The Eye burned.

It did not see. It was sight, stretched across something that was not space. Endless cascades of feeling poured through it: grief sharpened to wire, terror drawn out until it rang like glass, joy stripped to its bones until it howled. Shapes too immense to hold pressed inward, then broke. The sound was not sound, the light not light. The Eye floated inside it all, weightless and absolute, drowning in the roar of a realm far too real to exist. Reality felt thin compared to this place. Time did not move here. Shapes that might have been memories curled and uncurled like smoke made of meaning. Thought bent around the Eye like light bending around gravity. Every fragment of what it witnessed was carved directly into the marrow of being, not as understanding, but as weight.

The pressure of that place pressed inward from all directions, not crushing, not heavy, simply absolute, so complete that even the idea of resistance could not survive in its presence. The space was not black or white, not void or full. It was presence made solid, so real that it shredded lesser realities simply by existing. The Eye floated in it like a mote suspended in stone, seeing nothing and everything and knowing neither word meant anything here.

And then it closed.

The visions sheared away. The weight evaporated. The screaming harmonies fell silent, leaving only the echo of their absence behind his teeth. The pressure slipped back through the seams of the world, retreating as though it had never existed, leaving the air hollow and fragile in its wake. Color returned in muted trickles. Distance reassembled itself reluctantly. Sound crept back on shaking limbs.

Akshar-Karuth stood still at the center of a pool of shifting darkness. The oldest structure on the mother rose in broken ribs around him, carved from basalt and time, older than prayer. Dust did not touch him. Even the shadows hesitated near his frame. The stone pillars bowed under their own age, etched in the written tongue of his people, every word carved deep, every line telling the story of the world as it had been before the false gods tried to claim it. He read each mark without effort. He had known them all since before he could speak. The stories carved there were older than stone and sharper than blood. They told of seas born from fire, of mountains pulled screaming from the earth, of the Firstborn who walked before the skies were sealed.

The ceiling loomed low overhead, cracked but unfallen, a mosaic of volcanic glass shards set into the stone in sweeping spirals. They caught the faint glow from the river and scattered it in fractured beams across the floor. Those beams shifted like blades when he passed through them. They did not touch him.

He moved, crossing the pool without a ripple, horns glinting faintly as he passed beneath the archway bearing the first truths. They had not been raised to gods. They had been raised to warn. No divinity lived here. Only memory, and the weight of what was taken. The air itself seemed to pull back from him, as if unwilling to interfere with one who carried that memory still.

Before him ran the blood of the mother, a slow river of molten black glass that burned without heat. Light moved inside it like living veins, threads of gold and white drifting through the dark flow, curling and unraveling as they passed. It shone like fractured stars beneath the surface, each flicker sharp enough to cut the eye, and the air above it tasted faintly of iron and storms. The current did not ripple. It slid forward, silent and perfect, as though gravity itself dared not touch it. The smell was rich and electric, like stone struck by lightning. The faint hiss of its movement was less sound than memory, like hearing something from before you were born.

Akshar-Karuth lowered one clawed hand. He dipped a single finger with the care of a priest tending flame, drawing it back with measured grace. He touched it to his tongue, reverent, wasting nothing. The molten glass sank into him as if it had been waiting, ancient and as deep as the memory of the world herself, sharp as lightning through bone, rich with the weight of ages. It clung to his senses like the words of a lover sung in the shadows of the night. He stood perfectly still as it spread through him, every fragment of it finding its way to the places in him where time no longer moved.

It would be his last drink for some time. The river whispered past him, patient and eternal, as he stood above it like a shadow cut out of the world, already thinking of the war that would follow.

Snow drifted in slow spirals through the dead air. It hissed as it touched the ground, melting red where it landed. The world was quiet. Still. Too still. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath, waiting to see what she would do next. The silence clung to her like a blanket, soft and heavy and comforting, as though the whole world had stopped just to watch her play.

Melody hummed to herself as she spun in place, the hem of her dress trailing scarlet arcs across the white. Her bare feet pressed little half-moons into the snow, each one filling with blood before the cold could take it. She did not feel the cold. She never did. The snow crackled and hissed under her weight, steaming faintly where her skin touched it. Around her lay her new playmates, scattered like dropped dolls. They weren't moving anymore, but that was fine. They'd played for a while. Maybe they were tired. Maybe they would wake up later and want to play again. She would come back to check, just in case. Sometimes toys just needed a nap. That was okay.

She missed daddy Calum. And papa Rupert. She had hugged daddy Calum so hard, right before she left. She remembered the warmth of his arms, how safe they felt, and then something had smelled sweet, so sweet, and then it smelled even better, like something soft melting on her tongue. She had closed her eyes. When she opened them, she was outside. The air was cold, but it didn't matter. She was so excited. Everything was a little sticky, and it was sweet and fun, and she had been playing for a while. She thought maybe she should go home soon. They probably missed her. Daddy Calum would bake his cookies, the soft ones with the golden edges, and papa Rupert would tell her a story in his slow deep voice. He always made the scary parts sound funny. She liked when he did that. She liked when they were all together. It felt warm. She liked warm. She thought about that sometimes when she was far away and everything was too quiet.

The air around her shimmered faintly. Snowflakes fell and stopped, hanging in place before drifting again. Strange little shapes drifted near her toys, like scraps of shadow stitched together, fluttering soundlessly before unraveling back into nothing. A torn ribbon of cloth lifted and floated near her, catching on the frozen breeze before disintegrating into black dust. A cracked helmet sagged in the snow, one cracked eye lens still faintly glowing, before flickering out. The world felt heavier here, sagging inward toward her, like the air itself had grown thick and heavy enough to drown in. The trees at the edge of the field leaned ever so slightly toward her, as though listening.

She twirled again. Strands of her hair lifted though no breeze touched her, curling like wet ribbons. Her eyes gleamed silver-white, catching the dim light like frostbitten mirrors. She sang a little tune with no words, just notes rising and falling as she danced, splashing scarlet in perfect arcs. Her voice was thin and soft and sweet, like cracked glass humming. She liked the way it echoed, even though there were no walls. The snow listened. The snow always listened. Sometimes she thought it hummed with her, just a little, just for a moment.

"I'll find you later," she whispered to no one. "When I'm done. You'll be so proud. You always are."

She looked down at her toys. They weren't very good toys. They always stopped too soon. They always went quiet. Sometimes they curled up in funny shapes before they stopped, like they were trying to pretend to be something else. She liked that. They were trying. She liked when they tried. They always forgot how to try after a while, but that was okay. She liked them anyway. She always liked them. She wished they wouldn't break so fast. Maybe she could fix them next time. Maybe she could be gentler. She probably wouldn't be.

Then her head tilted. Somewhere far off, muffled through the still air, she heard something. Voices. New friends. They were laughing, maybe. Or crying. It was hard to tell the difference. She smiled so wide it hurt her cheeks. Her hands trembled with excitement, and little droplets of red pattered on the snow between her feet.

Snow whirled harder, blotting the horizon. The wind carried the smell of iron and fear. Melody breathed it in, eyes half-lidded in delight. The scent was sharp and cold and fizzy on her tongue, like winter lightning. It tickled her nose and made her giggle. Then she stepped forward, leaving a trail of red across the white, and went to find more toys. Maybe the next ones would last longer. Maybe they would play better. Maybe. She hoped they would smile.

Vaeliyan Verdance/Warren Smith— Level 34

Fourth threshold requirements not met

Class: Wake Bringer/Mirage Walker

Alignment: Green Zone Citizen/Aberrant Unallocated Stat Points: 0

Strength: 171 Perception: 181 Intelligence: 207 Dexterity: 181 Endurance: 171 Resolve: 207

Vaeliyan's Skills at level 34

Power Strike (Active): A single, focused melee blow delivered with full-body commitment. Designed to break guards, knock targets off balance, or end a fight with clean force. Most effective when delivered from a grounded stance with intent. Requires no charge, no windup, only opportunity.

Razor Sand (Active): Evolved from Pocket Sand. A storm of nanite-laced grit sharpened to lethal edges. When unleashed, it shreds flesh, severs nerves, and tears through soft tissue with surgical cruelty. Causes immediate blindness, catastrophic internal damage, and escalating terror in those caught within it. The sand no longer disperses harmlessly, it lingers, embedding itself in eyes, lungs, and wounds, waiting to be recalled. At the user's command, the grains can rip themselves free along the most direct path, regardless of resistance, carving tunnels of destruction as they return.

(New)Luminoscalpel (Active): Evolved from Flash. Light is no longer burst outward to blind or dazzle, but forced inward, sharpened through radiation and guided by nanite precision. It pours into the bloodstream, twisting red cells into serrated growths that tear through flesh with every beat of the heart.

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The body becomes its own blade. Veins shred, organs puncture, nerves carve apart under a tide of microscopic knives. The effect is slow, excruciating, and without purpose beyond torment. Pain is etched from within until nothing remains whole.

(New)Crimson Engine (Passive): Evolved from Optimized Metabolism. The body functions as a furnace, circulation carrying fire and fuel in the same breath. Heat is no longer wasted but burned forward, driving exertion into endurance. Strain compounds itself into greater output, effort feeding effort.

Recovery no longer waits until rest, it exists inside motion. Every beat of the heart repairs what it threatens to break. Collapse is not the end of action; it is the next ignition. The harder the body drives, the hotter the engine runs, and the hotter it runs, the longer it endures.

(New)Gyroscopic Core (Passive): Evolved from Anchored Stance. Balance is no longer tied to the ground. Orientation locks to an internal axis, corrected before drift or spin can take hold. Tumbling halts before it begins, momentum cycling into stability.

Inversion, weightlessness, sudden shock, none displace position. Ground contact is no longer required for equilibrium. In air or on shifting terrain, balance persists unbroken. The body becomes its own horizon; every motion aligned to chosen intent.

(New)Force Sovereign (Passive): Evolved from Structural Sovereign. Integrity no longer only endures; it commands force itself. Impact, recoil, and pressure can be drawn into the body, held without damage, stored as potential. Organs, tissue, and frame absorb violence that would destroy others, keeping it in reserve.

Release is not reflexive but chosen. Stored pressure can flood into a strike, a leap, or a sudden movement, multiplying output beyond natural maximums. The body remains whole, unbroken, while channeling what should have torn it apart. Force is no longer resisted, it is sovereign.

(New)Instantaneous Vector (Passive): Evolved from Vector Lock. Motion no longer builds toward speed, it arrives there. Acceleration has been erased; the body can shift from stillness to peak velocity in a single instant.

Every step, strike, or leap commits to its full potential the moment it begins. Momentum is not earned over distance or time, it is immediate, absolute, already complete. The body becomes a projectile the instant it chooses to move, vectors snapping to their destination without delay.

Vaeliyan's Soul skill – All Around You

Stage Three

Core Effect – Pressure Field

The field builds over time. The longer the user remains still, the faster the pressure intensifies. What begins as a subtle shift becomes a persistent weight. The space tightens. Air feels heavier. Focus degrades. The presence grows without sound or warning.

Passive – Suffocation Drift

The field spreads outward from the user, thinning focus and sharpening discomfort. Oxygen levels remain unchanged, but breathing feels strained. Thought slows. Tension builds. The effect is passive, progressive, and persistent.

Execution Effect – Compression Spike

The user can condense the field instantly, applying a sudden spike of directional pressure. The effect is silent, invisible, and immediate. At close range, it can stagger limbs, break rhythm, or knock weapons off-course. Applied precisely, it can mimic the force of a physical strike.

Stage three upgrades:

Internal Effect – Permeable Core The user may now allow external force to pass through the body by redirecting pressure along internal paths. When active, the body no longer absorbs impact as mass, instead, it becomes a conduit.

Blunt strikes, shockwaves, and concussive force are no longer stopped by the body. Pressure is diffused on contact and routed through, allowing the user to remain upright and unbroken regardless of physical trauma.

Punches pass through muscle without tearing it.

Explosions ripple across skin and exit without causing rupture.

Falls, slams, or collisions become transitory.

Known Limitations:

The field strengthens the longer the user remains still. Movement reduces intensity and disrupts edge stability.

Pressure loses coherence with distance from the user.

The Skill does not directly immobilize targets.

Effects are less noticeable to individuals with suppressed emotional response, advanced conditioning, or enhanced respiratory systems.

Does not reduce sharp trauma, piercing attacks, or cutting damage. Only force that relies on internal pressure transfer is negated.

Maintaining permeability requires conscious control. If interrupted, the field defaults to normal behavior.

Warren's Skills at Level 34

Soft Flicker (Active):

A refined evolution of Flicker Steps. Allows the user to disperse into a controlled nanite mist and reconstitute nearby within visual range, without noise, shimmer, or static trail. Movement is no longer disruptive, no longer a visual stutter: it simply happens, like a blink that no one notices.

Requires direct line of sight, The reformation process has been stabilized, smoothed into seamless reintegration. There is no burst, no flash, no displacement wake, just a change in position, clean and surgical.

Examine (Active): Allows close, precise inspection of physical items. Identifies structural materials, mechanical condition, origin markers, manufacturing details, and utility potential. Does not reveal hidden properties.

Mobile Sun (Active): Generates a compact gravitational core of nanites. Anything that enters contact is drawn in and torn apart by extreme force. The field exerts constant vacuum pressure in all directions. Control is manual. Activation carries physical risk. Warning: The user is not exempt. Contact with the core will result in severe damage or death. This Skill does not stabilize itself. It will consume whatever it touches, intended or not.

(New)Branching Paths (Passive): Evolved from Paths of the Future. Probability does not stop at awareness. One potential branch can now be acted upon in parallel, instantiated through a nanite duplicate that performs a single chosen action while the user commits to another.

The copy does not think, it executes. One strike, one step, one defense, carried out absolute before dissolving. Decision no longer narrows to one line. In the same moment, the body can take two.

(New)Sensory Echo (Passive): Evolved from Compound Echoes. Recording extends beyond vision. Every sense the body carries is retained and replayable, sound, touch, balance, vibration, smell, heat.

What was seen can be heard again. What was touched can be felt again. Experience replays as total perception, frame by frame, layered with full fidelity. Nothing slips between sensation and memory.

(New)Living Framework (Passive): Evolved from Crafting. Blueprint recognition is no longer summoned but constant. Materials reveal their seams, stress lines, and balance points the instant they are handled. Faults show themselves as clearly as cracks in glass, pressure paths as visibly as joints under strain.

Assembly follows instinct. Parts slide into place as though guided, weight distributes along the correct channels before collapse begins. Disassembly yields clean stock, ordered and ready. Building is no longer trial, but reflex: design lives with the work, flowing through every motion

Warren's Skill – Rain Dancer

Stage Three

Core Effect – Phase Slip

Environmental moisture, rain, mist, blood, steam, no longer reacts to Warren. It aligns with him. He is not moving through the storm. He is the storm's chosen vector.

Water flows with him, not around him.

Raindrops spiral to his motion.

Mist forms his silhouette before he steps into it.

Visibility itself becomes distorted in his presence.

Passive – Micro-Evasion Boost

Every movement Warren makes is adjusted, not just spatially, but meteorologically. Wind pressure shifts around his path. Microcurrents redirect trajectories.

Flechettes miss by millimeters.

Melee swings veer away as air density warps.

Objects moving toward him may deflect subtly, as though pushed by sudden wind shear.

To observers, it looks like supernatural instinct. To the System, it's a behavior it cannot fully explain.

Attack Sync Effect – Kinetic Surge

When Warren strikes mid-motion, the environment becomes a weapon.

A swing of his truncheon may bring a concussive burst of pressure, water, or mist.

Rain compacts and detonates on impact.

Mist lashes like a coiled whip.

Droplets act as accelerants, increasing momentum and range.

His blows land with the violence of hurricanes. His movement leaves behind impact craters, gouged stone, or collapsing structures, not from strength, but from the mass of motion given form.

Visual Signature

Rain doesn't fall, it follows. Mist doesn't obscure, it shapes him.

Each movement trails spirals, rings, and pulses of moisture that react before contact.

Lightning sometimes arcs around him, not to strike, but to avoid him.

The storm bends toward him, not in service, but in recognition.

Growth Conditions:

Rain Dancer evolves through high-risk engagements in poor visibility conditions.

Rain, smoke, fog, blood mist, steam, any atmosphere with distortion potential increases adaptation.

Direct kills made immediately following an evasion spike increase psychological effect range.

The more he endures, the more the storm learns him.

Known Limitations:

Less effective in arid, dry, or open-sky environments. More moisture decreases its limitations.

Function (Path of Clarity): Controlled Precipitation: Rainfall within the field thins to preserve sightlines, airflow, and coordination. Peripheral zones retain full density for concealment and misdirection. Steam Dispersal: Heated mist is redirected outward or downward, creating breathable corridors even in high-temperature vapor zones. Visibility stabilizes. Pressure Equilibrium: Localized fluctuations in atmospheric pressure are neutralized. This reduces disorientation and strain, allowing full function even in hostile weather environments.

Notable Effects: Rain falls as needed: soft over breath, heavy where silence must hold. Mist shapes passage instead of shrouding it. Steam thins without vanishing. The field does not clear the storm, it harmonizes with it. Relief without weakness. Shelter without retreat.

Switch Conditions: The Skill responds without voice or motion. Intent defines function. Desire for clarity calms the storm. Need for sight, for breath, for balance, these shape the field. There is no surge. Just space to endure.

Resonant Field Memory: Each encounter with distorted air sharpens the field's response. Areas previously traversed will adapt faster in future returns. Steam, rain, and fog alter more intuitively in zones where the Skill has learned to listen.

Stage three upgrades:

Recall Flow (Blood Reclamation):

Blood that leaves his body never truly leaves.

It lingers in puddles, climbs walls, clings to blades, then returns.

It flows back through the air, through vapor, through veins remade from rainfall.

If his blood is burned or destroyed, the storm fills in the gaps.

Hydrocoagulation (Rain-Sealed Wounds):

Rain doesn't just fall on him. It stitches him.

Wounds don't heal; they close with thin film pressure and liquid structure.

The water becomes vessel and sealant.

Atmospheric Substitution (Rain-is-Blood):

When blood is lost beyond reclamation, the storm itself substitutes for it.

Ambient rain enters his wounds and circulates like blood.

Oxygen exchange, fluid pressure, and temperature regulation are maintained through hydrodynamic mimicry.

Floodbound Body (I-Am-The-Rain): Organs shift their water balance to maintain function even under extreme trauma. If flesh fails, moisture repositions to preserve essential flow.

Muscles generate motion through directed water pressure. rainwater can fill lost mass. His limbs strike with the weight of whatever storm has entered him. Torn muscle, pierced gut, open veins, none of it matters if there's enough rain to fill the gap

Note: All passive skills are usable throughout the veil

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