Dillion stayed.
One day turned into three. Three turned into a week. And before he even realized, a month had passed.
He had messaged May through the Eden app, telling her he’d be gone for a while. Back on Earth, he’d already made his choice — he’d quit his job at the bookstore the day after that family dinner. No explanation. Just a quiet resignation letter left under a stack of returns.
He didn’t know what future he was chasing.
But he knew where it started.
Mornings began before dawn — Stark waking him up by banging a frying pan or tossing a glowing mushroom at his head.
They trained with weapons: dull knives, weighted shields, staffs carved from enchanted trees.
They wrestled in the mud, practiced dodging while blindfolded, and balanced on tree trunks over fast-running streams while sparring.
They discussed battle rhythm, opponent reading, posture control, terrain usage, and nonverbal cues from monster types. Stark called it “Battle IQ.”
During this time Dillion would also be training up his skill with his Spells unlocking new ways to use his Water Manipulation.
“Anyone can swing a sword. But knowing when not to swing? That’s the mark of someone who lives past level twenty.”
When the sun set, they’d sit outside the cabin, watching fireflies dance between the trees while Stark brewed strange teas and told half-truths disguised as stories.
Sometimes, they’d laugh.
Sometimes, they’d sit in silence.
It didn’t matter.
It felt… like family.
Dillion’s body changed.
He grew stronger. Not just in the numbers glowing in his Soul Gem — but in presence. Posture. Confidence.
He moved with intent. His shield work was tighter. His feet lighter. His senses sharper.
By the end of the month, his Soul Gem had evolved in hue — a deeper, more brilliant blue, pulsing with slow, steady strength.
Name: Dillion Rogers
Soul Mark: Blue
Level: 14
Skills:
Shield Guard (Rank 5) 0/50
Shield Bash (Rank 5) 0/50
Dexterity (Rank 5) 0/50
Overwhelming Strength (Rank 5) 0/50
Weak Point (Rank 5) 0/50
Spells:
Water Manipulation (Rank 0) (Level 4)
Swift Boots (Rank 1) (Level 4)
Enchantments:
Fog (Knife Enchantment)
Soul Points Remaining: 0
On the final night, Stark handed him a steaming mug of whatever mysterious blend he was drinking — something that smelled like burnt stars and mint.
“You’re ready,” Stark said.
Dillion looked at him. “For what?”
Stark grinned. “That’s the thing. I don’t know yet. But you’re not a tourist anymore. You belong here now.”
Dillion stared into the fire, his reflection flickering inside the flame.
And for the first time, he believed it.
The sunlight slid across the cabin floor like a creeping whisper.
Dillion blinked awake, expecting the usual rattle of pans, the smell of boiling herbs, or Stark’s gravel voice yelling about footwork.
But the cabin was silent.
Empty.
He sat up slowly. The bedroll beside the hearth was gone. The bookshelf—always messy—was straightened. The weird glowing soul-crystal? Vanished from its pedestal.
Everything looked… final.
Dillion stood and stepped outside. The fire pit was cold. No smoke, no prints in the dirt. Even the tea kettle was cleaned and put away.
He’s gone.
And just as the weight of that realization settled in his chest—
Creak.
The cabin door opened behind him.
Dillion spun.
It wasn’t Stark.
It was someone younger, sharply dressed in black robes trimmed with silver—a woman with short dark hair and an Eden insignia on her collar. She carried herself like she had somewhere more important to be, but paused when their eyes met.
Dillion recognized her instantly.
Silas Crow’s assistant.
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She smiled softly, with a hint of awkwardness. “You’re Dillion, right?”
He nodded, still confused. “What are you doing here? Where’s Stark?”
She stepped inside, glancing around the now-empty cabin.
“Stark won’t be coming back,” she said gently. “He left early this morning. Didn’t tell me where he was going. Just left a message to give to you.”
She reached into her coat and pulled out a sealed envelope. The paper was heavy. The seal pressed in gold.
Dillion took it, hand trembling slightly.
As he opened it, the words inside were simple, written in tight, elegant handwriting:
_“The world is shifting. You were never meant to be a background character.
Train harder. Question everything. Trust your instincts.
And don’t idolize men like me — we’re always more myth than truth.”_
—S.C.
Dillion’s heart stopped for a moment.
S.C.
Silas Crow.
He looked up. “You’re saying… Stark was—?”
The assistant nodded. “The one and only. Not many people ever meet him in person. You’re lucky.”
Dillion was speechless. The man who trained him, who lectured him, threw tea at his face, and taught him how to fight — wasn’t just some old mentor.
He was the very reason Dillion came to Sora in the first place.
Silas Crow.
And he was already gone
Dillion stood there, still gripping the letter, the last words of Silas Crow — of Stark — echoing in his head.
He didn’t feel betrayed.
He didn’t feel angry.
He felt... heavier. Like he’d just read the final page of a story he hadn’t realized he was living.
The assistant offered him a respectful nod and left without another word.
The door closed.
Silence returned.
Inside the cabin, everything felt different now. The dusty corners held a new weight, like the room itself had been watching his training, holding its breath.
Dillion moved quietly to the small chest beside the hearth. Inside were folded clothes Stark had once tossed at him and grumbled, "These might not be stylish, but they won’t get you killed."
Now they felt like armor. Memory-wrapped and worn-in.
He changed out of his training gear and slipped into the simple light armor. Leather, padded in key spots, flexible and snug. But carved beneath the chest plate and along the seams were faint Sorian runes, glowing faintly with blue light.
“Durability enhancement,” Dillion muttered to himself. Stark had explained it once.
“Nothing flashy. Just keeps you standing a little longer when life wants you down.”
He tightened the buckles, then reached for his gear.
The shield locked onto his left arm with a comfortable click.
The knife, enchanted with Fog, slid smoothly into its hip sheath.
His Soul Gem pulsed faintly in his palm when he checked it — still glowing blue, still his.
This time when he looked into it, he didn’t feel like some scared newbie scrambling for control.
He felt… ready.
Dillion took one last look at the cabin. The books. The quiet. The half-empty tea shelf.
“Thanks,” he said softly to the walls. “For everything.”
And then he stepped outside into the forest, into the wild, into the path forward.
The Capital waited.
A month had passed in sora, On earth only 2 days. 24 hours on earth is 12 days on Sora. More had changed in this month for dillion then he even knew.
The Capital hadn’t changed, but Dillion had.
The streets were still packed — players and Sorians weaving through the chaos, merchants shouting about Soul-infused gear, teleport circles pulsing with color and light. But this time, Dillion wasn’t lost in it.
He moved with purpose, armor light on his frame, Soul Mark glowing faintly beneath his collar. And when he pushed open the door to May’s bookshop, the bell overhead gave a familiar ding.
May glanced up from the counter — then her eyes widened.
“You—!”
Before he could even say hi, she stormed around the counter, finger pointed like a dagger.
“You quit your job?! You just—vanished from Earth? No message, no explanation, just ‘poof,’ like a dramatic anime character?!”
Dillion blinked, a little stunned by the sudden energy.
“Good to see you too.”
“I’m serious!” she huffed, glaring. “You ghosted me, Dillion! I thought maybe something happened. And now you show up here with armor and an actual jawline?”
He scratched the back of his neck, awkward. “I, uh… I’ve been training.”
“No kidding,” she muttered, circling him like a hawk inspecting a weird new species. “You’ve got that whole mysterious-sword-guy vibe now. You even smell like pine and regret.”
Dillion chuckled softly.
But then her face turned more serious. “Wait… how long have you been in Sora?”
He hesitated. “…About a month.”
May’s jaw dropped. “A month?! Are you insane?!”
He took a step back. “I—what?”
“You can’t stay here that long, Dillion! That’s the number one warning Eden gives! One week, max — anything longer starts… changing people.”
Dillion looked at her, confused. “But… I feel fine.”
She stared at him. Not angry now. Just… worried.
“People say it messes with your mind. That staying here too long pulls your soul deeper than it's supposed to go. You get less… you.”
There was a pause. The sounds of the city filtered through the open shop door.
Then, softly, May added, “You’re not just here to play the game anymore, are you?”
Dillion looked away. “No. I’m here for something real.”
There was something in his eyes now — a quiet strength. May saw it. She didn’t like it… but she understood it.
After a long breath, she crossed her arms. “You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?”
Dillion smiled. “Yeah. I missed you too.
Dillion and may made their way to the Outpost, May was making sure Dillion would logout.
The Outpost near the Capital was buzzing.
Dillion and May barely got through the outer gates before they were swallowed by the noise — not the usual hum of quest boards and vendors, but cheers, shouting, and the chaotic chant of numbers being traded in the air.
A massive glowing board was mounted above the entrance.
"CAPITAL SOUL TOURNAMENT — LIVE BRACKETS"
Bets closing in 3 hours
A crowd was packed shoulder-to-shoulder beneath it, waving soul gems, bargaining over odds, and yelling about rising contenders.
“Is this a tournament?” May asked, craning her neck.
“Looks like one,” Dillion replied, adjusting the strap on his shield. “A big one.”
They pushed through the crowd, trying to make it toward the interior of the Outpost where Dillion could log out — but before they could break through, a strong hand snatched May’s wrist mid-step.
“Hey now,” a voice slurred, too smug to be friendly. “Didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”
Dillion froze.
The man leering at May was bulky, armored in crimson plates, his eyes wild with recognition and cruelty.
It was the drunk from the pub.
Dillion’s fists clenched. He stepped forward — but before the drunk could say another word, Dillion was already behind him.
His hand wrapped around the man’s wrist, tight.
“I said,” Dillion said calmly, “let go.”
The man flinched, caught off guard — the crowd around them quieted.
A few in the crowd gasped. Someone whispered his name.
“That’s Andrew Cane…”
A Soul Gem glowed red on his chest. The man slowly twisted free, smiling now.
“You’ve got speed,” he said, rubbing his wrist. “Not bad for a no-name.”
Dillion didn’t respond. May stepped closer, tense.
“Top 1000 fighter,” the man said proudly, flexing his shoulders. “Berserker class. People call me The Red Chain. You’re fast, I’ll give you that. But you’re soft. Like a puppy with a toy knife.”
Dillion stepped forward, but before either of them could move again, a third presence appeared between them like a shadow.
Tall. Cloaked in gray. Long white hair drifting beneath a cracked ceramic mask etched with Sorian script.
The man’s voice was low and even.
“That’s enough.”
Dillion stepped back instinctively. The air around this stranger felt cold — not in temperature, but in weight.
A Soul Gem pulsed softly above the man’s chest.
White.
A Soul Warden.
Even the Red Chain stopped talking, suddenly aware of what was in front of him.
The cloaked figure looked at them both.
“No fighting here,” he said. “The arena exists for a reason.”
Then, slowly, he turned and walked back into the crowd, vanishing like mist.
Andrew Cane exhaled, then smirked at Dillion. “Tell you what, hero. Sign up. Enter the tournament.”
He leaned in slightly. “Let's see who can make it the furthest.”
If we end up facing off to one another I am going to make sure you learn to respect us in the 1k
Then he walked away, laughing.
May looked over at Dillion. “You okay?”
Dillion nodded once, quiet.
Then he looked up at the glowing bracket board, the roaring crowd, the pulsing Soul Gems....
Dillion knew he didn't need to enter the tournament, He knew that he would probably lose.
He didn't care; Dillion was no longer going to let others look down on him, He would enter the tournament to
not only prove to others but prove to himself that wasn't someone to push around anymore.