the fungal hide.
It didn't slow.
It shouldn't be this strong. Not with rot growing from its bones.
But it was.
He backed up fast, heart hammering. He didn't know its limits. He didn't know its kind. But it was fast and heavy and wrong.
He circled. Watching.
It lunged again. He ducked under the swing of its head and drove his sword upward, jamming it between two ribs.
It stuck.
The stag let out no sound. Just kept going, pushing forward with Cinder still hanging onto the hilt. He kicked free, rolled away.
The blade stayed in.
No time to pull it loose.
Think.
He stepped back, eyes on the beast.
He activated Sootsight.
The world shifted. Dimmed.
He could see the trail it left as it moved—heat bleeding from the beast, the churned ground behind it glowing faint red.
It turned.
Charged.
He sidestepped again, body aching, the edge of one hoof clipping his side and knocking the wind out of him. He hit the ground hard, gasping, tasting dirt and ash.
Get up. Now.
He rolled to the side, the stag's hoof slamming into the ground where he'd been a moment ago.
He needed a weapon.
His fingers scrambled across the earth, found a jagged piece of fungal root. Useless.
Then he reached for his field knife. Still sheathed at his thigh.
He yanked it free, spun as the stag lowered its head again.
This time, he didn't dodge.
He ducked into the charge and slammed the knife into the beast's jaw, driving upward.
It didn't kill it.
But the Abyssal reeled, fungus tearing, black rot dripping from its mouth. It staggered sideways.
He lunged for his sword.
The hilt was slick with mold, but he gripped it, ripped it free. Turned.
The beast came again, slower now. Wounded. But relentless.
Cinder raised the blade, body low. He waited until it was almost on top of him, then sidestepped and slashed across its neck.
The wound tore open, steaming. A mixture of rot and blood spilled out.
It still didn't fall.
He hacked again, again—burning muscles, screaming lungs—until the final swing caught something deep. The stag shuddered. Collapsed.
Twitching.
Then stopped.
Steam rose from the corpse. Its fungal growths sagged.
Cinder dropped to his knees, breathing hard. Every inch of him burned.
He didn't move for a while.
Then, slowly, he sat back.
His hands were shaking. His arm throbbed. Blood soaked his sleeve, though the wound had sealed.
He looked down at the body.
That was his first kill.
***
[System Message]:
Rotstagger defeated
— Graveborn-Class Beast
***
He stared at the message. The words didn't feel real.
He wasn't ready.
But he'd survived.
And that would have to be enough.