Chapter : White Rank Awakens
"Every legend started as 'just another beginner.'"
Oliver's legs pumped like pistons, heart pounding as the Wilderness Beast crashed through the trees behind him. The air shook with every thunderous stomp. Vines whipped his face. His breath tore in and out like a broken engine.
Then—something blinked in front of him.
Floating mid-air, pulsing with soft neon green light, was a hovering button.
> [SYSTEMATIC HELP — TAP TO ACTIVATE]
He didn't question it. He slapped the button mid-sprint.
A soft tone echoed like a bell chime, and a glowing Systematic interface exploded into the air around him. A virtual screen hovered with cool light, scrolling data as fast as his running feet.
[SYSTEMATIC STATUS – TRAVELER: OLIVER]
> Rank: White (Starter)
VP Points: 1,500 Basic
Output: So far 0
Weapons: None
Class System: Not Registered
Builds: Not Started
Contracts: 0
Achievements: Zero
"Okay," Oliver muttered, dodging a branch. "That's not... demoralizing at all."
Just then, he launched himself over a bush—only to suddenly drop down a short slope, skidding to a halt inches from plunging into a wide, moss-ringed lake. His foot hovered over the edge.
The beast's roar echoed behind him, closer now.
But then—silence.
The Wilderness Beast stood at the tree line, staring.
It sniffed the air. The floating white glow of Oliver's rank shimmered above his head like a digital tag.
[WHITE RANK – BEGINNER]
The beast gave a snort of disgust.
Not worth the energy.
It turned with a heavy stomp and lumbered back into the woods, its blue-glowing level flickering between trees until it vanished.
Oliver let out a breath so deep it nearly became a scream.
Then—bing!
The Systematic opened up wider, lines and options unfolding like a game menu:
> [OPEN: SYSTEMATIC MAP]
[OPEN: GREAT ANALYSIS]
[OPEN: DEVICE RECHARGE]
[OPEN: BUILDING IDEAS]
Oliver tapped through each:
—Systematic Map: Showed his location in the forest with marked traveler paths and possible safe zones.
—Great Analysis: Let him scan items, creatures, even terrain—like a digital encyclopedia.
—Device Recharge: Showed he could plug his phone into the Systematic like Riven had done.
—Building Ideas: Displayed blueprint concepts: a Workbench, a Campfire, a Basic Shelter, even a Water Collector. Each had little tutorial videos with cheerful narration.
Oliver watched one with a little cartoon man building a campfire and burning his eyebrows off. "Okay... that part's relatable."
Despite everything—the panic, the beast, the chaos—something stirred inside him now. Something stubborn.
This wasn't just survival.
It was a system.
And systems could be learned.
He took a breath, stood up, and looked out over the water, Lux's rays shimmering across its surface like invitation.
"Alright," Oliver said, eyes narrowing.
"Let's build something."
...
Chapter: The Field of Foundlings
"Greatness starts with gathering—people, potions, purpose."
The grass fields rippled gently under Lux's amber light. The sky was a calm canvas of blue and gold, a breeze whispering through the blades like a lullaby after chaos.
Garrick Ironhart flopped backward into the tall grass, arms stretched like a sun-dried shirt. He panted heavily, the massive backpack weighing down his whole frame like a steel boulder.
His blonde curls stuck to his forehead, and sweat soaked through his red shirt. "...We're alive. Somehow."
Riven, standing nearby, straightened his blue wool cap and ran a hand through his messy black hair, eyes narrowed as he opened up the Systematic Guide. A flicker of light scanned his form:
> [RANKED: BLUE]
[ACHIEVEMENTS: ZERO]
"Well," he muttered, brushing dust from his jacket. "At least we're consistent."
Just then—a swish from the woods.
The air shimmered. A figure strolled into the clearing, tail flicking with bored elegance.
Nico Finnikin Faelwyn, the foxkin boy, had arrived. His bushy orange tail curled behind him like a scarf, and his vibrant hair bounced with each step. He wore modern human clothes—hoodie, dark jeans, and sneakers—as if he'd come from a convenience store rather than a fantasy world.
Behind him came Aurelia Dawnmere, blonde-haired with silvery highlights, wearing a long black-and-white dress. Her expression was stiff, irritated—but her arms were full of practical supplies, like she'd just raided a survival aisle.
She held up a bag of water bottles. "Before anyone says it, yes—I'm useful."
Trailing behind was Eryndor Hale, sharp-eyed, red-haired, a white headband tied across his brow. He wore turquoise traveler's robes and carried himself like someone used to walking alone, yet curious enough to stay.
As they gathered, Riven stood tall and serious.
"Welcome, all," he began, "to the revolution of misfits."
Goldie squeaked happily and darted over to Aurelia, who knelt down, mesmerized.
"She's adorable," Aurelia breathed, scratching behind Goldie's fuzzy cat ears. "Where'd you find her?"
"I didn't. She found us," Garrick said, grunting as he tried to remove the massive pack.
Riven clapped his hands. "Now then—let's talk potions."
He projected a new Systematic window, listing types of potions with animated icons dancing around:
> 🔥 Fire Resistance
🌊 Water Breathing
💀 Sickness Removal
☠️ Poison Resistance
👻 Invisibility
💪 Strength Boost
🌀 Speed Potion
🔥 Fat Burning
💉 Pain Resistance
❤️ Healing
🌿 Regeneration
🍀 Luck
🦘 Leaping
🪶 Slow Falling
…and countless more…
Garrick groaned. "I'm not listing all that, my brain's still overheating."
"That's fine," Riven grinned. "Because I already have a plan."
He paced in front of them like a teacher before a class. "We don't just want potions. We want all the potions. We're going to build a mobile supply chain. A potion empire. And then—"
"—We pull the poor, the lost, the misfits out of society," Garrick added, catching on. "And give them somewhere new to belong."
Eryndor raised an eyebrow. "Sounds bold. But... potions like that, they don't just grow on trees."
He tapped the Systematic.
"They mostly come from the Netherworld, right? The hellish zones?"
Riven paused. His smile turned more serious.
"Yes. The Netherworld is crawling with danger—cursed lands, infernal beasts, demon factions. But…"
He swiped the screen again, showing alternate icons.
"We don't have to go there yet. Some potions can be crafted. Others bartered, and some we might get from local witches, herbalists, or Systematic anomalies."
"But eventually," Riven added, voice sharpening, "we will have to go into the Nether. That's where the rare stuff is. That's where our worth will be tested."
Silence. The wind whispered over them again, lifting blades of grass and strands of hair.
Nico cracked a grin. "Well, if we're gonna storm hell, might as well look good doing it."
Aurelia stood, brushing off her dress. "I've already been disowned. Might as well go full outlaw."
Goldie raised a paw.
Garrick sighed. "Fine, but I'm not carrying the witch's cauldron."
Riven's eyes gleamed. The party was forming. The vision was real.
The Travelers had gathered.
And the potion empire was about to begin.
....
Chapter Ten: Winds of June, Stones of Purpose
The morning winds rolled across the grassfields like waves in motion—tall blades bending and dancing under the overcast June sky. Here in Elarion, June wasn't the soft song of summer as it was on Earth. It was wild. A month of rain-hardened winds, heavy skies, and unpredictable weather—hot, humid, and then suddenly storming.
But work didn't stop for weather. Not in a world where Travelers built their own purpose.
In the wide clearing, the Nation of Nobles was beginning to take shape—block by block, spell by spell.
---
Eryndor Hale, sleeves rolled and focused, was the anchor of the effort. He knelt by a staked outline and summoned glowing blueprints through the Systematic Guide, his hands steady as he stacked stone blocks, forming the foundations of wide walls and future homes. The wind blew his red hair and flared his turquoise robes, but he barely noticed—he was in his zone.
Nearby, Aurelia Dawnmere stood beside Goldie, both tending a crackling furnace. A simple smelting setup now, but essential for glass, tools, and reinforcements. Aurelia adjusted the control dial while Goldie, giggling slightly, puffed out a warm flame from her hands, raising the heat in bursts.
The glass was bubbling perfectly.
"Watch the left corner," Aurelia warned. "That side always cracks."
"Mm-hmm!" Goldie chirped, tail flicking as she pressed her fingers together, adjusting the temperature like an art.
Out on the edge of the clearing, Nico Finnikin Faelwyn crouched low behind a bush. His orange hair tousled with every breeze, and his fox tail waved slowly behind him. He gripped a stone dagger and scanned the woods, his eyes sharp, ears twitching.
"Still clear..." he muttered. "No beasts. No strangers. Just trees and birds and—wait, is that squirrel wearing pants?"
He blinked. Nope, just leaves.
---
Meanwhile, Garrick Ironhart, halfway through setting up his own stone-walled hut, was called over by Riven.
The older teen stood with hands folded neatly behind his back, a breeze tugging at his dark jacket and cap. His eyes were calm, but calculating.
"Garrick," Riven said.
"What's up?" Garrick asked, brushing blonde hair from his eyes and stretching. "Don't tell me we're out of bricks again."
"No." Riven's voice was firm but polite. "It's about... image."
Garrick raised a brow. "Image?"
"You're our Face. The mascot. The frontline charm. The Ironhart of the people." Riven paused, then gestured toward the busy scene behind them. "But you're also not… doing enough, Garrick. Not compared to Hale. Or Goldie. Even Aurelia has found her stride, connecting the river with her [Water Flow] spell."
From the forest's edge, clear water now curved in a controlled channel, flowing into the base—a brilliant feat of magical utility.
Garrick glanced sideways, then scratched the back of his neck. "I mean... I was building my house—"
Riven stepped forward and politely removed the wooden signpost from Garrick's incomplete structure. The word "Garrick's Pad" still burned into it with childish pride.
Garrick's brow furrowed. "Hey! I like my pad…"
"I know," Riven said softly. "But sometimes... we sacrifice comforts to build something bigger than ourselves."
He held the sign for a moment, then laid it down gently on the grass.
Garrick stood frozen. His pride tugged. His frustration boiled just under his breath. But his eyes met Riven's—sharp, certain, and honest.
"…Sacrifice, huh?" Garrick muttered.
"For the nation," Riven said, placing a hand on Garrick's shoulder.
The dwarf-human hybrid hesitated, then slowly nodded. "…Fine. But I'm keeping my hammock."
"Fair."
---
And so, under the heavy June sky, with wind in their hair and sweat on their backs, the Travelers continued their work.
Stone by stone. Spark by spark. Spell by spell.
Their nation of misfits was becoming real.
Their banner not yet raised—but their purpose already clear.
.....