A stabbing pain gnawed at his mind as Harrow’s eyes snapped open. He was sprawled face down on warm, prickling grass, its sharp blades biting into his skin.
Reddish sunlight flickered through the dense canopy above, casting twisted, flickering shadows around him. Blinking up, Harrow squinted against the harsh light of the sun, which hung high and crimson, bleeding into a sky tangled with thick clouds.
The leaves overhead weren’t vibrant green but sickly yellow and dull, drained of life. The air was thick and stifling, heavy with humidity. As he took in his surroundings, a creeping unease coiled around his gut. The ominous crimson sun confirmed how out of depth he was in this predicament.
A deep, unsettling feeling began to take root in his heart. Where the hell is this?
No matter how many times he scanned the area, nothing looked familiar. His muddled thoughts struggled to piece together the last moments before he had blacked out.
He closed his eyes and recalled undergoing the awakening ritual. The icy chill of the hallowed water still fresh in his mind, though his body felt none of the shivers. Then there was the blackness, and the divine voice saying something about Sleepless and a Rite of Passage?
Opening his eyes, Harrow pinched himself. As if that wasn’t enough, he even slapped himself a couple of times. But he knew for a fact he was not going to wake up. This is not a dream, is it?
Fear clawed at his heart as he surveyed his surroundings, searching for something—anything—to anchor him to reality. He found nothing to suggest he was anywhere near the little town of Orlin.
Then the divine voice echoed in his ears again. It was ancient, as he recalled—unsympathetic, perhaps prearranged even.
[Forced Awakening successful!]
[Welcome, Challenger, to your Rite of Passage.]
Legends claimed the divine voice belonged to none other than the Primordial Order, ever observing, determining justice for all transgressions that might befall upon mortals.
But what of the injustice done to me? Harrow cried inwardly. Where is my skill? Why am I in this nightmare?
The ancient voice continued its preset words.
[Honour Attained!
Mark of the Sleepless: One may tread the path of Sleepless, untouched by Dream’s embrace if they find the correct sacrifice.
Boon: Unrestricted Skilltree.]
“I tread no such path!” he cried. What does that even mean? Can’t it talk human?
[You may summon the specification of your Profile by staring into the mark on your right arm with intent.]
Harrow planned to do just that when an upheaval struck in his stomach, convulsing his insides. Knowing exactly what was coming, he tried to muffle his mouth with his palm, but eventually, he felt sick at the distaste. Jerking his head to the left, he vomited out the bile.
“What the...?” The curse hadn’t left his lips when goosebumps crawled all over him. A warm, boiling current surged through his muscles and bones. Thankfully, the pain only lasted for a fraction of a moment. His whole body glistened with sweat.
[Skill Gained!
Cloak of Night (Elite): +1
A veil of night conceals you, protects you, and restores you, though solely after nightfall.]
A huge grin was about to split his face upon hearing the word Elite, but his lips twitched at the ‘solely after nightfall’ part.
“Kismat’s teats!” he cursed. What did I do to deserve this?
Despite the restriction, the skill seemed great. But then again, the description explained little. Harrow could only activate it and experience how remarkable it was, but that would have to wait until night-time.
Sighing, he finally turned to notice the sharp mark on his right palm. It was the usual runic wheel for the most part—exactly the same as all awakened received. The unusual part was the pupilless eye in its centre. Like any awakened mark, it wasn’t erased, no matter how desperately he rubbed.
“All right, show me my profile,” he said, staring unblinkingly at it with unabashed intent.
The light swirled in front of his eyes to form a disembodied illusion of runic texts.
----------------------------------------
[Profile]:
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
Harrowin
Rank: Awakened - Unformed
Path:
Honour: Mark of the Sleepless
Unformed Core: 1/100
Aspects
U/A
Skills [1/8]:
* Cloak of Night (Elite): +1
Relics: Duskripper
----------------------------------------
“Why is there something called Path?” he thought aloud. As far as he knew, no awakened had that option. Either way, it was empty, much like his aspect. His unformed core stood at 1%, and only raising it to 100% would he be able to claim an aspect.
Then he faltered on the skill tab. His eyes widened sharply as his heart skipped a beat, remembering the description of the [Mark of the Sleepless].
“Is this what unrestricted skilltree means?” he said. “I can have all eight skills right now?”
The profile suggested so. But how do I even get more skills without advancing? I cannot afford a skill crystal even if I sold myself.
Only horrifying monsters formed something like a characteristic, which sometimes gives one a skill, along with headaches and a dozen other issues.
An awakened of the Unformed rank usually had only one skill slot, filled with the skill received on their awakening day. Unless they progressed to the Formation Rank, there was no way of increasing the skill slot—proving how essential the first skill was. Some skills were so poor they didn’t help with progression.
Conversely, some skills were so overwhelming that one could advance to the Formation Rank within a week.
After mulling over it, Harrow decided he didn’t fall into either group.
Either I’m awfully lucky, or royally shrewd, he thought.
Sighing, he paused on the last tab. He didn’t remember having a relic. Those things were rare, even—
It can’t be! Harrow swiftly fished out the sheathed dagger from his pocket, his expression incredulous.
The ancient voice rang in his ears, freezing him in place.
[Relic: Duskripper
Rank: Ascended [VI]
Description: A concept stolen from the realms of Dream and carved into a ceremonial knife.
Enchantment:
Sacrifice: The relic strengthens itself with each sacrifice.
Plunder: Plunders essence from the stabbed target.]
“I have so many questions.” Ignoring the fact that the voice was as unreliable as ever, he wondered, What did it imply about my father leaving the relic for me?
He didn’t have an answer to that, but now he knew how to get a skill crystal, though only a fool would exchange a relic for a skill. Still, this should amount to an Epic rank skill.
Unsheathing the knife, Harrow tested it by slashing at the nearest tree. The blade was too small to be handy for monster hunting, but the deep scars it carved into the thick bark of the humongous tree proved it was quite useful. There were also those two enchantments. Again, he had no clue exactly what they meant, but they implied he needed to stab something to find out.
He would need to figure out more about that later, but for now, he needed to take care of his survival.
The voice mentioned a trial—his Rite of Passage—though it hadn't mentioned what he needed to do to pass. Trials felt like something that came hand in hand with dangers.
“I can do this,” he told himself, clutching the relic tight.
After some more convincing himself, Harrow hit the path, vigilant and far slower than his usual pace. His observant eyes scrutinised every disturbance. Even the familiar chirping of the bugs made him cautious. The forest seemed never-ending. Tall trees, thick hedges, the unfamiliar sun high in the sky, and the stiff wind caressing his skin all heightened his anxiety.
He moved stealthily, hiding behind trees. With towering trunks all around, enveloping the land in a wild shade, Harrow felt exposed and a collection of other unbridled emotions. The eerie silence was getting on his nerves.
However, it was far from the dread he witnessed in the next instance.
A sudden disturbance halted Harrow in his tracks as he instinctively hid behind a gigantic tree. Something crept ahead—dark brown, thick as one of those tree trunks, twisting in an undulating motion as if some great mechanism was at work.
But Harrow knew it was no machine. Machines didn’t hiss like that. High-pitched squeaks and hisses gnawed at his ears. He caught his first glimpse of the horrifying creature, swallowing a deer in one gulp. The animal stuck in its neck in a huge bulge as the great serpent slithered and pushed it down.
Harrow swallowed a breath, sweating cold. His heart lurched inside his chest as his palm moved to muffle his mouth, ending the instinctual scream before it could escape.
The noise came to a rest, and Harrow didn’t remain there to get a full view of the great serpent.
I need to escape! his mind screamed.
With the decision made, he turned his head and crept away as discreetly as possible. He didn’t give the massive reptile another glance, his dread pumping sufficient adrenaline to keep moving until he lost track of distance. His pace quickened, and soon he was in a mad dash.
Harrow ran like his life depended on it—because it did. He didn’t know if the snake had his trail or whether it gave chase, but he couldn’t stop after witnessing something like that.
Trees blurred as the stuffy air curled around him. Harrow stumbled and fell a couple of times, unable to control his newfound prowess, but he did not stop. He was unaware of how long he ran. Too ecstatic to discern it. The core even in its unformed state provided him with an endurance common people wished to see in themselves.
Harrow only stopped when his legs couldn’t endure any more. His muscles ached, filled with acid. Wheezing as though it was his last, he leaned against a tree, heavy gasps escaping his lips.
It didn't look like the serpent gave chase. Relieved, he panted leaning against a tree, as his back dragged down onto the ground.
With a sharp noise, something fell from the tree.
It dropped in front of him, too big for a fruit, and there was no way a fruit moved like that. It was a head-sized creature that wasted no moment to lurch at him, working all of its legs.
A giant ant?!