Where the mist hides secrets, and blood begins to take root.
The third day dawned without a sun, as had all the others. But this time, the mist was thicker, wrapping the land with damp fingers that silenced even the wind's song.
Ethan was descending an eroded hillside when he saw it: a narrow valley, blanketed in a fog that seemed to live, to move, to breathe.
Through the folds of mist, blackened wood and salvaged metal structures emerged, embedded in the earth as if part of it. Some held rusted generators that occasionally sparked, and others bore fractured antennas pointing to the sky like useless spears.
He had found a human settlement.
With a racing heart, he hid behind a rock formation and watched. From his hiding spot, he could make out human figures walking slowly and cautiously.
Their clothes were thick, rough, woven from animal fibers and reinforced with poorly welded metal plates. Some wore ceremonial helmets with inactive circuitry; others had geometric tattoos on their arms or faces, drawn with reddish pigments.
They carried long spears, tipped with crystals that shimmered faintly with energy—primitive weapons, yes, but with traces of ancient technology embedded within.
One of them, a robust youth with sunburned skin, suddenly stopped and looked up toward the hill. Ethan held his breath. Had he been seen?
No. The young man spat on the ground and kept walking, dragging what looked like a clay container filled with roots. Ethan's stomach turned.
He hadn't eaten in over forty hours. The dried fruit he had found in a ruin days ago was gone, and while his body had been strengthened by the system, it was still human.
He decided to approach at dusk.
When the sky turned deep purple and the twin moons rose like silent beacons, Ethan descended cautiously. But before he made it halfway down, a figure emerged from the mist—as if it had been waiting for him.
It was an old man, tall and hunched, covered in a cloak made of beast hide and rusted plates. His face was lined with scars, and his eyes—gray like wet stone—studied him with an almost supernatural intensity.
"Outsider," the old man said in a gravelly voice. "Smoke cannot hide the steps of one who carries fire in his blood."
Ethan opened his mouth but found no words. The elder raised a calm hand, not in threat, but as an invitation.
"You carry no weapon, yet your aura thrums with force. You are not one of ours… but neither do you smell of Void Beast or the Pureblood zealots. Come. The Council will want to see you."
Too weak to resist and too curious to flee, Ethan nodded. He followed the elder along a cracked stone path, crossing a series of makeshift bridges made of animal bones and scrap metal, until they reached the heart of the village.
Up close, the village was a blend of sacred and functional. Altars built from ancient drone parts mingled with clay silos and stone ovens.
Children watched him wide-eyed from corners, while women muttered prayers as he passed. Some men tightened their grip on their spears, but did not move. The elder calmed them with a gesture.
At the village center stood a semi-ruined structure, once perhaps a transport pod. There, five elder figures waited around a fire of glowing crystals. All wore ceremonial garments with engraved symbols resembling circuitry.
One of them, a woman with a firm voice and a tattooed face, spoke first.
"You say you remember nothing. Not your name, your clan, or where you come from?"
Ethan took a deep breath. He couldn't tell them the truth. He didn't even know how to explain it.
"I only remember… light. And then the cold. I walked for days. I don't know who I am. Only that… I'm alive. And something inside me… guides me."
A murmur ran through the council. The elder who had found him, now seated beside him, nodded slowly.
"He could be one of the Sky-Fallen… or a child of the Shadow Wind. But his energy… it's uncommon. I don't smell a curse. If anything… I smell potential."
One council member frowned.
"And what if he's a spy for the Purebloods? What if he carries invisible corruption?"
"Then," Ethan said, feeling the psychic pulse within him awaken, "I won't ask for trust. Only that you let me help."
Just then, a young girl burst into the circle, shouting:
"My brother, he's cut! He's bleeding—bad!"
A teenager appeared shortly after, stumbling, his arm covered in a deep, open wound. He had fallen into the bone traps surrounding the valley. Blood poured from him like a spring.
The system buzzed in Ethan's mind:
Psychic manifestation opportunity: Rudimentary healing ability available.
Energy cost: Minimal
Estimated result: Partial scar tissue formation
Ethan knelt beside the boy. He placed his hands over the wound, closed his eyes, and allowed the energy to flow.
It wasn't magic. It was will, shaping the soul.
The wound began to close, slowly at first, then faster, until only a reddish scar remained. The boy stared at him wide-eyed. The mother, through tears, called it a miracle.
The council fell into total silence.
"He may stay," the tattooed woman finally said. "But under observation. He will be a guest under trial. If he lies, we will know. But if he is what I think… then perhaps the gods have not abandoned us after all."
And so, Ethan Solhart was welcomed——for the first time, as part of a people in a world he did not understand,where his blood would be his tool,his shield,and, eventually…his legacy.
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