He stood there for a moment, hand hovering near the doorbell. The house looked the same — worn bricks, chipping white paint, and the same porch light that buzzed faintly like it was always on the verge of dying.
He hadn’t been home in a while.
Not since his last birthday.
Not since the conversation — the one where his dad didn’t say he was disappointed, but somehow said it with everything else.
He rang the bell.
The door opened almost immediately.
“Dilly!” his little sister threw her arms around him with a grin. “You made it! Wow, you smell like… old air filters and library ghosts.”
He laughed softly. “Thanks, I think.”
She pulled him inside. The house smelled like roasted vegetables and whatever experimental sauce his mom had decided to risk tonight.
In the dining room, his mom looked up from the table. “Dillion,” she said warmly, though her eyes scanned him for signs of whatever she feared or hoped had changed.
His dad glanced up from his seat with a nod. “You look tired.”
“Long day,” Dillion replied.
“Still at the bookstore?” his mom asked.
“Yeah,” he said simply, slipping into the seat his sister had pulled out for him.
Dinner passed like it always did — polite, careful, like walking barefoot over glass. His sister carried the conversation, rambling about school, friends, weird Center ads that kept popping up on her feed.
His mom asked about work. His dad grunted about rent.
No one asked what he wanted.
Dillion didn’t bring up Sora. Or Soul Marks. Or that he’d fought a monster the size of a horse and got tossed out of a pub two days ago. Or that he’d made more money in three Sorian days than he had in a real month.
Instead, he smiled when it felt right, nodded when expected, and kept his answers brief.
When dinner was over, his mom stopped him near the door. “I found something the other day,” she said, disappearing into the hallway and returning with a battered old book.
It was Rainborn — the same dog-eared copy he used to reread until the pages curled.
“I was going to toss it, but… figured you might still want it.”
He took it. The weight in his hand felt different now.
“Thanks, Mom.”
Outside, the night was cooler than he remembered. The streets quieter. As he walked, his phone buzzed again.
A notification from Eden.
1 New Message: S.C.
“If you’re serious about learning — come back. West of the Capital. You’ll find me.”
Dillion stopped at the curb, streetlights washing him in amber.
He didn’t smile. But he didn’t hesitate either.
He looked up.
The city loomed.
His dive pass pulsed in his pocket, faint and blue.
Tomorrow, he would return to Sora.
The soft hum of the pod filled Dillion’s ears as his vision blurred to white.
The world of Earth faded.
And Sora—
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
Sora came back like a breath he’d been holding his whole life.
He awoke standing just outside the Adventurer’s Outpost in the capital, the air fresh with early morning dew, the cobblestone paths gleaming faintly under the rising sun. Birds chirped in melodic bursts, and shopkeepers had only just begun unlocking doors and sweeping stoops.
Dillion stepped forward, his hand reflexively summoning his Soul Gem, now floating above his palm in its familiar blue shimmer.
Name: Dillion Rogers
Soul Mark: Blue
Level: 5
Skills:
Shield Guard (Rank 2) 0/20
Shield Bash (Rank 2) 0/20
Dexterity (Rank 2) 0/20
Overwhelming Strength (Rank 2) 0/10
Weak Point (Rank 3) 0/30
Spells:
Water Manipulation (Rank 0) (Level 1)
Swift Boots (Rank 1) (Level 3)
Enchantments:
Fog (Knife Enchantment)
Soul Points Remaining: 70
He closed his hand, the gem dissolving into motes of light.
Today wasn’t about quests or gold.
It was about finding Stark.
Dillion asked around the outpost, using vague descriptions of “an older man with reddish hair and weird energy,” and most responses were shrugs — until a stable boy nodded.
“Old hermit lives in the woods west of the capital. Comes in sometimes for tea leaves and ink. Doesn’t talk much. Weird eyes.”
That was enough.
Dillion made his way through the western gates, past bustling merchant stalls and beyond the outer fields where livestock grazed and players tested new gear. The buildings grew sparser, the terrain rougher. Trees clustered tighter together.
The path became dirt. Then stone. Then a narrow trail barely visible unless you were looking.
He followed it.
After about an hour of steady walking, the woods opened to a clearing — a small wooden cabin tucked under the shade of ancient trees, smoke curling lazily from the chimney.
A garden patch overflowed with herbs and strange glowing mushrooms. Books were stacked on the porch beside a weathered chair. A whittled statue of a Soul Gem sat atop a wooden post near the door.
And on that porch, feet propped up, sipping from a chipped mug, was Stark.
Without looking up, the old man muttered, “Took you long enough, Blue Boy.”
Dillion stepped into the clearing, the tension in his shoulders unwinding with every step.
“I’m here,” he said simply.
Stark grinned.
“Good. Let’s see what you're really made of.”
Dillion stepped onto the porch, his boots crunching soft dirt and loose leaf litter. Stark didn’t move from his chair. Just sipped his strange steaming drink and watched him with unreadable eyes.
“I didn’t think you’d come back so soon,” Stark said.
“I wasn’t going to,” Dillion admitted. “But I couldn’t stop thinking about what you said. About learning.”
Stark let the silence hang. A bluebird landed on a nearby branch and chirped once before flying off.
Finally, Stark stood. “Come inside. You’re not going to learn anything standing out here.”
The interior of the cabin was like walking into the mind of a mad scholar.
Stacks of books lined the walls, some written in languages Dillion had never seen before. Weapons from every era and style hung above a fireplace. A soul crystal the size of a dinner plate hovered in a glass case in the corner, pulsing gently.
“Sit,” Stark said, gesturing to a worn cushion beside a small table. Dillion obeyed.
Stark poured them both a strange blue-green tea from a clay kettle. “First lesson’s free.”
Dillion took a sip. It tasted like mint, thunder, and something older than Earth.
“You feel it yet?” Stark asked.
Dillion blinked. “What?”
“That itch in your hands. That ache in your chest. Like you’re holding back a scream you haven’t even figured out the words for.”
Dillion’s fingers tightened around the cup.
Stark leaned forward, eyes sharp now. “That’s your soul waking up. Most people think Sora is a game. You think that. You think you're playing. But that world? It plays back.”
Dillion didn’t respond.
Stark stood again and grabbed something from the shelf — a thin strip of cloth with Sorian runes stitched in gold. He tied it around his wrist.
“You’ve got power now, boy. Real power. But power without clarity? That just makes you dangerous.”
“I thought that’s what you wanted,” Dillion said, surprising himself.
Stark grinned. “Good. You’re paying attention.”
They stepped outside into the clearing. Stark pulled out a plain wooden sword and tossed another one to Dillion.
Dillion caught it awkwardly. “This… isn’t training with spells?”
“Spells come later. First you learn the rhythm. The tempo of tension. You learn how to move like someone who intends to be alive.”
The next hour was chaos. Not brutal combat — but deliberate chaos. Stark moved with lazy precision, forcing Dillion to react, dodge, think. Every swing was just slow enough to dodge — until it wasn’t. Every block Dillion made was clumsy. Every lunge off-balance.
He hit the dirt more times than he could count.
And Stark never stopped talking.
“Stop looking at the weapon — look at the shoulder!”
“Back foot first, not front — or you’ll trip on your own panic.”
“Don’t defend like you’re scared to lose — defend like you deserve to win.”
When they finally stopped, the sun had shifted high overhead. Dillion’s body ached — not in the glowing soul-mark way — but the deep, sore-muscle kind. The kind that reminded him he was still flesh.
He dropped the sword and collapsed onto the grass, chest heaving.
Stark just sat beside him and looked up at the sky.
“You’re not bad,” he said. “Terrible form. No instinct. But you’ve got timing. You’ll grow.”
Dillion stared up at the leaves overhead, the patterns of sunlight bleeding through.
“Why are you helping me?” he asked.
Stark didn’t answer right away. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer. Older.
“Because one day soon, someone’s going to try and break you — for real. Not with teeth or claws. But with lies. And fear. And if you’re not ready…” He shook his head. “You’ll break too easy.”
Dillion didn’t know what to say to that.
So he said nothing. Just looked up at the sky.