I woke up to the gentle nudging of Erica, her soft voice urging me awake. Surprisingly, I had slept deeply, but as soon as I became aware, the anxiety surged back, pulling me fully awake.

“Come on, before your mother wakes up to send us off,” Erica whispered, her urgency clear.

I rubbed my eyes and let out a long, slow, anxious breath, trying to shake off the lingering grogginess.

“Enough of that,” Erica said with a forced smile, her own nerves starting to show. “Only a couple more hours, then we can scream at the world.”

Her attempt to lighten the mood didn’t fully mask her anxiety, but it helped push me into motion. We had to get out of there quickly, before either of us made a mistake.

We moved down the stairs with quiet steps, careful not to draw too much attention from the servants already up and about, preparing for the day. I exchanged subtle smiles and nods, but each one felt hollow, like I was betraying them. It was a strange sensation, the sharp feeling of guilt mixing with a simmering anger. I was leaving—abandoning my home, my people, and letting them fall under the crushing weight of Sylvanus’ influence.

As we neared the doors, the weight of my decision settled deeper into my chest. The taste in my mouth was bitter, but it was a necessary choice. I steeled myself, vowing that this wouldn’t be the end. I would return, and when I did, I would come back with a vengeance. I would grow stronger, take control, and liberate my city. Only then would I have the power to wrest Sylvanel away from my father, to dismantle the rule of Sylvanus and end the reign of tyranny on Earth. Tyranny had no place on our planet, and I’d eradicate it, starting with Sylvanel.

The walk to the tree where we’d hidden our stash passed without incident, thankfully. With efficiency, we retrieved the duffle bag from the bush and began our way toward the teleportation pad. My stomach churned at the thought of teleporting—I hated it with a passion. Still fucking hate teleporting. I muttered in my head, bracing myself for the inevitable discomfort.

Out of nowhere, Sylphine appeared beside us, her sudden presence causing both Erica and me to jump.

“Fucking hell,” I exclaimed, clutching my chest. “Not cool!”

“Get over it,” Sylphine giggled, clearly amused at my reaction.

“Fairies…” Erica mumbled under her breath, shaking her head in equal parts annoyance and resignation.

“I see you’ve got everything packed, and you kept it minimal. Good,” Sylphine said, her sharp eyes sweeping over our gear. “You even layered the packs so the plates wouldn’t clink together. Smart. Let me guess—that part was Erica’s idea?”

“Yep,” I replied curtly, my tone carrying just enough edge to playfully undercut the compliment.

Erica gave me a light punch on the shoulder, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Bonehead,” she muttered.

I rolled my eyes, but before I could retort, Sylphine’s voice broke through. “Hate teleporting,” she mumbled, shaking her head in clear disapproval as we approached the pad.

“Oh gods. You too?” Erica complained before acknowledging the attendant. “Umbraeth please.” as she flipped a silver coin to the man.

The attendant swiftly activated the teleporter, the magical, rhythmic, whirring clearly grating on Sylphine’s nerves—and mine. I clenched my fists, bracing myself for the nauseating sensation I despised.

And then, as always, it was over in an instant. No fanfare, no warning, no nausea. One moment, we stood on familiar ground, and the next, we were on the other side of the world in Umbraeth.

The sun, no longer rising, was now a distant amber glow sinking below the jagged horizon. The air carried a colder, heavier weight here, one that only a city of shadows would know.

“I will never like teleporting.” Sylphine shook her head, “Come along now, we’re heading to an inn, something middle class.”

Sylphine scanned the surroundings with a sharp gaze, searching for a suitable spot to blend in and regroup. Umbraeth, unlike Sylvanel, wore its priorities on its sleeve. Here, power wasn’t just respected—it was worshiped. The people lived and thrived as contractors, lending their unique talents and abilities to whoever paid the most, their independence and pragmatism taking precedence over rigid allegiances.

Despite their neutral stance on most inter-faction conflicts, Umbraeth held an unwavering hatred for the Triumvirate of Light. The antipathy was almost poetic, two forces diametrically opposed: a coalition rooted in shadows and darkness set against one founded on healing and illumination. The rivalry felt like something out of an ancient storybook, the kind where darkness sought to swallow light, and light vowed to banish darkness.

But here, in Umbraeth, the people seemed... ordinary. Not cloaked in shadow or exuding some foreboding aura—just regular individuals living their lives. They walked the streets, ran their shops, and went about their days with a sense of purpose and normalcy. On the surface, it looked like a place where freedom thrived, a haven where people could live as they pleased, unshackled by the dogma or overreach of rulers.

Yet, how much of that could truly be believed? My father had woven an intricate illusion of freedom over Sylvanel, a façade of choice and liberty that would crumble the moment you peered behind the curtain. Was Umbraeth any different? Or was it simply a better lie?

Finding a place to stay wasn't difficult. We settled on a refined inn, though it felt more like a boutique hotel. Nestled between a bustling restaurant and a high-end barber shop, the inn was the tallest building on the street, its sleek façade hinting at a mix of luxury and practicality. People flowed in and out, some checking in for a vacation, others undoubtedly here to tackle Umbraeth's famous dungeons.

Umbraeth’s reputation as a dungeon city was well-deserved. The city was built atop five naturally occurring dungeons, making it a prime destination for adventurers. The dungeon tiers were staggered, with ranges from levels 10-50, 70-120, 130-180, 200-250, and the rarest, 280-300. Unlike Sylvanel, where dungeons were artificially constructed, these dungeons had been placed by the System itself during integration.

Clusters of dungeons weren’t unusual, but what set Umbraeth apart was the meticulous care given to them by the Order of Nocturnis, the faction overseeing the city. When Umbraeth was first settled, all the dungeons had been within the level range of 10-25. Over time, however, they had clearly been purposefully scaled by the city's denizens, allowing the settlement to grow into a hub for adventurers while maintaining control over the dangers the dungeons posed. It was a calculated strategy—one that highlighted the stark difference between the natural evolution of Umbraeth and the manufactured dominance of Sylvanel.

When the tutorial ended, certain parts of Earth were declared off-limits, and for good reason. Overconfidence has become the leading cause of death—not just on Earth, but across the entire multiverse over the last 49 billion years. Newly integrated worlds were teeming with monsters and challenges for humanity to face. For the first couple of years post-integration, most threats were difficult but manageable, providing humanity with a fighting chance to adapt.

The System's scaling of Earth was based on the general power levels humanity had reached upon exiting the tutorial. This didn’t account for children like me, who hadn’t participated in the same trials. Here in Umbraeth, the surrounding regions' up to a certain point, levels ranged from 75 to 100, reflecting Earth’s general progress during the tutorial. Most participants had reached level 75, with the more exceptional individuals climbing to around 120, my father, the pinnacle of Earth at the time, had reached 137, clearing the entire tutorial almost single handedly and recruiting people to the pantheon, as Sylvanel had taken an interest very early on.

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The same could be said for the rest of Earth—everything had been scaled to levels 75–100 in the regions people were placed after the tutorial. Most cities on Earth had been established almost immediately, with powerful individuals laying claim to land in the name of their factions. It was a chaotic land grab, but one that set the tone for Earth's new structure in a System-integrated universe.

Some cities, however, broke the mold. They were run by lone individuals with no allegiance to any faction. These independent settlements were ostracized, often dismissed or outright avoided by others. The reasoning behind this wasn’t entirely clear, but I could hazard a guess: their refusal to follow a path dictated by a more powerful force made them pariahs. They weren’t playing the political games of the factions, and that deviation made them targets of suspicion—or worse, disdain.

I found that deeply irritating. The idea that independence could be punished, that carving out your own destiny meant being isolated, didn’t sit right with me. If anything, it just reinforced the need for strength. The stronger you were, the less anyone could dictate what path you should walk.

Although, the resources provided by an established faction were undeniably advantageous. Access to knowledge, training, connections, and protection offered a significant leg up in the pursuit of power. If someone could navigate the treacherous waters of faction politics, growing within a faction offered unique opportunities.

The real trick, however, was managing to convince the powers-that-be—whether gods or mortal rulers—that you posed no threat to their authority or influence. It required a delicate balance of ambition and subterfuge. If you could rise through the ranks while keeping your intentions masked, you could reach a point where your power was undeniable.

At that stage, you’d be able to carve out your own ideology and rally followers who shared your vision. It wasn’t an easy path by any means, but it was a viable one, and in a world where strength and influence reigned supreme, it might be the only way to build something truly your own.

Most gods—the less powerful ones—had ascended by following this exact strategy. They carefully carved out niches for themselves, establishing factions strong enough to sustain them but neutral enough to avoid drawing the ire of the larger cosmic powers. It was a long, arduous process that required patience, cunning, and an unwavering belief in their own vision.

I found myself respecting those gods more than I expected. Unlike the Paragons, who governed through overwhelming might and rigid hierarchies, these deities had chosen a slower, steadier path to power. They hadn’t been handed dominion or swept up in the status quo of the multiverse’s existing order. Instead, they had built their influence deliberately, piece by piece, in line with their own ideology.

Even if their methods or beliefs mirrored those of the Paragons, it was the fact they had chosen their path rather than been pushed into it that earned my admiration. It was a rare and commendable thing in a multiverse ruled by conformity to power structures and the fear of upsetting the delicate balance that held it all together.

As for me, I’d already caught the attention of Sylvanel and his pantheon, and not in a way that left me room for neutrality. My path wasn’t one I could tread quietly or cautiously anymore. If I wanted to survive, I’d need to gain strength rapidly, while staying hidden or aligning myself with an influential faction that could shield me from my father’s looming shadow.

It was a bitter pill to swallow. I’d dreamed of forging my own way with Erica by my side, untethered from the chains of any faction. We could’ve explored the multiverse together, free from obligations and the constant weight of politics. But that dream now felt distant, almost naïve. Flying solo wasn’t just risky; it was suicidal.

The tragedy of it gnawed at me. The very act of defiance that would draw Sylvanus’ ire was also the spark of independence I’d wanted to nurture. Yet now, my only hope of keeping that spark alive was to bow to necessity, even if it meant entangling myself in alliances I might one day regret.

Being lost in thought wasn’t new to me—it was practically a pastime. But this time, it wasn’t idle daydreaming or fantasizing about some impossible scenario. No, this time, my thoughts were heavier, real problems pressing down on me like a weight I couldn’t ignore. It wasn’t until we stood in the lobby of the hotel that I realized we’d already made it inside, Erica having somehow booked us a room while I was lost in my head. Sylphine was still chattering on, complaining about teleportation and its “unnatural” effects on her senses.

Her words were just white noise, drowned out by my own internal dialogue.

I’d always thought of myself as grounded, as someone who could handle what life threw at me. But now? Now I saw the truth. I’d been spoiled in Sylvanel, cushioned by privilege and the unspoken expectation that power wasn’t something I had to chase—it would just come to me in time. I’d never been forced to fight for it, never had to consider a future where I wasn’t secure under the shadow of my father’s influence.

I used to think the hardest part of my life would be waiting for my father to either retire to the pantheon or keel over, leaving the city in my hands. That assumption felt laughable now. After what had been uncovered, I wasn’t even sure I’d been in line to inherit anything at all. For all I knew, Sylvanus had other plans, plans that didn’t include me.

Somewhere in the haze of overthinking, Erica and I had agreed to temporarily rent one of the inn’s apartments. The arrangement was simple: an upfront security deposit for the furniture and rent on a month-to-month basis. We’d signed a contract, though I barely skimmed the fine print—something about a “cancellation fee” and liability for damages. The receptionist, an older woman with too much cheer for this time of night, practically glowed as she congratulated us on “taking a big step” as a couple. She’d probably be less enthusiastic if she knew we’d been dating for all of three days and were on the run from Sylvanel’s slow descent into tyranny.

Sylphine had disappeared again, muttering something about dinner: “Let’s talk more tonight.” Great. Dinner plans with a Paragon—just what I needed to end the day. I wasn’t sure if I was more annoyed by her cryptic nature or the fact that we had no choice but to go along with whatever she wanted. Paragons weren’t people you just said “no” to, not if you wanted to keep breathing.

And yet, despite her power, I didn’t trust her—not entirely. She seemed too amused by our situation, like we were pieces on some chessboard she enjoyed manipulating. Still, if this meeting could help us survive... I’d sit through it, even if it made my skin crawl.

I felt the weight of her words, more than their meaning—another conversation that I wasn’t quite ready for. I just wanted to sleep, my energy was draining faster than I could keep up, like trying to hold sand inside of a strainer.

For now, Erica and I had a room to check out. We’d seen pictures beforehand—probably not the smartest move, but we’d already paid. The elevator carried us to one of the middle floors, where most of the units were rented spaces. Erica stayed quiet, thankfully not pushing me to talk about what was going through my head. Not that I could’ve explained it if she had. Somewhere in the past few hours, my anxiety had shifted into something else entirely—something harder to name.

The room itself exuded cozy, rustic charm, like a luxurious cabin tucked away in the woods. Dark wooden panels lined the walls, their rich tones complemented by the warm, amber glow of lantern-style lights. A plush, deep-green sofa dominated the living room, paired with a simple wooden coffee table that bore a few coasters and a decorative bowl of polished river stones. Soft, earth-toned rugs sprawled across the hardwood floors, their edges fraying slightly but adding character.

Near one wall, a small bookshelf caught my eye. Its shelves were filled with Earth’s old fairy tales, their spines weathered but legible. A couple of worn leather armchairs flanked the bookshelf, inviting yet sturdy, with matching footrests tucked neatly beneath them. A single framed painting hung above the fireplace—a serene forest scene that seemed to echo the room's atmosphere.

I scanned the titles on the bookshelf, intrigued. Some of these stories were more than just fiction—traces of the multiverse’s history seemed to have bled into Earth’s mythology. Mentions of Odin and Valhalla stood out, almost word-for-word matches to the old tales. It made sense in hindsight. Odin wasn’t just a legend; he was the first Paragon, the first mortal to ascend to godhood. Valhalla wasn’t just a mythic hall but a place he’d created in the multiverse, its echoes reverberating back into Earth’s earliest records.

“Homey,” Erica said with a genuine smile, her eyes sweeping the room. “And finally, some time to sit.”

I managed a smile in return, though it didn’t quite reach my eyes. The uneasiness I felt earlier still clung to me like a shadow, refusing to lift. Without saying anything, I crossed the room and sank into one of the leather armchairs by the bookshelf. My hand instinctively reached for a book about Odin—a retelling that treated him as myth rather than reality.

The weight of the leather binding felt grounding in my hands, even as my thoughts continued to spiral.

Time passed quickly as I settled in. Erica and I had both neglected unpacking, opting instead to pursue some semblance of normalcy. It felt important, these small acts of routine, grounding ourselves in a world that seemed to shift beneath us with every passing moment. We both knew we’d need to hold onto these fleeting moments of calm to keep ourselves grounded and, perhaps, sane.

Before we knew it, it was time to meet Sylphine in the restaurant next to our new building of residency. A conversation I was not excited for.