The words flared to life in stark white against a shimmering golden wall, their radiance piercing Moyo's blurry vision. He blinked sluggishly, trying to bring the message into focus, his head pounding like a war drum.
Pain consumed him.
Not the sharp, clean pain of a cut or a broken bone. This was something deeper, more fundamental. Like his body had been taken apart at the molecular level and reassembled wrong. Every muscle, every nerve screamed with raw agony. His bones felt like they'd been replaced with molten iron, still cooling, still burning from the inside out.
His mouth tasted of iron, his own blood, thick and copper on his tongue. His thoughts swirled like scattered debris in a storm, fragmentary and disconnected. Where was he? What happened? The auditorium. Amara dissolving to ash. The crystal. The voice carving itself into his brain.
The integration.
The memory hit him like a physical blow, and Moyo's body convulsed, a strangled sound escaping his throat. His chest heaved, trying to draw air into lungs that felt crushed, collapsed.
For a brief, fleeting moment, he clung to the hope that all of this was just a dream. A nightmare born from too much studying, too little sleep, the stress of graduation finally breaking something in his mind.
Any second now, he would wake up to the sound of his mother banging on his door, her familiar exasperation dragging him out of bed. Or his father's booming laughter from downstairs, calling him lazy in that warm, teasing way of his.
Ole. Lazy.
His father's voice echoed in his mind, not as an insult but as an affectionate refrain, a word spoken so often it had become an endearment. His father would shake his head, that smile playing at his lips as Moyo stumbled downstairs, still half-asleep.
His mother would already have breakfast ready, jollof rice reheated from the night before, the smell of it filling their small Lagos apartment with warmth and home and life.
A hoarse chuckle escaped Moyo's cracked lips at the memory, and with it came fresh waves of agony. The sound ripped through his raw throat like broken glass, the sharpness of it making his vision flare white. He convulsed, the pain threatening to drag him back into unconsciousness. His hands clawed at the stone beneath him, nails scraping, desperate for something to anchor him to reality.
Stay awake. Stay conscious. Don't slip away.
The thought was primal, instinctive. Some deep animal part of his brain knew that if he passed out again, he might not wake up.
But slowly, excruciatingly, the pain passed, leaving him gasping on the ground like a fish drowning in air. His chest shuddered with every breath, the act of inhaling itself a torment. Each expansion of his lungs sent lightning bolts of agony through his ribs. Something was broken inside him. Multiple somethings.
Slowly, his bleary gaze returned to the glowing golden message before him, floating in the darkness like some cruel joke.
[Welcome Ascender, to the Archailect.]
The name twisted like a thorn in his thoughts.
The Archailect.
The thing that had done this. The force that had torn his world apart, the unseen hand behind the crystal's cold proclamation that Earth had been "integrated."
Integrated. Like humanity was just another component to be slotted into some cosmic machine.
The memory of that moment burned brightly, too brightly. His mother's face somewhere in the crowd. His father recording everything. Tunde laughing about something stupid. Amara trapped, bleeding, reaching for him as her body turned to dust.
All gone.
The thought threatened to break him. Moyo squeezed his eyes shut, his breath hitching dangerously close to a sob. No. No, he couldn't think about that. Not now. If he let himself fall into that pit of grief and despair, he'd never climb out.
Focus. Survive first. Grieve later.
If there even was a later.
As if responding to his thoughts, the message shimmered, shifting into new text.
[Welcome, Ascender, to the Integrated World of [Earth].]
Earth. His home. Reduced to a designation in brackets, just another world absorbed into this system's endless hunger.
[The Archailect System has successfully integrated your world into the Archailect Nexus. As a newly ascended being, your journey begins here, where you will encounter both great challenges and unique opportunities. You have been placed in a Tier 2 Dungeon, an unprecedented location for new Ascenders in integrated worlds. This anomaly is rare but presents unique advantages for rapid growth.]
"Unique advantages," Moyo rasped, his voice barely audible, raw and broken.
His laugh was bitter, strangled.
"You call this an advantage?"
The system, predictably, didn't answer.
More text scrolled past his vision:
System Overview: ? World Tier: [Tier 1 (Mundane)] ? Dungeon Access: Unlocked (Tier 2 Dungeon) ? Current Ascension Rank: [Fledgling]
Initial Guidelines:
- Ascender Core: Your abilities are controlled by your Ascender Core. As an ascended being, you must complete the Ascension Ritual to unlock higher stages of power. While your potential is limited at this stage, you will grow stronger through the system's energy flow.
- Energy Regulation: You have been provided with a Lesser Aether Shard, a basic energy resource to aid your development. Use it wisely to avoid prematurely draining your reserves.
- Dungeon Exploration: ? You have been placed in a Tier 2 Dungeon, an unusual starting point for new Ascenders. ? Challenges will be difficult but offer extraordinary potential for growth. ? Warning: Such anomalies may attract attention from higher authorities. Be cautious, as they often precede unforeseen events.
- Vitality Absorption Skill: A new skill, Blood Absorption, has been granted as part of your integration. This ability allows you to absorb energy from defeated enemies, significantly boosting your strength. ? Note: This skill is unauthorized and governed by hidden rules. Its consequences may unfold over time.
- Error Message: A system fluctuation has generated a hidden directive: ? "Find the Blade."
This message is not part of the official system guidelines but may hold significant importance. Pursuing it could reveal opportunities vital to your survival and ascension.
Immediate Action Required: ? Survive the Dungeon Trials: Prepare for mutated creatures and hostile entities. Master the Blood Absorption skill and strengthen your core. ? Ascension Ritual: Complete the ritual to refine your core and unlock greater potential. ? Seek the Blade: Follow the hidden message. The Blade's nature and purpose may reveal itself as you progress.
May the system guide you, Ascender.
Moyo stared at the screen, the golden words burning into his exhausted mind. His throat was too raw for words, and even if he could speak, he wasn't sure what he'd say.
A welcome message?
The thought almost made him laugh again, but he caught himself, not willing to endure that pain a second time. The absurdity of it—mockery dressed in gold and white, welcoming him to the very system that had destroyed his world, killed his friends, separated him from his family.
And now it expected him to what? Play along? Complete rituals? Seek mysterious blades?
His fists clenched weakly against the stone floor, his nails digging into his palms. The pain was grounding, real, something he could control when everything else had been ripped away from him.
The system called him an "Ascender," but to Moyo, it felt more like a curse than a title. A brand marking him as property of something vast and inhuman that measured existence in tiers and levels and "growth potential."
He felt something materialize in his palm—cool, almost electric to the touch, like glass humming with barely contained power. It pulsed faintly, a dim blue glow barely illuminating his blistered, bloodied fingers.
The Lesser Aether Shard.
Moyo stared at it for a long moment, his mind struggling to process. The shard was beautiful in its own way, geometric and crystalline, its light dancing across the jagged stone walls around him. It cast strange shadows, making the darkness beyond seem even deeper, more oppressive.
He tried to take in his surroundings for the first time. The dungeon, if that's what this place was, looked ancient. The stone walls were rough-hewn, covered in a slick moisture that smelled of minerals and decay.
Water dripped somewhere in the distance, each drop echoing in the oppressive silence. The air was thick, stale, wrong. It tasted like earth and stone and something else—something that made his hindbrain scream danger, predator, death.
This was a tomb. Or it would be his tomb, if he didn't figure out how to survive.
His body was a battlefield of agony, his mind torn between despair and disbelief. Everything that had happened—the pain, the system's cryptic messages, the impossible reality of his situation—felt like a fever dream. But the shard in his hand was real, its energy humming faintly against his skin. The blood crusted on his lips was real. The agony radiating from every nerve ending was brutally, undeniably real.
He let out a shaky breath, trying to piece together the fragmented thoughts swirling in his head. This was a game-like reality, or something similar. He was somehow trapped in a Tier 2 Dungeon, a designation that sounded ominous at best, fatal at worst if he was reading between the lines correctly.
The system had given him Blood Absorption, a skill meant to compensate for the dungeon's dangers—or so it claimed. Yet it had also warned of "unforeseen consequences," which probably meant more trouble down the line. Unauthorized skill. What did that even mean? And then there was the command to seek the Blade. What blade? Where? Why?
It felt like someone's idea of a cruel joke. Drop a Level 0 nobody into an impossible situation and watch them scramble.
Well, if they're watching, I hope they're entertained.
The screen blinked out for a moment before reappearing, static and unhelpful. He had no core, and the system offered no guidance on how to get one. "How do I get a core?" he rasped aloud, his voice raw and strained, each word scraping his throat like sandpaper.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
No response.
The golden screen remained static, offering no answers, no help, no mercy.
Of course.
Moyo tried to move, pushing against the ground with trembling arms. His body rebelled immediately, and a blinding surge of pain slammed into him, pinning him back to the ground like a physical weight. He gasped, tears springing to his eyes unbidden, the wetness tracking through the dust and dried blood on his face.
He clung to the shard in his hand, its faint glow barely illuminating his palm, knuckles white with the effort of simply holding on. After what felt like an eternity, the pain ebbed enough for him to breathe again, each inhalation shallow and measured.
Move. You have to move. Lying here means death.
The screen shimmered, shifting its display, and new information appeared before him.
Name: Moyosore
Path: None
Race: Human
Rank: Fledgling
Core: —
Level: 1
Skills: ? Blood Absorption (?)
Attributes: ? STR: 1 ? DEX: 1 ? END: 1 ? VIT: 1
Moyo stared at the numbers, and something inside him broke a little more.
One. Ones across the board. The absolute minimum. The system was telling him, in cold mathematical terms, that he was as weak as it was possible to be. A baseline human, broken and bleeding in a dungeon designed for people far stronger than him.
I'm going to die here.
The thought came unbidden, and for a moment, Moyo let himself feel it. The crushing weight of despair, the certainty of his own mortality. He was going to die in this dark, wet hole in the ground, alone, forgotten, just another statistic in the Archailect's integration process.
His father would never know what happened to him. His mother would never get closure. They were probably dead too, dissolved like Amara, like everyone else who'd been touched by that light.
For a long moment, Moyo lay there on the cold stone, tears streaming down his face, his body wracked with silent sobs that sent fresh waves of agony through his broken ribs. He wanted to scream. He wanted to rage. He wanted to give up and let the darkness take him.
But then, through the pain and despair, another thought surfaced.
Grandmother's pendant.
His hand moved to his pocket, empty except for the small bronze disc. The pendant of Ogun. It had survived somehow, made the journey with him when everything else was stripped away.
"The god of iron watches over those who forge their own path."
Moyo's jaw clenched. His grandmother believed. His parents had worked themselves to exhaustion to give him a future. Amara had died right in front of him, her last words telling him to run, to survive.
He owed them more than dying in the first five minutes.
If I'm going to die, I'll die fighting. I'll die on my feet, not on my back in the dirt.
The resolve crystallized in his chest, small and fragile but burning hot. He wasn't done yet. Not while he still had breath in his lungs and blood in his veins.
Frustration burned through the despair as he clenched the shard tightly, pouring all his rage and pain and determination into that grip. A faint crackling sound reached his ears, and he felt a sudden surge of energy rush through him. It was faint—just a drop of relief in an ocean of torment—but he felt it all the same.
The warmth spread from his palm, up his arm, seeping into his battered body like water into parched earth.
[You have absorbed Lesser Aether Shard. 10 points allocated.]
A new notification blinked into existence, showing a glowing icon beneath his rank.
Points: 10
Ten points. Ten chances to not die immediately.
"Here we go," Moyo whispered hoarsely, his voice barely audible in the oppressive silence.
Instinct guided him as he willed 2 points into his strength. The moment he confirmed the allocation, power coursed through his veins like liquid fire. His muscles, which had felt like torn wet cloth moments before, suddenly had substance again. His arms didn't feel as fragile anymore, less likely to snap if he tried to push himself up.
He allowed himself a small, shaky smile. It wasn't much, but it was something. A foundation to build on.
His eyes flicked back to the screen, studying the numbers with new focus. Strength was a good start, but it wouldn't keep him alive. He needed more than the ability to hit hard—he needed to survive being hit.
Carefully, deliberately, he allocated 4 points into vitality.
The change was immediate and overwhelming.
Warmth exploded through his body, not the searing pain of before but something almost pleasant. The sharp edges of his agony dulled, blunted. His breaths came easier, deeper, his ribs protesting less with each expansion of his lungs. The fog of exhaustion that had been pressing down on his consciousness began to lift, like dawn breaking through storm clouds.
He could think clearly for the first time since this nightmare began. The panic receded, replaced by something steadier. Not confidence—he wasn't foolish enough to feel confident—but clarity. Purpose.
Survive. That's all. One breath, one heartbeat, one step at a time.
With 4 points remaining, Moyo split them evenly between dexterity and endurance. The rush of power returned, more subtle this time but no less real. His muscles and reflexes sharpened, his body's responses quickening. The crushing exhaustion pulled back another step, giving him room to breathe.
The screen updated:
STATS
Name: Moyosore
Path: None
Race: Human
Rank: Fledgling
Core: —
Level: 1
Skills: ? Blood Absorption (?)
Attributes: ? STR: 3 ? DEX: 3 ? END: 3 ? VIT: 5
Moyo sighed with relief, the screen now displaying something less pathetic. Still abysmal by any reasonable standard, he was sure, but no longer the absolute minimum. He'd gone from "definitely dead" to "probably dead." Progress.
He struggled to his feet, his body still sore, still screaming in protest, but manageable now. His legs shook as they took his weight, threatening to buckle, but he forced them steady. One hand pressed against the rough stone wall for support, the other still clutching Ogun's pendant like a lifeline.
Up. Stay up. You can rest when you're safe.
If there was such a thing as safe in this place.
The oppressive darkness around him pressed in from all sides, suffocating and absolute beyond the faint blue glow of his screen and the residual light from the now-depleted shard. He squinted into the void, his eyes slowly adjusting, searching for any landmark, any direction that might lead to... what? Exit? Safety? He had no idea. But staying here was death.
[Notice: Due to the system error, you have been awarded one Aurum Coin! We hope this helps you along your journey. Our sincerest apologies!]
A golden coin materialized in his hand, glowing faintly with its own internal light. It was beautiful, ornate, covered in symbols he didn't recognize.
Moyo stared at it dumbly.
"An apology? You think a coin makes up for—"
He barely had time to process this insult before another message appeared, and the coin vanished from his palm with an audible pop, like a soap bubble bursting.
[Notice: Aurum coins are useless and ineffective in a Tier 1 world. The coin has been replaced with the correct currency courtesy of the Syndicate.]
[Ethereal credits: 100,000]
Moyo stared at the space where the coin had been, then at the new notification, his mind struggling to keep up. One hundred thousand of... something. Credits. Ethereal credits.
He didn't know if that was a fortune or pocket change. He didn't know what he could buy with it, or where, or how. The Syndicate? What Syndicate?
More questions. Always more questions. Never any answers.
"Of course," he muttered bitterly, his voice echoing slightly in the darkness. "
Of course nothing makes sense. Why would it?"
But the credits were something. Another tool in his non-existent arsenal. He'd figure out what to do with them later—if he survived long enough for "later" to exist.
Resolving to keep moving, Moyo placed his free hand on the rough stone wall and began to inch forward, each step careful, measured. The stone was cold and slick beneath his palm, moisture seeping into his skin. His other hand remained at his chest, fingers wrapped around the pendant, drawing strength from its presence.
One foot. Then another. Just keep moving.
The darkness ahead seemed endless, but behind him was only death and despair. Forward was the only direction that mattered.
His engineering mind, battered but functional, started cataloging details. The dungeon walls were old, ancient even, worn smooth in places by water or time or something else. The air current was minimal but present—air had to come from somewhere, which meant there might be a way out. Or at least a way deeper.
The growl he'd heard before he passed out was gone now, or at least distant enough that he couldn't hear it over his own ragged breathing. But Moyo knew it was out there. The system had said so: 47 hostiles detected. Something was in here with him. Many somethings.
Blood Absorption.
The skill name echoed in his thoughts. He'd have to kill to use it, to grow stronger. The idea should have horrified him—yesterday's Moyo, the engineering student worried about exams and job prospects, would have recoiled from it.
But that Moyo was dead, dissolved with the rest of his old world.
This Moyo, the one stumbling through darkness with a bronze pendant and borrowed strength, would do whatever it took to survive.
I'm sorry, Mama. I'm sorry, Baba. But I'm not ready to join you yet.
He pressed forward into the darkness, each step an act of defiance against the system that had tried to break him.
They'd called him Fledgling. Weak. Level 1.
Fine.
He'd show them what happened when you pushed a desperate man too far.
The darkness ahead held death, certainly. But Moyosore Ogun had already died once today.
He wasn't eager to repeat the experience.
******
Newly promoted Warden Sentinel Zaren of the Accordant Vanguards marched toward the communication chamber of his freshly established watch station. His boots echoed sharply against the pristine metallic floor, each step a reminder of his newfound position within the Archailect's grand hierarchy.
Like the other vanguards who had groveled for—or rather, earned—the position of Warden Sentinel, Zaren viewed it as the first rung on the ladder of power within their vast organization. For him, it was a chance to prove his worth after years of being overlooked.
Until the news came that knocked him off his feet.
Zaren considered himself a decent man, though he knew such decency had cost him dearly. In his homeworld, niceness was a death sentence—a lesson he had learned too late. The memory twisted in his mind, but he shook it off, irritation flickering across his sharp features.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, and muscular, a figure of authority with cold gray eyes that scanned the room ahead. His brown skin gleamed under the sterile lighting, his tied-back black hair swaying slightly with his determined march.
As a fledgling in the Accordant Vanguards, Zaren was far from powerful in their order's grand scheme. But he was now the sole overseer of this newly absorbed system, tasked with watching over its worlds like a loyal hound.
When he stepped into the communications chamber, he straightened his posture.
"Voice authorization: Watch Warden Sentinel 1," he declared, his voice booming with authority.
The words rolled off his tongue with satisfaction. He was a Warden Sentinel, responsible for an entire system under the Archailect's dominion. Granted, this system was practically a backwater, with only one habitable world. Still, he allowed himself to imagine the future: worlds seeded with life, his name rising in rank. Perhaps one day he would ascend to High Arbiter, wielding true power.
The thought made him snort internally. Even Veil Marshal, the ultimate rank, reserved for the strongest and most revered of their kind, felt like a fantasy. Only one person in the Archailect's history had ever reached it.
A flickering screen snapped him from his musings. It came to life, revealing a tall, gray-skinned figure clad in the black-and-gold uniform of their order. Zaren bowed deeply.
"Greetings, High Arbiter Shokan," he said with formal precision.
Shokan nodded.
"Zaren. I see you're settling in."
"Indeed, sir," Zaren replied.
"However, I must report a discrepancy that may require intervention on the Tier 1 world within my sphere."
"You mean the only world with life in your sphere," Shokan said, amusement glinting in his eyes.
Zaren nodded, his face impassive. He was accustomed to such jabs, fully aware that his appointment had less to do with merit and more to do with being conveniently disposable. A dead-end system for a disposable Warden.
But this issue was different.
"A Tier 2 dungeon has manifested there," Zaren explained, his tone measured.
"It's destabilizing the integration process. I fear—"
"Leave it," Shokan interrupted.
Zaren froze.
"Pardon?"
"Ignore it. Avoid it. Do not interfere. Do I need to make myself clearer?" Shokan's tone sharpened.
Zaren hesitated, frustration creeping into his voice.
"If I leave it unchecked, the inhabitants will die too early. They cannot ascend fast enough to—"
"That is not your concern," Shokan snapped.
Zaren clamped his jaw shut, biting back a retort.
Shokan sighed. "Listen, Zaren. This isn't about them. All I've heard—rumors, really—is that the Tier 2 dungeon was placed there for a reason. Something peculiar is happening in that system. You don't need to know the details. Just stay out of it."
Zaren's frown deepened.
"With respect, sir, this anomaly—"
Shokan cut him off, his tone icy.
"The order to leave it came directly from the Shrouded Archive itself."
Zaren's heart skipped a beat. The Shrouded Archive? The very heart of the Accordant Vanguards, shrouded in secrecy and ruled by the most powerful entities in existence?
Shokan nodded knowingly as realization dawned on Zaren's face.
"Precisely," Shokan said.
"Now, do you understand the stakes?"
Zaren nodded reluctantly, though the revelation only left him with more questions.
Why this system? Why that insignificant ball of mud and water? Of all the countless systems under the Archailect's purview, what made this one so important that even the Archive was involved?
Shokan smirked slightly.
"Oh, and before I forget, you're about to have a guest on that world."
The screen shifted, revealing another image. Zaren stiffened, his stomach sinking.
"No... not him," he whispered, dread creeping into his voice.
Shokan's laugh was loud and unrestrained. "Oh yes. Him. Odds are he's already there—somewhere in the dungeon. Archailect knows what he's doing, but my advice? Stay far, far away from him."
Zaren's shoulders slumped, the weight of the situation pressing down on him.
"This could destabilize the world," he muttered.
"What do you care?" Shokan replied dismissively.
Zaren clenched his fists but held his tongue. It was easy for someone like Shokan to dismiss such concerns, overseeing half a galaxy as he did. Zaren saluted stiffly, watching as the screen blinked out of existence.
Marching out of the chamber, he felt a chill run down his spine.
He had pitied the inhabitants of that planet before. Now, with him involved, Zaren was sure of it.
They were doomed.