Chapter 21

  Raime stumbled into the temple, each step heavier than the last. His breath came in slow, measured pulls—not from lack of air, but from the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that made even the thought of moving painful. The stone slab door groaned as he pushed it shut behind him, the sound echoing in the still air like a full stop to the day’s madness.

  He leaned his back against the cool wall for a moment, head tilted back, eyes closed. Finally, I’m home. His muscles throbbed with fatigue, his shoulders still aching from the strain of wrestling with the young korthid. His arms bore faint red streaks where claws had grazed him, and his right forearm stung with a deep, angry cut that refused to let him forget the fight.

  With a slow breath, Raime reached for his powers. The familiar subtle pulse spread outward, brushing over the empty stone hallways, and returned clean. No disturbances. Nobody had entered since he’d left. That little reassurance loosened something tight in his chest.

  Small mercies, I don’t really feel like having to entertain unwanted guests right now.

  He crossed to his storage room, letting his weight drop to one knee as he pulled out the vine sap container and the small pile of scavenged cloth scraps. His forearm had already started to seal itself, his boosted vitality stitching flesh together many times faster than any normal human’s body could manage. But the wound was still open enough for dirt and grit to have worked their way inside during his tussle with the alien. The last thing he needed was an infection. An alien infection. And thinking about it he should already have caught something by now.

  Fuck if I know how any of this works in the rift.

  Peeling off his jacket and what remained of his shirt, he got a good look at himself—and winced. His clothes were beyond saving, shredded and caked in a mix of dried mud, grass, and streaks of blood—both his and not his. His bare skin was streaked with grime, with thin cuts and bruises scattered across his ribs and shoulders.

  I’m becoming too thin, lost too much weight in too little time, I need to eat more, and to find clothes. Maybe the head monk has still something useful in his room. Everything else rotted already… haa… one can hope.

  He dipped his fingers in the vine sap and poured a generous amount over the cut on his forearm. The sting was sharp and immediate, his teeth clenching against it. Sap was no antiseptic, but it was the best he had—it would at least wash out the dirt. The sticky liquid ran down his arm, taking small flecks of grit with it.

  This would be so much easier with proper gear…

  As a medical student, Raime knew exactly what the wound needed—tight stitches to bring the edges together, sterile thread and needle, a saline rinse wouldn’t hurt too. He also knew exactly how far he was from having any of that. He’d searched the temple before; nothing remotely close to surgical tools existed here. Even if he somehow found them, sterilization would be the next problem. He’d already learned the hard way that vine sap didn’t boil like water—he’d tried, and all he got was a smelly, gelatinous sludge that looked like something you’d scrape out of an ancient drain. Completely useless even as a glue.

  So, he settled for the only option left: clean it as best as possible, cover it, and trust his body’s enhanced healing to do the rest. He pressed a strip of scavenged cloth against the wound and wound it tightly, knotting it off with one hand. It wasn’t pretty, but it would hold.

  Once done, Raime sat back against the wall, exhaling slowly. The temple was quiet around him, a comforting stillness after the chaotic noise of the forest.

  Those things could have killed me.

  The thought slipped into his mind unbidden, and he found himself replaying the encounter with the young alien in his head. The weight of its strikes. The sheer force behind each playful shove. How even holding back, it had nearly broken him. And yet… he’d survived. Not because he was faster or stronger, but because he’d managed to connect. Barely, but enough. That sliver of psychic understanding had saved his life.

  His gaze wandered unfocused for a time, then he decided to see if his last experience had been at least productive in the System’s purview.

  With a tired flick of his thoughts, Raime let the quest interface expand before his eyes.

  Designation: Anomaly - Tier 0

  Status: Unawakened | Rift Integration Incomplete

  Region: Ithural | Local Recognition: Confirmed

  Primary Objectives:

  ? Practice deliberate use of your Psionic Thread (3+ successful activations).(3/3)

  ? Discover one new function of your mental abilities. (1/1)

  ? Survive encounters with three distinct Riftborn entities. (3/3)

  ? Awaken a second Psionic Thread through use, insight, or strain. (1/1)

  ? Use [Skill: Residual Trace] to follow a psionic trail left by an unknown being. (0/1)

  Optional Objectives:

  ? Sustain uninterrupted consciousness for 19Rift-hours. (15/19)

  Rewards:

  ? Choice of insight infusion: Mental Anchor / Neural Shear / Cognitive Mirror

  ? +1 Insight (permanent)

  ? New Quest Chain Unlocked Upon Completion

  ? ??? (hidden reward based on behavior)

  Raime’s eyes scanned the list twice, the words sinking in. The corners of his mouth pulled into a faint, tired smirk.

  Alright… no big deal. Just don’t pass out. Easy.

  His gaze lingered on the last unchecked primary objective. Follow a psionic trail left by an unknown being… He hadn’t seen anything obvious so far, but that didn’t mean the Rift wasn’t full of them. Maybe he’d been too focused on staying alive to notice.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Maybe I can use an animal. Or the head monk’s trail… if he left one. Two birds with one stone—quest progress and maybe I find something useful. Clothes, equipment… a map. His eyes drifted down to his shredded garments. Especially clothes.

  The thought of trying to move again made his legs ache in protest, but he pushed it aside. The Rift wasn’t going to wait for him to feel better, so he got up and went down the temple again.

  The halls were quiet—eerily so, the way they always were. His footsteps echoed softly off the carved stone as he made his way deeper inside, toward the chamber where he had first met the head monk’s remains.

  The great doors at the end of the corridor stood closed, dust resting in the grooves of their engravings. Raime stopped before them, placing one palm gently against the cold metal. He didn’t push—he didn’t need to.

  Instead, he reached inward, drawing on the psionic thread that had answered him before. It was faint, like touching the echo of a bell long after the sound had faded, but the presence was still there. Quiet, patient… accepting.

  The doors gave a deep, resonant shudder and swung inward, not from any physical force, but as if the doors themselves simply agreed to open for him.

  The air inside was still and heavy.

  At the far end, in the seated position of eternal meditation, was the head monk’s skeleton—gleaming faintly where the dim light touched its metallic bones. The monk’s skull faced forward, empty socket somehow carrying the impression of focus, as though even death hadn’t interrupted the discipline of his mind.

  What should I do? How does one go about asking for something in this situation?

  A memory resurfaced from his mind, unbidden.

  He was eight then, sitting at the kitchen table, the sting of his mother’s words still fresh from the trouble he’d caused that day. He got caught with a toy that wasn’t his. She knew he “borrowed” it from a friend. The problem was that his friend didn’t know. Her tone softened after the scolding, though her gaze stayed steady.

  “Raime,” she had said, always refusing to use his first name, so much that he himself didn’t recognize it anymore as such. Brushing an errant lock of hair from her face, “if you ask for help with sincerity and honesty, you’ll rarely be turned away. People can feel when you mean it, especially your friends, so don’t you dare steal again.” The next day he felt the shame of having to return the toy to his classmate, and was lucky enough to be forgiven, but the lesson stayed.

  The memory faded, leaving only the stillness of the chamber.

  Raime straightened, drew in a slow breath, and entered the room while bowing his head to the old monk.

  “Master,” he said quietly, his voice sounding strange in the vastness of the chamber. “You’ve already helped me once. I’m here to ask for your help again.”

  He approached slowly, keeping his tone respectful. The monk had no flesh left, no movement, but Raime still felt something in the air—an awareness, distant yet attentive. Not exactly watching, but… acknowledging him.

  “I need to restore the Shattered Path. But I’m not sure where to start, I just know that I need a direction, please guide me.”

  The metallic bones caught the light as if in answer.

  Raime stood in the stillness of the chamber, the heavy silence wrapping around him like a shroud. The head monk’s skeleton sat motionless, eternally bound in meditation, but as he gazed at the empty eye socket, something began to stir—a soft, faint glow, like the first ember of a dying fire rekindled. A pale purple light grew steadily brighter, radiating a gentle hum that resonated through the stone floor and seeped into Raime’s bones.

  The glow coalesced into a slender beam, a shaft of shimmering energy that stretched from the empty socket toward Raime’s glabella, as if the monk’s ancient spirit was reaching beyond the limits of death itself to communicate, to see him clearly through the veil of mortality. The air thickened with unseen power, and Raime felt a magnetic pull drawing him closer—not with fear, but with the undeniable promise of knowledge.

  What is this? His mind whispered, both cautious and hungry. Is this the monk’s consciousness?

  He stepped forward, reaching out with his mind to accept the sliver of energy flowing from the ethereal eye. The connection sparked immediately—like plunging into cold water—startling but invigorating. A torrent of visions and sensations flooded his consciousness, a stream of raw, unfiltered insight cascading over him.

  It began with light—brilliant, blinding light—and shapes that twisted and shimmered like liquid glass. He saw a sprawling civilization, ancient and radiant, built on the foundation of psionic mastery. Crystal and stone towers pierced the sky, their surfaces alive with shifting patterns of energy. Entire cities hummed with the pulse of collective thought, where minds were linked, shared, and woven into grand tapestries of consciousness.

  This is what they were… Raime’s thoughts raced. A society where mental power was not just a weapon but the very fabric of existence.

  He glimpsed halls of learning where psionic scholars bent reality with a thought, shaping matter, healing wounds, and unravelling the secrets of the cosmos. The air shimmered with waves of psychic energy, and the citizens moved in harmonious unity, their thoughts a seamless dance of intellect and emotion.

  But then the light faltered. Shadows crept in, tearing at the edges of this brilliant world. A terrible war unfolded—violent, merciless, and vast beyond imagining. The vision twisted into chaos: cities crumbled, minds shattered, and the crystal towers cracked and fell like glass struck by a hammer.

  He saw beings crossing portals from another dimension, wielding their powers as weapons of destruction. The war was fought with psychic fury—mind and will against the invaders.

  This is how they ended. The knowledge crashed over Raime like a wave. The System—it came here too, destroying all. How did it happen? They were so powerful… was this what was going to happen to Earth?

  The vision faded into darkness, and then came fragments—snippets of names and places: Ithural their world, Master Velthar the ancient guardian, Ak’Sen, the temple’s true name; and beneath it, a vault sealed by intricate psychic wards, holding the last remnants of their knowledge and power.

  Raime’s mind raced to piece it together. Master Velthar—the monk before him—had been more than a teacher. He was a keeper of these secrets, a sentinel charged with protecting the past’s last hopes. The temple was not just a sanctuary but a vault—a repository of relics left for posterity, left behind as a slim chance of survival.

  And the vault, hidden beneath the temple’s foundations, was locked by wards only a mind attuned to the old psionic frequencies could break.

  If I can reach it… Raime thought, I might find the tools to guide me to the capital of their lost world—the heart of this Rift’s origin.

  His breath hitched as more details poured in—maps etched in psychic runes, the location of the vault, and whispers of the ancient capital’s name. A place said to hold the core of psionic knowledge, and perhaps, the key to his own fate.

  He felt a swell of hope rising within him. This was no mere survival game anymore. This was a mission.

  The System might lead me there, he mused, or maybe this is what I need—a reason beyond the fight, a direction beyond the chaos.

  As the visions receded, the glow in the monk’s eye socket began to dim, folding into a soft pulse before finally fading away altogether. The spirit of Master Velthar, having bestowed his final gift, dissipated into the ether, at last released from his endless vigil.

  Raime staggered back a step, then fell to one knee, heart pounding. The weight of the insight pressed deep into his mind, a heavy but vital burden.

  This temple, this path—they mean more than I ever imagined.

  He looked down at the skeletal remains, now silent and still, and bowed his head in reverence.

  “Thank you, Master Velthar,” he whispered. “For your guidance… for your sacrifice. I will not forget.”

  His thoughts churned, a turbulent mix of awe and resolve.

  The Shattered Path.

  The vault beneath the temple.

  The capital, waiting at the heart of this Rift.

  He could feel the path unfolding before him—uncertain, dangerous, but unmistakably real.

  I have to prepare.

  I have to grow stronger—mentally, physically, psychically.

  This journey isn’t just about survival anymore. It’s about discovery, about what exactly happened to this world, and what could still happen to Earth. I have to go back, but to do that, I have to play the System game. "Then, another part of him—the child dreaming of adventures that life hadn’t yet killed—resurfaced from the recesses of his mind. I will do all I can to save what’s left of these people, they didn’t deserve this. Raime took a deep breath and stepped away from the chamber, the air still humming faintly with residual energy.

  This is only the beginning.