The return from the Frost Warden's Arena left Mason standing in the heart of North Reach's central square, his body still vibrating with the aftershocks of combat. The system's transport sequence had been a seamless flicker of light, pulling him from the icy crucible of the arena and depositing him onto the settlement's frost-covered cobblestones.
Yet, despite the familiar crunch of gravel beneath his boots and the hum of activity around him, something felt altered: not in the world, but within himself. The Shadeforged armor, a Tier C reward from his trial, clung to his frame like a second skin, its dark, rune-etched plates absorbing the pale glow of the frozen fountain nearby.
The armor was surprisingly light, a testament to its craftsmanship, but it carried a subtle presence, as if it whispered of battles yet to come and burdens yet to be borne.
Mason adjusted the gauntlet on his left wrist, feeling the faint pulse of the system's enchantments syncing with his Veilstrider class. The air was colder now, sharper, slicing through the gaps in his tattered cloak with a precision that made his skin prickle.
North Reach buzzed with its usual rhythm: traders bartering over mana-infused hides, adventurers swapping tales of narrow escapes, and the distant clang of a smith's hammer ringing from a forge. But the eyes on him were different today.
No longer the fleeting glances of curious passersby, these were measured stares, some wary, others calculating. The system had marked him as Tier C, a rank that carried weight in a settlement where strength was currency. Mason Reid, the F-tier nobody who had stumbled into Erithis weeks ago, was no longer invisible.
He exhaled, his breath clouding in the frigid air. The arena had been a brutal proving ground, a confirmation of his growth from a fragile outcast to something more. But it had also left him with questions that gnawed at the edges of his mind.
The system's cryptic note about his "unstable trajectory" lingered like a splinter: Trajectory unstable. What did it mean to be divergent? To walk a Hidden Path as an Abyss Walker? The Veilstrider class felt like a key to a lock he hadn't yet found, its abilities—Rift Step, Veil Pierce, Void Adaptation—hinting at a destiny beyond mere survival. For now, though, those questions would have to wait. Mason had more immediate concerns: carving out a place in North Reach, navigating its unspoken hierarchies, and preparing for the next challenge the system would inevitably hurl his way.
His gaze drifted to the notice board he'd studied the previous day, now cluttered with fresh postings pinned over older ones. He approached, his boots crunching softly against the frost, and scanned the new additions.
Most were routine: bounties for ridge wolves prowling the southern passes, requests for escorts through the treacherous Frostvein Range, warnings about unauthorized ascents into unstable Rift zones.
But one notice, pinned at the top with a wax seal bearing Commander Naira Venth's sigil, caught his attention.
***
[Tier C and Above: Recruitment for Rift Stabilization Mission. Report to Command Post by Dusk. High-Risk, High-Reward. System Tokens Guaranteed.]
***
A Rift Stabilization Mission. The words carried a gravity that made Mason's pulse quicken. He'd overheard whispers of such operations during his short time in North Reach: dangerous expeditions to seal or suppress the chaotic energies leaking from Rifts, often pitting adventurers against creatures far beyond their tier. The rewards, however, were undeniable.
System Tokens weren't mere currency; they were power, granting access to restricted zones, advanced gear, or even influence within the settlement's command structure. For someone like Mason, still clawing his way up from nothing, it was an opportunity he couldn't dismiss lightly.
But high-risk meant high consequences. He wasn't foolish enough to believe his new Tier C status made him untouchable. The Frostcaller Brute in the arena had nearly shattered him, and that was within the controlled confines of a system-regulated trial.
A live Rift mission would be unpredictable, a maelstrom of chaos where allies could be as dangerous as enemies. The memory of the silver-haired adventurer's dismissive sneer flashed through his mind—the kind of person who'd see Mason as fodder rather than a peer.
He'd need to tread carefully, not just in battle but in the politics of power that simmered beneath North Reach's surface.
I need more information before I commit, Mason thought, stepping back from the board. Venth will have the details, but she's not the type to spoon-feed them. I'll need to prove I'm worth her time.
His thoughts were interrupted by a familiar voice, sharp and laced with dry amusement. "So, the Veilstrider lives. Didn't think you'd crawl out of the solo bracket in one piece."
Mason turned to find Kara, his bunkmate, leaning against a nearby stall with her arms crossed. Her scar-lined face was unreadable, but her eyes held a glint of curiosity, maybe even grudging respect.
She was dressed in her usual Sentry gear: light leather armor reinforced with bone plates, a pair of daggers strapped to her thighs. The mana flasks at her belt glinted faintly, their contents swirling with faint luminescence.
"Surprised?" Mason asked, keeping his tone neutral. He wasn't sure where he stood with Kara yet. She wasn't hostile, but she wasn't exactly warm either. In a place like North Reach, trust was a rare commodity, and he wasn't ready to offer it blindly.
Kara shrugged, pushing off the stall and stepping closer. "Most solo runners don't make it past the first wave. You're either better than you look or luckier than you deserve." She tilted her head, studying his new armor. "Shadeforged. Not bad for a newbie. System's generous when you don't die."
Mason gave a small nod, unsure if it was a compliment or a jab. "It's a start."
Her lips twitched, not quite a smile. "Don't let it go to your head. Tier C's just the first rung where people start noticing you. Means you're a target now, not just a nobody."
He met her gaze, searching for the intent behind her words. Was she warning him out of concern, or testing him to see how he'd react? Kara's bluntness was refreshing in a way, but it also reminded him how little he knew about the settlement's undercurrents. Everyone here had an agenda, even the ones who seemed straightforward.
"Noted," he said finally. "You see the Rift mission posting?"
Kara's expression shifted, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Yeah. It's a death trap dressed up as opportunity. Venth only calls for stabilization when a Rift's gone critical: means it's spitting out things even Tier B's struggle with." She paused, then added, "You thinking of signing up?"
Mason hesitated. Admitting interest could paint him as reckless, but deflecting might make him seem weak. "Considering it," he said carefully. "Depends on the briefing. You know anything about it?"
She snorted. "More than you, probably. Last stabilization mission lost half its team. Good fighters, too. The ones who came back didn't talk much, but they weren't the same. Rifts mess with more than just your body." She tapped her temple for emphasis. "You're Veilstrider, right? That shadow stuff might give you an edge, but don't count on it. Those missions aren't about skill: they're about endurance."
Mason absorbed her words, his mind turning them over. Endurance. That was something he understood. Every fight since arriving in Erithis had been a test of how long he could keep going—through pain, fear, and the system's relentless demands. But Kara's warning hinted at something deeper, a psychological toll he hadn't yet faced. The Riftbound Marauder's voice echoed in his memory: You walk alone. You reek of the Rift. But you have not claimed it. What did it mean to claim a Rift? And what would it cost?
Before he could respond, a chime echoed in his mind, crisp and clinical. The system's interface flickered into view, its text stark against the backdrop of his vision.
***
[Objective Updated: Investigate Rift Stabilization Mission]\
[Location: North Reach Command Post]
[Requirement: Attend Commander Venth's Briefing by Dusk]
[Reward Potential: System Tokens, Reputation Increase]
[Warning: Mission Classified as Critical Threat – Tier C+ Recommended]
***
The notification vanished as quickly as it appeared, leaving Mason with a faint pressure behind his eyes, a subtle reminder of the system's constant presence. He glanced at Kara, who was watching him with a knowing look, as if she'd sensed the system's intrusion.
"System's already pushing you toward it," she said, her tone flat. "Figures. It loves throwing new blood into the deep end."
Mason didn't deny it. The system had guided his path since the moment he'd arrived in Erithis, nudging him toward challenges that forced him to grow or break. This mission felt like another step in that pattern, but the stakes were higher now.
He wasn't just fighting for survival; he was fighting for a place in this world, a foothold that would let him climb higher.
"Thanks for the heads-up," he said, keeping his tone even. "I'll keep it in mind."
Kara gave him a long look, as if weighing whether he was worth more of her time. "Don't die, Veilstrider. I'd hate to break in another bunkmate." With that, she turned and headed toward the food stalls, her steps as deliberate as ever.
Mason watched her go, then turned his attention back to the square. The crowd had thickened slightly, more adventurers filtering in as the day progressed. Some bore the telltale glow of enchanted gear, others the weary slump of those who'd just returned from the wilds.
He spotted the silver-haired adventurer from yesterday, the one who'd called him "fresh blood." The man was laughing loudly with his group, tossing a System Token in the air like a coin. His arrogance was palpable, but Mason noted the quality of his gear: Tier B at least, maybe higher. Someone to avoid for now.
I need to move, he thought, his mind already shifting to the command post. The briefing was his next step, but he couldn't shake the feeling that every choice he made was being watched—not just by the system, but by the people around him.
North Reach was a crucible of its own, a place where alliances and rivalries were forged in blood and ambition. He'd need to be sharp, not just with his blade but with his words and decisions.
Mason adjusted his cloak and started toward the command post, the weight of his new armor settling comfortably against his shoulders. The path ahead was uncertain, but for the first time since arriving in Erithis, he felt a spark of something beyond survival: purpose.
He was no longer just a reincarnated soul scrambling to stay alive. He was Mason Reid, Veilstrider, Tier C—and he intended to climb higher, no matter what it took.
The frost crunched beneath his boots as he walked, each step a quiet promise to himself. The system had given him a second chance. He wouldn't waste it.
The path to the North Reach command post wound upward through the settlement, a series of switchbacks carved into the mountainside and flanked by weathered stone markers. Mason Reid's boots scraped against the frost-slick steps, each stride steady despite the chill that gnawed at his exposed skin.
The Shadeforged armor, still unfamiliar in its sleek weight, shifted with his movements, its runes pulsing faintly as if responding to the latent energy of the settlement. Above, the sky was a bruised expanse of gray, heavy with the promise of snow, and the distant howl of wind through the Frostvein Range carried a warning that felt more personal than natural.
Mason's breath fogged in the air, but his mind was sharp, focused on the task ahead: the briefing with Commander Naira Venth.
The command post loomed at the top of the ascent, its entrance a massive archway carved directly into the mountain's face. Runes glowed along its edges, their soft blue light cutting through the gathering dusk.
Two guards stood sentinel, their fur-lined cloaks and rune-etched spears marking them as more than mere decoration. They eyed Mason as he approached, their gazes lingering on the Shadeforged armor and the faint sigil of his Veilstrider class glowing on the back of his hand.
One guard, a broad-shouldered man with a scar bisecting his brow, gave a curt nod, while the other remained stone-faced, her hand resting lightly on her spear's haft. Mason returned the nod but kept his expression neutral.
He'd learned quickly that in North Reach, every interaction was a test, and weakness was a scent that drew predators.
Inside, the command post was a stark contrast to the biting cold outside. The air was crisp but warmed by braziers that cast a steady blue glow across the stone walls.
The corridor stretched deeper than Mason had expected, its surfaces etched with faded reliefs of battles long past: warriors clashing with beasts, Rifts tearing open the sky, and shadowy figures wielding blades that seemed to drink the light.
The system's influence was palpable here, woven into the very structure of the place. Mason's eyes flicked to a series of maps pinned along the walls, their ink lines shifting subtly to reflect real-time changes in the surrounding terrain.
Rift distortion zones pulsed in red, while green trails marked patrol routes. It was a tactical nerve center, and Mason couldn't shake the feeling that every step he took was being cataloged, analyzed, and judged.
Commander Venth had instructed him to report by dusk, and the system's notification still lingered in his mind, its words stark and unyielding:
***
[Objective Updated: Investigate Rift Stabilization Mission]
[Location: North Reach Command Post]
[Requirement: Attend Commander Venth's Briefing by Dusk]
[Reward Potential: System Tokens, Reputation Increase]
[Warning: Mission Classified as Critical Threat – Tier C+ Recommended]
***
The warning about the mission's threat level gnawed at him. Tier C+ meant he was barely qualified, and Kara's earlier words echoed in his thoughts: Rifts mess with more than just your body.
He wasn't naive enough to think he could waltz into a stabilization mission and emerge unscathed, but the potential rewards—System Tokens, a chance to prove himself to Venth—were too significant to ignore.
Mason's fingers brushed the hilt of his shard blade, now infused with the system's shadow-like enhancements, and he steeled himself. He'd faced death before and come out stronger. This would be no different.
The corridor opened into the command chamber, a wide, fan-shaped room dominated by a central war table. Holographic projections hovered above it, displaying the Frostvein Range in intricate detail: ridgelines cloaked in fog, red blips marking hostile movements, and spectral green trails weaving through the terrain.
Officers moved quietly around the room, their voices low as they reviewed reports or adjusted the table's projections. A few glanced at Mason, their expressions ranging from curiosity to indifference, but none approached. He was still an outsider here, a Riftbound Veilstrider who'd barely begun to earn his place.
Venth stood at the far end of the table, her presence commanding despite her stillness. Her snow-dappled hair was tied back, and her runed cloak gleamed faintly in the brazier light.
She was studying a projection of a Rift zone, her gloved fingers tracing a path through a cluster of red blips. As Mason approached, she looked up, her eyes sharp and unreadable.
"You're punctual," she said, her voice measured. "Good. I don't waste time on those who can't keep it."
Mason stopped a respectful distance away, meeting her gaze. "You called for a briefing. I'm here."
Venth's lips twitched, not quite a smile. "Straight to the point. I can work with that." She gestured to the war table, and the projection shifted, zooming in on a jagged tear in the terrain—a Rift, its edges pulsing with crimson light. "This is the target: the Crimson Hollow Rift, three days' march east. It's gone critical, spitting out Tier B and higher aberrations faster than we can contain. Left unchecked, it'll destabilize the entire region, including North Reach."
Mason studied the projection, his mind racing. The Rift's energy was chaotic, its pulses erratic, and the surrounding terrain was littered with markers indicating recent skirmishes. "Stabilization means sealing it," he said, more to confirm than to question. "How?"
Venth's eyes narrowed slightly, as if assessing his intelligence. "A relic anchor, placed at the Rift's core. It neutralizes the energy and collapses the tear. But getting there's the problem: the Rift's spawning guardians, and its influence warps the terrain. Expect resistance, environmental hazards, and…" She paused, her gaze hardening. "Potential interference from other factions."
"Factions?" Mason asked, his tone careful. He'd heard rumors of rival groups operating in the Frostvein Range—rogue adventurers, cultists, even system-aligned guilds with their own agendas—but North Reach had seemed insulated from such conflicts.
Venth nodded. "The Rift's output has drawn attention. Scavengers, mostly, but there's word of a group called the Ashen Covenant moving in. They're not aligned with the system; they worship the Rifts, see them as divine. They'll kill anyone who tries to close one." She leaned forward, her voice lowering. "This isn't just a mission, Reid. It's a race. If the Covenant reaches the Rift first, we lose more than just the anchor."
Mason's jaw tightened. The Ashen Covenant sounded like trouble, and not the kind he could solve with a blade alone. "What's the team composition?"
"Still forming," Venth said, straightening. "I'm pulling Tier C and B operatives, a mix of combat and utility classes. You're being considered because of your Veilstrider sigil: shadow-based abilities are rare, and the Rift's core is shrouded in void energy. You might be able to navigate where others can't." She paused, her eyes boring into him. "But don't mistake consideration for a guarantee. Prove you're not a liability, and you're in."
Mason nodded, his mind already turning over the implications. A mixed team meant he'd need to work with others, something he hadn't done since arriving in Erithis. Solo fights were one thing; coordinating with strangers, each with their own motives, was another. He thought of Kara's warning about the psychological toll of Rifts. Would his teammates be allies, or would they crumble under the pressure? And the Ashen Covenant—fanatics who worshipped chaos—added a layer of complexity he hadn't anticipated.
"What's the timeline?" he asked.
"Dusk tomorrow," Venth replied. "I'll finalize the roster by then. If you're in, report to the armory for gear allocation. You'll need more than that shard blade if you're facing Tier B guardians." She gestured to a terminal embedded in the wall. "Register your interest there. The system will log it and update your objectives."
Mason glanced at the terminal, its surface glowing with a faint system interface. He approached, pressing his palm to the sigil reader. The system chimed, and a notification flickered into view:
***
[Objective Updated: Register for Rift Stabilization Mission]
[Status: Interest Logged – Pending Commander Venth's Approval]
[Reward Potential: System Tokens, Tier C+ Gear, Reputation Increase]
[Warning: Mission Classified as Critical Threat – Team Coordination Required]
***
The notification faded, leaving Mason with a faint pressure in his chest. He turned back to Venth, who was already focused on the war table again, her fingers adjusting the projection. "Anything else I should know?" he asked.
She didn't look up. "Survive the night. North Reach isn't as safe as it looks, especially for Riftbound. Keep your eyes open and your blade sharp."
Mason took the dismissal for what it was and headed for the exit, his mind buzzing with new information. The Crimson Hollow Rift, the Ashen Covenant, a team of strangers—it was a lot to process, but he'd faced worse odds.
The system had thrown him into Erithis with nothing but a vague promise of growth, and he'd clawed his way to Tier C. This mission was just another step, another chance to prove he belonged in this world.
As he stepped back into the corridor, a flicker of movement caught his eye. A figure lingered near one of the maps, half-hidden in the brazier's shadows. Male, lean, with a cloak that shimmered faintly with mana.
His face was obscured, but his posture was too deliberate to be casual. Mason's hand twitched toward his blade, but the figure slipped around a corner before he could react. A coincidence, maybe, but Mason's instincts told him otherwise. Venth's warning echoed: North Reach isn't as safe as it looks.
He filed the encounter away, his senses sharpening as he descended the steps back to the settlement. The mission was his focus now, but he couldn't ignore the undercurrents around him. North Reach was a crucible, and Mason Reid was no longer just a participant—he was a contender.
Mason descended the frost-slick steps from the command post, his breath fogging in the thickening dusk. The air bit at his skin, sharper now as the temperature plummeted. His Shadeforged armor, still a foreign weight, shifted with each step, its runes pulsing faintly in rhythm with his Veilstrider sigil.
The encounter with the shadowed figure in the command chamber lingered in his mind, a splinter of unease. Commander Venth's warning echoed: North Reach isn't as safe as it looks.
He scanned the path ahead, his senses heightened, but the settlement below seemed unchanged: lanterns flickered in the square, voices carried on the wind, and the distant howl of a ridge wolf punctuated the night.
The system's latest notification weighed on him, its words stark and unyielding:
***
[Objective Updated: Register for Rift Stabilization Mission]
[Status: Interest Logged – Pending Commander Venth's Approval]
[Reward Potential: System Tokens, Tier C+ Gear, Reputation Increase]
[Warning: Mission Classified as Critical Threat – Team Coordination Required]
***
The mission was a gamble, one that could elevate him or break him. System Tokens and gear were tangible rewards, but reputation with Venth was the real prize. In North Reach, her approval could open doors otherwise barred to a Riftbound newcomer like him.
Yet, the warning about team coordination gnawed at him. He'd fought alone since arriving in Erithis, relying on his wits and the system's gifts. Trusting others, especially strangers with their own agendas, felt like stepping onto thin ice.
Mason reached the base of the steps, his boots crunching against the gravel of the central square. The crowd had thinned, most adventurers retreating to taverns or bunkhouses as night settled over the settlement.
A few lingered: a trader packing up his stall, two Sentries arguing over a map, and a lone figure in a hooded cloak watching from the fountain's edge. Mason's hand brushed the hilt of his shard blade, its shadow-infused edge humming faintly.
He didn't stop, but his eyes tracked the figure until they vanished into an alley. Paranoia, maybe, but he couldn't afford to ignore his instincts.
He needed a plan before the mission briefing tomorrow. Information was his first priority: details about the Crimson Hollow Rift, the Ashen Covenant, and the team he'd be joining.
Kara might know more, but prying without giving away his own intentions would be tricky. The armory was another stop; Venth had hinted at gear allocation, and his current equipment, while serviceable, wouldn't hold up against Tier B guardians.
His shard blade and Shadeforged armor were Tier C, but he lacked utility items: mana flasks, wards, or relics to counter Rift distortions.
Mason veered toward the bunkhouse, its low stone structure tucked against the settlement's northern wall. The idea of rest was tempting, but sleep felt like a luxury he couldn't afford.
Not with the mission looming and the settlement's undercurrents stirring. He passed a tavern, its windows glowing with firelight, and caught snippets of conversation: complaints about supply shortages, rumors of a Rift surge in the east, and a name that made him pause: Ashen Covenant.
He slowed, lingering near the tavern's open door. Two adventurers, both scarred and weathered, sat at a table just inside, their voices low but audible.
"They hit a patrol last week," one said, a woman with a shaved head and a missing ear. "Tore through them like paper. Left no survivors, just those creepy sigils carved into the snow."
Her companion, a wiry man with a rune-tattooed arm, grunted. "Covenant doesn't care about North Reach. They're after the Rifts. If Venth's sending a team, she's walking them into a bloodbath."
Mason's jaw tightened. He stepped away before they noticed him, his mind racing. The Ashen Covenant wasn't just a rival faction; they were a threat that operated outside the system's rules.
Fanatics who worshipped Rifts as divine weren't likely to negotiate. If they were targeting the Crimson Hollow, the mission wasn't just about sealing a tear: it was a collision course with a group that thrived on chaos.
The bunkhouse was quiet when he arrived, its common room empty save for a lone Sentry cleaning his gear by the hearth. Mason nodded in greeting but didn't stop, heading straight for the narrow corridor that led to his shared quarters.
Kara was there, perched on her bunk, sharpening a dagger with slow, deliberate strokes. Her eyes flicked up as he entered, her expression unreadable.
"Back already?" she asked, her tone dry. "Thought you'd be drinking with the big shots after that arena stunt."
Mason leaned against the doorframe, keeping his posture relaxed. "Not my style. Got a briefing with Venth instead."
Kara's hand paused mid-stroke, her eyes narrowing. "The Rift mission. You actually signed up?"
"Registered interest," he corrected. "Still need to make the cut."
She snorted, resuming her sharpening. "You're either brave or stupid. Maybe both. Venth doesn't pick liabilities, but she's not above using fresh blood as bait."
Mason studied her, weighing his next words. Kara was blunt, but she'd been in North Reach longer than he had. If anyone knew the mission's pitfalls, it was her. "You mentioned the last stabilization lost half its team," he said. "What happened?"
Kara set the dagger down, her gaze steady. "They underestimated the Rift. Thought it was just another tear, nothing a few Tier B's couldn't handle. Then the guardians showed up: not just beasts, but things that didn't belong. Shadows that moved on their own, voices that got in your head. The team fractured. Some ran, some fought, some just… broke."
Mason's stomach tightened. Shadows that moved on their own sounded uncomfortably close to his Veilstrider abilities. Was that why Venth wanted him? Because his class resonated with the Rift's energy? He pushed the thought aside, focusing on Kara. "And the Covenant? Heard they're moving on the Crimson Hollow."
Her expression darkened. "You've been listening. Yeah, the Covenant's bad news. They don't fight like adventurers; they fight like zealots. No fear, no hesitation. They'll kill you for closing a Rift, same as they'll kill you for looking at them wrong."
Mason nodded, filing the information away. "Any advice?"
Kara leaned back, her lips twitching into a half-smile. "Don't trust your team. Not completely. Everyone's got their own reasons for signing up, and they won't all align with yours. Watch your back, especially in the Rift. And if you hear whispers that aren't the system, run."
The weight of her words settled over him. Whispers that weren't the system. He'd felt something similar in the arena, a faint pull at the edge of his mind when he'd faced the Frostcaller Brute. The Riftbound Marauder's voice had been clearer: You have not claimed it. Was that what Kara meant? Or was it something worse?
"Thanks," he said, pushing off the doorframe. "I'll keep that in mind."
Kara picked up her dagger again, her focus returning to the blade. "Don't die, Veilstrider. I mean it about the bunkmate thing."
Mason gave a small nod and stepped into the corridor, his mind churning. The mission was shaping up to be more than a test of strength: it was a crucible of will, alliances, and secrets. The Crimson Hollow Rift, the Ashen Covenant, the team he'd yet to meet—all were pieces in a puzzle he didn't fully understand. But he'd come too far to back down now. Erithis had forged him from a directionless Earth soul into something sharper, something with purpose. He wouldn't let that slip away.
As he headed for the armory, the frost crunched beneath his boots, a steady rhythm that matched his resolve. The night was young, and North Reach was alive with whispers. Mason Reid, Veilstrider, would listen, learn, and survive. Whatever the Rift held, he'd face it head-on.