The dawn over North Reach was a fragile thing, a pale lavender glow that crept through the Frostvein Range's jagged peaks like a thief afraid of being caught. Mason stood at the settlement's eastern gate, his breath fogging in the frigid air, his Shadeforged armor gleaming faintly under the weak light.
The frost crunched beneath his boots, a steady rhythm that grounded him against the unease coiling in his chest. The Crimson Hollow Rift Stabilization Mission was no longer a distant prospect; it was here, its reality as sharp as the wind cutting through his cloak.
Twelve operatives, himself included, were tasked with sealing a Rift that could unravel the region—and they were expected to do it under the shadow of the Ashen Covenant's fanaticism.
Mason adjusted the straps of his pack, a lightweight bundle provided by the armory after Venth's approval of his utility loadout. Inside were essentials: two mana flasks glowing with faint blue light, a minor ward relic to counter Rift distortions, and a coil of runed rope for navigating treacherous terrain.
His shard blade, still his only weapon, hung at his hip, its shadow-infused edge humming softly. The armory hadn't granted him the Voidtouched Dagger he'd eyed—no System Tokens, no chance—but the utility items were a start. They'd have to be enough.
The gate was a massive structure of blackwood and rune-etched stone, flanked by watchtowers where Sentries scanned the horizon. The other mission operatives gathered nearby, their silhouettes stark against the dawn. Torren's crew—Torren himself, Lira the swordswoman, and Gav the mage—stood apart, their Tier B gear gleaming with enchantments.
The tank, a hulking man named Brant, adjusted his plate armor, while the healer, a woman called Syl, checked her rune-covered satchel. Kael, the Tier A Voidshaper, was a silent presence at the group's edge, their robed form radiating a quiet menace.
The remaining operatives, including two other Tier C scouts like Mason, were less distinct, their faces unfamiliar but their postures tense with anticipation.
Mason's eyes lingered on Kael. Venth had called them the anchor, the linchpin of the mission's success. Their Voidshaper class, tied to Rift manipulation, was a rarity even among North Reach's elite.
Mason felt a pull toward them, not of camaraderie but of curiosity—his Veilstrider sigil pulsed faintly in their presence, as if recognizing a kindred power. Venth's warning echoed: The System's watching you closer than most. Was Kael part of that scrutiny, or just another piece in the System's endless game?
A System prompt flickered into view, its text crisp and unyielding.
***
[Objective Updated: Crimson Hollow Rift Stabilization Mission]
[Primary Goal: Place Relic Anchor at Rift Core]
[Secondary Goal: Neutralize Ashen Covenant Interference]
[Team Role: Recon – Scout Perimeter, Relay Data]
[Reward Potential: System Tokens, Tier C+ Gear, Reputation Increase]
[Warning: Critical Threat – Tier B+ Guardians Detected]
***
Mason dismissed the prompt, his jaw tightening. Tier B+ guardians. He was Tier C, barely qualified, and his role as a scout meant he'd be the first to encounter whatever the Rift spat out.
His Veilstrider abilities—Rift Step, Veil Pierce, Void Adaptation—gave him an edge in mobility and shadow-based combat, but they were untested against enemies of this caliber.
The whispers he'd heard outside the armory, faint and formless, brushed against his mind again, a reminder of Kara's warning: If you hear whispers that aren't the System, run. He shook it off, focusing on the task at hand.
Commander Venth emerged from the gate, her runed cloak billowing in the wind. Her presence silenced the group, her eyes sweeping over them with a predator's precision. "You've got three days to reach the Crimson Hollow," she said, her voice carrying over the wind. "The Rift's unstable, and the Covenant's already moving. Your orders are simple: get to the core, place the anchor, and get out. If the Covenant interferes, neutralize them. No heroics, no detours. Understood?"
A murmur of assent rippled through the group. Mason nodded, his gaze fixed on Venth. She met his eyes briefly, her expression unreadable, then turned to Kael. "Voidshaper, you're in command once you reach the Rift. The rest of you, follow their lead."
Kael inclined their head, their face still hidden beneath their hood. Mason wondered what kind of person wielded Tier A power—were they a leader, a loner, or something else entirely? He'd find out soon enough.
Venth stepped back, gesturing to the gate. "Move out. The System's watching."
The gate groaned open, revealing the frost-choked path beyond. The group moved, their steps a discordant rhythm against the gravel. Mason fell in with the other scouts, a wiry man named Coren and a woman named Elise, both Tier C like him.
Coren carried a short bow, his eyes darting nervously, while Elise gripped a pair of runed daggers, her posture calm but alert. They exchanged nods but no words—trust was a luxury none of them could afford yet.
As they marched, Mason's thoughts turned inward. The System had guided him since his reincarnation, pushing him through trials that forged him from an F-tier nobody into a Tier C Veilstrider.
But this mission felt different, a pivot point in his journey. Success could elevate him, earning Venth's respect and the tokens he needed to climb higher. Failure could mean death—or worse, if the whispers were any indication. He clenched his fist, the cold biting his knuckles. I've come too far to falter now.
The path wound eastward, the terrain growing harsher with each mile. Frost gave way to jagged rock, and the air grew thinner, carrying a faint metallic tang. Mason's sigil pulsed again, a subtle warmth against his skin, and he glanced at Kael, who walked ahead, their robes untouched by the wind.
The Voidshaper was a mystery, but Mason sensed they'd be the key to surviving the Hollow. For now, he'd watch, learn, and stay sharp.
---
The first day's march was a grueling test of endurance, the Frostvein Range's terrain as merciless as its weather. The path twisted through narrow gorges and over crumbling ledges, the ground slick with ice and littered with loose shale.
Mason moved with the scouts, his Veilstrider instincts sharpening his balance and footing. Rift Step wasn't needed yet, but he felt its potential humming in his limbs, ready to bend space at a moment's notice.
His stamina bar, visible in his System interface, held steady at 80%, bolstered by the minor relic at his belt. The cold was a constant ache, but Void Adaptation dulled its edge, a passive perk that proved its worth with every gust.
Coren and Elise kept pace, their roles as scouts clear: they were the team's eyes, tasked with spotting threats before the main group blundered into them.
Coren's bow was strung, his arrows tipped with frost runes, while Elise's daggers gleamed with a faint green glow, likely poison or mana disruption.
Mason's shard blade, by contrast, felt plain, its shadow-infused edge potent but untested against Rift guardians. He envied their specialized gear but pushed the thought aside. Envy was a distraction; survival was focus.
The group halted at midday, the terrain opening into a shallow basin ringed by frost-covered cliffs. Kael raised a hand, their voice low but commanding. "Rest here. Scouts, fan out. Report any movement."
Mason nodded, moving with Coren and Elise to the basin's northern edge. The wind was quieter here, but the air carried a strange weight, a pressure that pressed against his temples.
His sigil pulsed again, stronger now, and the whispers returned—faint, wordless, like a distant crowd murmuring just beyond hearing. He froze, his hand on his blade, but nothing moved in the frost.
"You feel that?" Elise asked, her voice barely above a whisper. Her eyes were sharp, scanning the cliffs.
Mason hesitated. Admitting to the whispers could mark him as unstable, but lying felt riskier. "Yeah," he said finally. "Like something's watching."
Coren glanced at them, his bow half-raised. "Rift's close. Messes with your head. Keep moving."
They spread out, Mason taking the left flank. His Veilstrider senses heightened, picking up subtle shifts: a faint tremor in the ground, a flicker of shadow where none should be.
He crouched, his fingers brushing the frost, and found a faint trail—claw marks, too large for a ridge wolf, etched into the stone. A System prompt confirmed his suspicion.
***
[Trace Detected: Rift Guardian – Tier B- (Unknown Species)]
[Threat8]
[Behavior: Territorial, Highly Aggressive]
[Recommendation: Avoid Direct Engagement]
***
Mason's stomach tightened. A Tier B- guardian, this close to the basin, meant the Rift was already influencing the terrain. He signaled to Elise and Coren, pointing to the marks. "We need to warn Kael," he said, keeping his voice low.
Elise nodded, her daggers glinting as she moved back toward the group. Mason lingered, his eyes scanning the cliffs. The whispers grew louder, a soft chorus that seemed to pull at his thoughts.
Claim it, they said, the words clearer now. The Hollow waits. He shook his head, forcing clarity. The Rift was close, and its influence was stronger than he'd expected.
Back at the camp, Kael listened to their report, their hooded gaze unreadable. "Expected," they said, their voice a low hum. "The Rift's leaking. Stay sharp. We move in ten."
Mason used the break to check his mana flasks, their blue glow steady. The ward relic at his belt was inactive, but he tested it, feeling a faint pulse of resistance against the Rift's pressure.
It would help, but not enough. He glanced at Torren's crew, who lounged nearby, their laughter grating. Torren caught his eye, smirking, but Mason ignored him. The mission was too critical for petty rivalries.
As they resumed the march, Mason's thoughts turned to the whispers. They weren't random; they were tied to his Veilstrider class, to the Rift itself. Claim it.
What did it mean? Was the System testing him, or was the Rift something more—a force with its own will? He pushed the questions aside, focusing on the path ahead. The Hollow was two days away, and he needed to be ready.
---
Night fell over the Frostvein Range, a heavy darkness broken only by the flicker of the camp's fire. The team had settled in a sheltered ravine, its walls shielding them from the worst of the wind.
Mason sat near the fire's edge, his shard blade across his knees, its shadow-infused edge catching the flames' glow. The cold was deeper now, a bone-aching chill that Void Adaptation could only dull.
His stamina was at 60%, his health full, but the mental strain of the whispers weighed heavier than any physical toll.
The team was scattered around the fire: Brant and Syl discussed tactics, their voices low; Torren's crew swapped crude jokes, their laughter sharp; Kael sat apart, their robes blending with the shadows.
Coren and Elise were on watch, their silhouettes faint against the ravine's rim. Mason's eyes lingered on a new figure, a woman who'd joined the group at the basin—a late addition, Venth had said, approved at the last minute. Her name was Lena, a Tier C Arcanist with a knack for elemental wards.
She was lean, with short-cropped brown hair and eyes that seemed to catch every detail, even in the dark.
Lena sat across the fire, her hands tracing runes in the air, their soft glow fading as she tested her spells. Mason hadn't spoken to her yet, but her presence was a quiet anchor, a contrast to Torren's bravado or Kael's enigma.
She glanced at him, her expression curious but guarded, and he nodded, unsure what to make of her. The synopsis of his journey promised bonds, even love, but Mason wasn't ready for that—not yet. Still, Lena's calm demeanor was a relief in a team fraught with tension.
Kael's voice broke the silence, low and commanding. "The Rift's influence is growing. Expect distortions by tomorrow. Scouts, prioritize visual data. We can't afford surprises."
Mason nodded, his mind flashing to the claw marks. The Rift was already shaping the terrain, spawning guardians that could tear through Tier C's like him. His role as a scout was critical, but it put him in the line of fire first. He glanced at Lena, who was listening intently, her runes forgotten. She's steady, he thought. Could be an ally, if I play it right.
The whispers returned, louder now, a chorus that seemed to rise with the fire's smoke. Claim the Hollow. Become the Rift. Mason gripped his blade, his knuckles white. The words were no longer vague; they were a call, a challenge.
He looked at Kael, wondering if the Voidshaper heard them too, but their face remained hidden. They know more than they're saying, he thought, frustration simmering.
Lena's voice pulled him back. "You're quiet," she said, her tone soft but direct. "Something on your mind?"
Mason hesitated. Admitting to the whispers was a risk, but Lena's eyes were steady, not judgmental. "The Rift," he said finally. "It's… loud. You feel it?"
She frowned, her fingers pausing mid-rune. "Not loud, but… heavy. Like it's watching. You're Veilstrider, right? That's probably why it's stronger for you."
He nodded, surprised by her insight. "Yeah. It's not just watching, though. It's talking."
Her eyes widened slightly, but she didn't press. "Be careful. The Rift can twist you, if you let it." She hesitated, then added, "If it gets bad, find me. I can ward your mind, at least a little."
Mason gave a small nod, grateful but wary. Lena's offer was genuine, but trust was a gamble. Still, her presence was a spark in the dark, a potential bond in a world of blades and betrayal. Not now, he thought, but maybe later.
The fire crackled, and Kael stood, their voice cutting through the camp. "Rest. We move at dawn. The Hollow's close, and it's hungry."
Mason leaned back, his eyes on the flames. The whispers pulsed, a rhythm that matched his heartbeat. Claim it. He didn't know what it meant, but he'd find out. The Crimson Hollow was his crucible, and he'd emerge stronger—or not at all.