The armory of North Reach was less a room and more a cathedral of steel and stone, its walls carved deep into the mountain's heart. Mason stepped through the arched entrance, his boots echoing against the polished slate floor, and felt the weight of the place settle over him like a mantle.
The air was heavy with the scent of oil, molten iron, and something sharper—mana, perhaps, or the faint residue of enchantments woven into the gear that lined the racks. Braziers burned with a pale, smokeless flame, casting long shadows that danced across anvils and weapon displays, each piece glinting with latent power.
This was no mere storage; it was a shrine to survival, a testament to the settlement's defiance against the Frostvein Range's relentless cruelty.
Mason's Shadeforged armor, still a new sensation against his skin, hummed faintly as he moved, its runes responding to the ambient mana in the room. His shard blade, strapped to his hip, felt inadequate here, surrounded by weapons that bore the marks of Tier B craftsmanship: swords etched with frost runes, spears tipped with void-forged crystal, and shields that pulsed with soft, protective light.
Commander Venth's words echoed in his mind: You'll need more than that shard blade if you're facing Tier B guardians. She hadn't been exaggerating. The Crimson Hollow Rift was no arena trial; it was a live battlefield, and Mason knew his current gear wouldn't carry him through.
He paused near a rack of daggers, their blades shimmering with a faint purple sheen. A System prompt flickered into view, unbidden, as his fingers brushed the hilt of one.
***
[Item: Voidtouched Dagger (Tier C+)]
[Properties: +5 Agility, Minor Mana Disruption on Hit]
[Compatibility: High (Veilstrider Class)]
[Note: Requires 3 System Tokens for Allocation]
***
Mason's jaw tightened. System Tokens were the currency of power in North Reach, and he had none. His Tier C status, earned through blood and frost in the arena, granted him access to the armory, but access wasn't ownership.
He'd need to prove himself in the Rift Stabilization Mission to earn the tokens required for gear like this—or risk falling behind those who already had them.
The armory wasn't empty. A handful of adventurers moved through the space, their voices low but carrying the weight of experience. A broad-shouldered woman in rune-scarred plate armor haggled with a smith over a warhammer's balance, her tone sharp but respectful.
Two others, both lean and cloaked, examined a set of mana flasks, their fingers tracing the vials' glowing contents. Mason recognized the silver-haired adventurer from the square—the one who'd called him "fresh blood"—leaning against a workbench, flipping a System Token with a smirk. His group wasn't with him, but his presence was loud enough to fill the room.
Mason ignored him, focusing instead on a terminal embedded in the wall, its surface glowing with the System's familiar interface. Venth had mentioned gear allocation, and this was likely where he'd register for it.
He approached, pressing his palm to the sigil reader. The terminal hummed, scanning his Veilstrider sigil, and a new prompt appeared.
***
[Armory Allocation Request: Mason Reid – Veilstrider – Tier C]
[Eligible Gear: Tier C Utility Items, Tier C- Weapons]
[Pending Mission: Crimson Hollow Rift Stabilization]
[Select Loadout Preference: Offensive / Defensive / Utility]
[Note: Allocation Subject to Commander Venth's Approval]
***
Mason hesitated, his mind turning over the mission's demands. Offensive gear would amplify his Veilstrider abilities—Rift Step and Veil Pierce were already deadly, but they relied on precision and speed.
Defensive items could keep him alive against Tier B guardians, but they might slow him down, negating his class's mobility. Utility, though, offered versatility: mana flasks, wards, or relics to counter the Rift's distortions. Kara's warning about the Rift's psychological toll lingered: If you hear whispers that aren't the System, run. Utility might give him an edge against the unseen.
He selected "Utility" and confirmed. The terminal chimed, logging his request, and a faint pressure pulsed behind his eyes—the System's way of acknowledging his choice.
He stepped back, his gaze drifting to the armory's far wall, where a massive tapestry hung, its threads depicting a battle against a Rift-spawned colossus. The warriors, dwarfed by the beast, fought with blades and magic, their faces etched with desperation. Mason wondered how many of them had survived.
A voice broke his thoughts, smooth and edged with mockery. "Picking out trinkets, Veilstrider?"
Mason turned to find the silver-haired adventurer—his name was Torren, Mason recalled from overheard chatter—sauntering toward him. His armor, a sleek Tier B set with glowing blue inlays, marked him as someone who'd climbed higher than most in North Reach. His smirk was practiced, the kind that invited a reaction.
"Just browsing," Mason said, keeping his tone flat. He had no interest in Torren's games, but he knew better than to show irritation. In a place like this, every interaction was a test of dominance.
Torren stopped a few feet away, flipping his System Token again. "Heard you signed up for the Rift mission. Bold move for a Tier C nobody. Hope you're not expecting to walk out with anything but scars."
Mason met his gaze, unflinching. "I'll take my chances."
Torren chuckled, but there was no warmth in it. "Chances don't mean much in a Rift. You'll need more than that fancy armor and a hidden class to keep up. My crew's on the roster, and we don't carry dead weight." He leaned closer, his voice dropping. "Stay out of our way, fresh blood. Or you'll learn why Tier B's run this settlement."
Mason's fingers twitched toward his shard blade, but he kept them still. Torren was baiting him, testing for weakness. A fight here would only prove the man's point. Instead, Mason gave a small nod, his expression unreadable. "Noted. See you in the Hollow."
Torren's smirk faltered, just for a moment, before he turned and walked away, his token spinning in the air. Mason watched him go, his mind cataloging the encounter. Torren was a problem, not because of his strength but because of his influence.
If his crew was on the mission, Mason would need to watch his back—not just for Rift guardians but for allies who might see him as expendable.
He exhaled, turning back to the armory's racks. The mission was tomorrow, and he had no tokens, no new gear, and only a vague sense of what awaited in the Crimson Hollow. But he'd faced worse odds.
The System had thrown him into Erithis with nothing, and he'd clawed his way to Tier C. This was just another step, another chance to prove he belonged.
As he left the armory, the frost crunched beneath his boots, and a faint whisper—barely audible—brushed against his mind. Not the System, not a voice, but something else.
He froze, his hand on his blade, but the sound didn't return. Kara's warning echoed: Whispers that aren't the System. He shook it off, but the unease lingered, a shadow cast by the Rift he hadn't yet faced.
The bunkhouse was a quiet refuge from North Reach's restless energy, its stone walls muffling the distant sounds of the settlement: the clatter of tavern mugs, the low hum of mana-forged machinery, the occasional howl of a ridge wolf beyond the cliffs.
Mason sat on his bunk, his back against the cold wall, his shard blade resting across his knees. The blade's shadow-infused edge caught the dim light of a single brazier, its surface rippling like liquid darkness.
He traced a finger along its etchings, feeling the faint pulse of the System's enchantments. It was a good weapon, but not enough for what lay ahead.
Kara wasn't there, her side of the room empty save for her neatly arranged gear: daggers, mana flasks, and a worn leather journal tucked beneath her bunk. Mason hadn't pegged her as the introspective type, but then, North Reach had a way of carving depth into even the hardest souls.
He wondered where she was—likely in the tavern, gathering intel, or running a patrol. Her absence gave him space to think, to process the day's weight: the armory, Torren's veiled threat, the Crimson Hollow Rift looming like a storm on the horizon.
Mason's mind churned with questions. The Rift Stabilization Mission was his first real chance to prove himself to Venth, to earn the System Tokens that would unlock better gear and influence.
But it was also a crucible, one that could expose his limits—or worse, his inexperience. He was Tier C, a Veilstrider with a hidden class, but he was still an outsider in North Reach's hierarchy.
Torren's crew, the Ashen Covenant, even his own teammates—every one of them was a variable he couldn't fully control.
He pulled up his System interface, the familiar glow of its text steadying his thoughts.
***
[Name: Mason Reid]
[Class: Veilstrider (Hidden Class)]
[Tier: C]
[Level: 13]
[Health: 1240 / 1240]
[Stamina: 1080 / 1080]
[Attributes: STR 31 | AGI 44 | INT 28 | WIL 33 | PER 39]
[Affinity: Shadow (Primary), Void (Emerging)]
[Perks: Step Beyond (Passive), Rift Step (Active), Veil Pierce (Active), Void Adaptation (Passive)]
[Skills: Ascendant Strike (Rank 1), Blade Dance (Rank 1)]
[Inventory: Shadeforged Armor (Tier C), Shard Blade (Tier C), Minor Stamina Relic]
[Current Objective: Prepare for Rift Stabilization Mission]
***
The numbers were a roadmap of his progress, each point a scar earned through blood and frost. His Agility was his strength, amplified by Rift Step and Veil Pierce, but his Endurance lagged, a weakness that could cost him against Tier B guardians.
Void Adaptation, gained in the arena, was still a mystery—its description vague, hinting at resistance to Rift-based distortions but offering no specifics. He'd need to test it in the field, a prospect that both thrilled and unnerved him.
His thoughts drifted to the Ashen Covenant. The tavern conversation he'd overheard painted them as zealots, fanatics who saw Rifts as divine. Mason didn't understand their motives, but he recognized their danger.
If they were willing to kill to protect a Rift, they wouldn't hesitate to cut through a team sent to seal it. And then there was Torren's crew, Tier B adventurers who saw Mason as a liability.
He'd need to navigate both threats while keeping his teammates in check. Kara's advice rang clear: Don't trust your team. Not completely.
The bunkhouse door creaked open, and Mason's hand tightened on his blade before he recognized Kara's silhouette. She stepped inside, her cloak dusted with snow, her daggers still strapped to her thighs.
Her eyes flicked to the blade across his knees, then to his face, a faint smirk tugging at her lips.
"Planning to stab the shadows?" she asked, tossing her cloak onto her bunk.
Mason relaxed, setting the blade aside. "Just thinking. You're out late."
"Patrol," she said, sitting on her bunk and pulling off her boots. "Ridge wolves are getting bold. Took down a pack near Southwatch." She paused, her gaze sharpening. "Heard you had a run-in with Torren in the armory."
Mason raised an eyebrow. "News travels fast."
"Torren's loud," she said, leaning back. "He's got a reputation for pushing new blood around. Don't let him get under your skin. He's Tier B, but he's sloppy—relies on gear and his crew to carry him."
Mason nodded, filing the information away. "He's on the Rift mission. Said his crew doesn't carry dead weight."
Kara snorted. "Typical. His crew's tight, I'll give him that. Lira, the swordswoman, and Gav, the mage—they're the real threats. Torren's just the mouth." She leaned forward, her tone serious. "You're Veilstrider, so you've got an edge in mobility, but don't expect them to watch your back. They'll prioritize their own."
Mason absorbed her words, his mind turning to the mission's team dynamics. "What about the others? Venth said she's pulling Tier C and B operatives."
Kara shrugged. "Won't know the full roster till tomorrow, but expect a mix. Probably a healer, maybe a tank. Venth likes balanced teams, but Rifts don't care about balance. You'll need to adapt fast." She hesitated, then added, "Heard rumors of a Tier A joining. If it's true, they'll be the anchor. Don't cross them."
A Tier A. Mason's stomach tightened. Someone like Venth herself, a Frostlink Sentinel, would dominate the battlefield. But a Tier A could also complicate things—someone that powerful might see Tier C's like Mason as expendable. He pushed the thought aside, focusing on Kara. "You ever run a stabilization mission?"
"Once," she said, her voice quieter. "Barely made it out. The Rift… it changes you. Not just the guardians, but the air, the sounds. It's like the System's watching closer than usual." She tapped her temple. "Stay sharp in there, Mason. Doubt's your worst enemy."
Her words echoed the whisper he'd heard outside the armory, and he fought the urge to ask if she'd ever heard voices that weren't the System. Instead, he nodded. "Thanks. I'll keep that in mind."
Kara studied him for a moment, then lay back on her bunk, closing her eyes. "Get some rest, Veilstrider. Tomorrow's gonna hurt."
Mason leaned back, his mind still racing. The mission, the Covenant, Torren's crew, the whispers—it was a lot to carry. But he'd carried worse. Erithis had forged him from a nobody into a Veilstrider, and he'd climb higher, no matter the cost.
---
Dusk settled over North Reach like a shroud, the sky a deep indigo streaked with veins of frost-white clouds. Mason stood at the edge of the settlement's central square, his cloak pulled tight against the biting wind.
The frozen fountain loomed behind him, its chained figure encased in ice, a silent sentinel watching the comings and goings of adventurers. Lanterns flickered along the square's perimeter, their light casting long shadows that seemed to writhe in the cold.
The air was thick with anticipation, as if the settlement itself knew what awaited in the Crimson Hollow.
Mason had spent the day preparing, his mind a storm of strategy and instinct. The armory visit had yielded no new gear—his allocation request was still pending Venth's approval—but he'd sharpened his shard blade and checked his minor stamina relic, ensuring it was fully charged.
His Shadeforged armor was polished, its runes glowing faintly, a reminder of his arena victory. He was as ready as he could be, but readiness felt like a fragile thing in the face of a critical-threat mission.
The command post's briefing was imminent, and Mason was determined to arrive early. Venth's approval wasn't guaranteed, and he needed to prove he was more than a Tier C upstart.
His Veilstrider class gave him an edge, but it was untested against Tier B guardians or the Ashen Covenant's zealots. The whispers he'd heard outside the armory lingered, a faint echo that set his nerves on edge. He hadn't mentioned them to Kara, but they felt tied to the Rift, to the System's deeper machinations.
He started toward the command post, his boots crunching against the frost-covered cobblestones. The square was quieter now, most adventurers huddled in taverns or bunkhouses, but a few figures moved through the dusk: a Sentry patrolling the perimeter, a trader closing his stall, and a cloaked figure watching from an alley.
Mason's hand brushed his shard blade, his senses sharpening. The figure didn't move, but their presence felt deliberate, like the shadowed man in the command chamber. He kept walking, his eyes flicking to the alley, but the figure was gone when he looked again.
Paranoia's a bad habit, he thought, but he couldn't shake the feeling that North Reach was watching him closer than he liked.
The command post's archway loomed ahead, its runes glowing brighter in the fading light. The guards recognized him this time, the scarred man giving a curt nod while the woman's expression remained unreadable.
Mason stepped inside, the warmth of the braziers washing over him, and made his way to the command chamber. The corridor's battle reliefs seemed more vivid tonight, their shadowed warriors almost moving in the flickering light.
The chamber was already active, a dozen adventurers gathered around the war table, their voices a low hum of tension. Venth stood at the table's head, her runed cloak gleaming, her eyes scanning the group like a predator sizing up prey.
Torren was there, his silver hair unmistakable, flanked by Lira and Gav—his swordswoman and mage, just as Kara had described. A few others caught Mason's eye: a hulking man in heavy plate armor, likely a tank; a woman with glowing green eyes, her hands shimmering with healing runes; and a lean figure in dark robes, their face hidden, radiating Tier A power.
Venth's gaze landed on Mason as he entered, her expression unreadable. "Reid," she said, her voice cutting through the chatter. "You're early. Good."
Mason nodded, taking a spot near the table's edge. Torren glanced at him, his smirk faint but present, while Lira's eyes lingered, assessing. The Tier A figure didn't acknowledge him, their presence a quiet storm that dominated the room.
Venth gestured to the war table, and the holographic projection shifted, displaying the Crimson Hollow Rift: a jagged tear in the earth, its edges pulsing crimson, surrounded by warped terrain and red blips marking guardians. "This is our target," she said, her voice steady. "The Rift's gone critical, spawning Tier B and higher aberrations. Our objective is to place a relic anchor at its core, collapsing the tear. Expect heavy resistance: guardians, environmental hazards, and potential interference from the Ashen Covenant."
The room tensed at the Covenant's mention. Mason's mind flashed to the tavern conversation: They tore through them like paper. He kept his expression neutral, listening as Venth continued.
"The team is twelve strong," she said. "Tier C and B operatives, with one Tier A anchor." She nodded to the robed figure, who inclined their head slightly. "This is Kael, a Voidshaper. They'll lead the core assault. The rest of you will handle support, containment, and interference."
Mason studied Kael, the Tier A. Their robes shimmered with void energy, and their presence felt like a void itself, pulling at the room's edges. A Voidshaper—likely a class tied to Rift manipulation—would be invaluable, but their power made Mason uneasy. Allies like that could be as dangerous as enemies.
Venth assigned roles: Torren's crew on containment, the tank and healer on support, Mason and two others on recon due to their mobility. "Reid," she said, her eyes locking onto his. "Your Veilstrider class is suited for the Rift's void shroud. You'll scout the core's perimeter, relay data, and avoid engagement unless necessary. Understood?"
Mason nodded. "Understood."
The briefing continued, detailing logistics: a three-day march, supply allocations, and contingency plans. Mason listened, his mind cataloging every detail, but the whispers returned—faint, formless, brushing against his thoughts. He clenched his fist, focusing on Venth's voice, but the sensation lingered, tied to the Rift's image on the table.
As the briefing ended, Venth dismissed the group, but her eyes lingered on Mason. "Reid, a word."
He approached as the others filed out, Torren's smirk following him. Venth waited until the room was empty, then spoke, her voice low. "Your sigil's reacting to the Rift already. That's rare, even for Riftbound. Be careful in there. The System's watching you closer than most."
Mason's stomach tightened. "What does that mean?"
"It means you're a variable," she said, her gaze piercing. "The System doesn't just guide—it tests. Survive the Hollow, and you might learn why."
She turned away, ending the conversation. Mason left the chamber, the whispers louder now, a shadow trailing his steps. The Rift was calling, and he was answering, whether he was ready or not.