A sharp sting on my cheek pulled me back into consciousness. My eyes blinked open, and I found myself lying on a cold marble floor, its smooth surface gleaming faintly under an unfamiliar light.

“...Hey.”

The voice pierced through the haze, snapping my focus to the figure crouched beside me. He was tall, with a calm, collected demeanour that was both grounding and unnerving. His striking appearance bordered on surreal—red hair that fell in soft, curtain-like strands framed a face so symmetrical and flawless it felt almost unnatural, like an alien interpretation of a human. His piercing blue eyes locked onto mine, a blend of tension and reassurance in his gaze, as though he was simultaneously analysing and studying me.

"Ahh… ahhhhh!" I screamed, scrambling backward in a frantic attempt to get away. My mind raced—where was I? What was happening? My heart pounded as I tried to make sense of it all. Suddenly, my back struck something solid and unyielding, the impact jolting through my body and halting my frantic retreat.

“Whoa, hey! Chill!” A skinny guy with shoulder-length white hair crouched in front of me, his wide, pale eyes darting between me and the red-haired man. His hands hovered awkwardly near me, as if he wanted to help but wasn’t sure how. “You’re freaking out, dude”.

I opened my mouth to respond, but no words came out. My throat felt tight, my hands instinctively clutching at it. My body felt foreign, impossibly heavy, and suffocating. Panic surged through me as my breaths grew shallow and ragged.

“Haaa…” I wheezed, my chest heaving.

“…” The skinny boy tilted his head, his brows knitting together in visible confusion. It was clear he didn’t understand what was happening to me, his expression a mix of puzzlement and uncertainty.

The man with red hair moved closer, his expression softening with urgency. "Hey, breathe! Just breathe, okay?" He started demonstrating slow, deliberate breaths, gesturing with his hands. “In and out. Just like this.”

I tried to mimic him. My vision swam, but I focused on his calming movements.

“Haahhh…” A shaky exhale escaped me as I started to regain some control.

His shoulders relaxed slightly, relief flickering across his face. “You okay now? Sorry for scaring you. Didn’t mean to startle you like that.”

I nodded faintly, still catching my breath, my hands trembling as I slowly lowered them from my throat. For a moment, the world felt a little less overwhelming, anchored by his steady presence.

He extended a hand toward me; the motion was deliberate and confident. Yet, something about him felt... off. His composure was comforting, yet it carried an unnatural precision, as if every movement and expression were meticulously calculated rather than instinctive.

As I hesitated, my eyes caught a small marking on his forearm as his hand shifted—a number etched into his skin: **777**. His gaze flicked to mine, catching my notice, and without a word, he swapped hands, extending his left instead. The movement was quick, almost instinctive, as though he wanted to hide the marking from view.

I didn’t dwell on it. My thoughts were too sluggish, my body heavy, as if I’d woken from a long, unnatural slumber. I finally found my voice, though it came out hoarse and uncertain. “...Where are we..?”

He didn’t respond right away. His expression tightened, his gaze sweeping across the room as if assessing something unseen. His hand, however, stayed outstretched, steady and patient. After a moment's hesitation, I reached out and grasped it lightly. His grip was firm but careful as he pulled me to my feet.

Pain shot through my sluggish muscles as I staggered to my feet. My legs trembled, threatening to give out, but his steady hand anchored me, holding the chaos at bay.

Once upright, I took in the scene. Six others stood nearby, their faces pale and filled with confusion. Around us, a ring of silent soldiers stood with their spears levelled in our direction. Their armor gleamed faintly in the strange light—bronze plates engraved with intricate patterns, worn with age yet still formidable. They were motionless, their cold, watchful eyes giving them the air of statues come to life.

Looking down, I noticed I was wearing the same garment as the red-haired man. It was loose and simple, almost ceremonial, yet stripped of individuality, as though meant to erase who we were. Glancing around, I realized all six of us were dressed identically, the uniformity heightening the eerie tension in the air.

I ran my fingers over the fabric—it was coarse, unmistakably wool, the kind that made you itch just looking at it. The garment hung loosely, reaching down to my lower knees and covering my shoulders, but left my arms bare to the air. Not exactly the pinnacle of comfort or modesty.

No undergarments either. Not a stitch. I could only assume everyone else was in the same itchy, breezy predicament. If nothing else, it was an oddly communal kind of discomfort—like we were all part of some scratchy, ancient fashion trend.

“We don’t know,” the red-haired man finally said, his voice steady but tinged with frustration. He withdrew his hand as he turned his attention back to the soldiers, his eyes scanning them warily.

"…Am I… are we in hell?" I whispered, my voice trembling as my fingers brushed my neck. The familiar sting flared under my touch, sharp but bearable. I recognized the pain instantly, but I pushed it aside, refusing to dwell on it. My focus shifted to the room around me, the unease in my chest growing heavier with every passing moment. “No,” he replied firmly, his head turning slightly toward me. “I’m certain of that.”

There was a moment of silence as the red-haired man surveyed the surroundings. Then his eyes settled on me, his expression tightening.

"What happened to your neck? It's bruised," he asked, his tone laced with concern.

I froze, caught off guard. Shock rippled through me—I hadn’t realized there was a visible bruise. My hand instinctively went to my neck, brushing over the tender area. A faint sting confirmed his words.

"Nothing," I replied quickly, the word sharp and automatic, though even I wasn’t convinced by it.

“Hell?” a voice interrupted, light and dripping with mockery. I turned to see a lean young man with pale hair cascading to his shoulders, its silky strands gleaming faintly in the dim light. His skin was strikingly fair, almost translucent, and his unusually coloured eyes glinted with sharp amusement. A lopsided grin tugged at his lips, an eerie contrast to the oppressive atmosphere surrounding us.

“That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?” he said, tilting his head as if considering my words like a puzzle. “Nah, I bet this is something way cooler—like we got thrown into another world! Sounds way more fun, don’t you think? “His words hung in the air, bizarrely incongruent with the fear that surrounded us.

“Shut up!” snapped a girl nearby, her voice sharp and trembling. She had short, choppy hair and piercing eyes that flicked anxiously between the boy and the soldiers. She stood protectively in front of another girl, her arms wrapped around her companion, who was visibly shaking. The second girl clung to her, sobbing quietly into her shoulder.-

“Is this funny to you?” the short-haired girl hissed, glaring daggers at the skinny boy. Her voice carried an edge of panic, her anger barely masking her fear.

“No, but—” the boy began, his grin faltering as he raised his hands defensively. His movements were erratic, his messy hair falling into his face as he gestured. “I mean, look at us! Weird clothes, ancient soldiers, and—” He waved his hand at the marble floor and towering walls around us. “This place screams ‘otherworldly!’”

“Shut up!” the short-haired girl snapped again, her voice breaking as she tightened her grip on her trembling companion. The long-haired girl’s silent tears carved paths down her cheeks, her wide, tear-filled eyes darting between the soldiers and the rest of us, desperate for something—anything—that might make sense of the situation.

“Hey,” I ventured quietly, taking a cautious step toward the girls. “Are you okay?” The words felt thin, almost meaningless, but they were all I had.

The short-haired girl’s sharp glare turned to me; her suspicion unyielding. “How do you think we’re doing?” she spat, her words edged with frustration. “We just woke up, surrounded by these... soldiers! We got kidnapped, dragged here while we were asleep! I don’t even know where here is!”

I didn’t know how to respond—she was right, we were lost. But seeing her cry stirred something in me. I’d been taught to ask when someone was upset, to acknowledge their pain, even if I didn’t have the answers. So, without thinking too much, I asked. It felt wrong not to.

A faint sound caught my attention, drawing my eyes to the edge of the group. There stood a boy with neatly kept brown hair, his expression a mixture of confusion and quiet dread. He seemed more disoriented than anyone else, his brows furrowed as if struggling to make sense of what was happening. His posture was tense but upright, not shrinking away like others might in the face of uncertainty. His wide eyes moved slowly, scanning the soldiers and the group around him, as though trying to piece together an impossible puzzle. Though he didn’t seem like someone accustomed to fading into the background, in this moment, the weight of the chaos seemed to press on him harder than most, leaving him frozen in place.

"Why don’t we all take a moment to think back to what happened just before we ended up here?" the red-haired man suggested, his tone calm but commanding as his piercing blue eyes swept across the group. His gaze lingered on each of us, steady and unyielding, as if daring anyone to avoid his question.

“We can’t make sense of this if we don’t start somewhere,” he added, his voice softening slightly, though it still carried an edge that left no room for argument. “Let’s start with names. 

“Why don’t you start, leader?” the pale-skinned boy said mockingly, his grin sharp and almost teasing as he pointed at the red-haired man. “Since you seem to be in charge and all.” He then gestured toward the man’s arm. “Oh, and what’s up with that number on your wrist?”

The red-haired man hesitated, his hand moving instinctively to cover the mark etched into his skin: 777. His expression faltered, momentarily clouded with something unreadable. “Ah, this…” he murmured, his hand lingering over the mark as if it burned.

“My name is Victor,” the red-haired man said, his voice steady but carrying a hint of wariness. His piercing eyes flicked to the ground briefly, as though trying to piece together fragments of memory. “The only thing I remember is being in my room. Everything felt normal… until it wasn’t.” He paused, his jaw tightening slightly. “There was a light—a bright, blinding light. It came out of nowhere, and before I could even react…” He gestured vaguely around the room. “I woke up here.”

“That doesn’t explain the number,” the skinny boy interjected, his voice sharp with curiosity. He pointed toward Victor’s arm, his gaze flicking between the red-haired man and the faint marking etched into his skin. “What’s up with that?”

“...” there was a slight pause.

“This isn’t my first time being held captive by a group,” Victor said, his voice steady and cold. His piercing gaze remained fixed on the skinny boy, unwavering and intense, as if daring him to push further.

“You’ve got to be kidding me, that doesn’t—”

“Do you ever shut your mouth?” the girl snapped, cutting him off sharply. Her tone was biting, leaving little room for argument.

“Alright, alright,” he muttered, raising his hands in a small gesture of surrender. “I’ll back off.”

A heavy silence hung in the air, stretching uncomfortably as no one seemed willing to speak.

“Why don’t you go next?” Victor said, breaking the stillness. His eyes met mine, and he gave a subtle nod, urging me forward.

Why me? My eyes narrowed in irritation, frustrated at being put on the spot. I had planned to listen to everyone else first, piece together their stories, and then come up with something of my own to say. But now that plan was out the window. Fine. Whatever.

“Umm… the name’s Beliah,” I mumbled, my voice slightly shaky. “You can… uh… call me Bel.” My eyes darted between the others, feeling the weight of their stares pressing down on me. “Honestly, I don’t… I don’t remember much. I was with my parents, and they, uh… asked me to grab something from upstairs.” I scratched the back of my neck, avoiding eye contact. “Then there was this… this light, and… well… here I am.” My voice trailed off, my awkwardness filling the silence as I fidgeted with my hands, wishing the floor would just swallow me whole.

Damn it. That was awful. I envisioned myself saying it so much better. My stomach churned with embarrassment as I realized how awkward I must have sounded. I’m not used to speaking in front of a crowd—especially one like this.

“Well, I suppose I’ll go next,” the short-haired girl said, her tone firm but carrying a hint of resignation.  “Sophie.” Her sharp eyes darted around the group before she continued, her voice steady. “Unlike everyone else, the last thing I remember was falling asleep in my bed. Next thing I knew…” She gestured vaguely to the room around her, her expression unreadable. “Here I was.”

“Nice to meet you, Sophie,” Victor said, his tone polite but pointed as his sharp gaze shifted to the trembling girl Sophie was holding. “What about her? Think you can get her to speak?” He nodded toward the girl, his voice softening slightly, though it still carried an undercurrent of quiet authority.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

"Well, I’ve been trying," Sophie said, her tone carrying a hint of exasperation as she glanced at the girl clinging to her arm. "She’s been using hand signs to communicate, but I don’t understand them. If anyone here can, that’d be a big help."

“I know sign language,” Victor said briskly, his tone firm and assured.

“Ah, that’s great,” Sophie replied with a small sigh of relief. She gently nudged the long-haired girl forward, crouching slightly to meet her gaze. Smiling softly, she pointed toward Victor, encouraging her to focus on him.

The long-haired girl hesitated, her wide eyes flitting nervously between Sophie and Victor. After a moment, she turned her attention to Victor, her movements tentative.

Victor raised a closed fist, then smoothly unfolded it into a quick salute—a gesture that formed the sign for “What’s your name?” As he performed the sign, he spoke the words aloud, his voice steady and clear, ensuring everyone else in the group could follow along.

The long-haired girl blinked, her expression shifting as she processed both the gesture and his words. Slowly, her hands began to rise, readying a response, as the group watched in silence.

She responded in sign language, her hands moving hesitant at first but gradually gaining confidence. Her fingers formed deliberate shapes as she spelled out her name, her movements smooth but cautious.

Victor nodded, his expression calm and encouraging. He raised his hands again, performing another series of fluid, precise gestures. His fingers moved in rhythm, forming the question: "Do you remember what happened before all this?"

As he signed, he also spoke the words aloud, ensuring the rest of the group could follow the conversation. 

“Her name is Olivia,” Victor translated smoothly, his voice steady as he watched her hands move. “She says she was on a ferry with her parents when a storm broke out. It caused the ferry to sink.” He paused, his tone softening as he added, “The last thing she remembers is drowning.”

As the words settled over the group, Sophie instinctively pulled Olivia closer, her arms tightening protectively around the girl. “Oh no,” Sophie murmured, her voice trembling with sympathy. 

Wow, no wonder she was crying. The realization that her parents might be gone and the memory of drowning—it must be utterly terrifying. My chest tightened at the thought of what she must be feeling. Not only that, but she’s deaf and here without anyone familiar to support her. She must be completely overwhelmed, lost in fear and uncertainty. It was hard not to feel a deep pang of sympathy for her predicament.

The skinny boy let out a sigh, his shoulders slumping slightly as if the weight of the moment bored him more than anything else. “The name’s Lucian,” he said nonchalantly, his voice carrying a detached tone. “Honestly, nothing from my old world is worth remembering.”

He glanced briefly at the group, his expression unreadable, before continuing. “I was with my parents—nothing special. Then, out of nowhere, there was this light, and suddenly… I’m here.” He shrugged as if the entire ordeal was just another inconvenience. “Doesn’t matter, though. That world wasn’t exactly something I’d miss.”

“Aren’t you worried about your parents?” Victor asked, his tone sharp, cutting through the growing silence. His piercing gaze locked onto Lucian.

Lucian didn’t respond. His white hair, which fell to his shoulders in uneven strands, shifted slightly as he turned his head away. His pale skin, almost translucent, seemed to glimmer faintly under the room’s dim light—a stark contrast to the tension in the air. He exuded an eerie stillness, his albinism lending an otherworldly quality to his appearance.

He ignored Victor’s question entirely, his expression cold and unreadable, as if the words had simply evaporated before reaching him. Instead, he stared off into the distance, his body language signaling that he had no intention of entertaining the topic.

Everyone, except for Olivia—who remained nestled against Sophia's chest—shifted their attention toward the brown-haired boy standing silently in the corner.

The boy blinked, suddenly aware of the group’s focus. His eyes widened, his expression caught somewhere between shock and confusion, as though he’d just realized he’d need to speak. He hesitated, his gaze darting around nervously, clearly stalling for time.

A moment of silence hung heavy in the air, the group exchanging puzzled glances, wondering why he hadn’t answered.

“Your name?” Lucian asked bluntly, his tone sharp, clearly impatient with the pause.

The boy’s eyes flicked to Lucian, his lips parting as he finally stammered out, “Umm… I… I don't know .”

“What?” Lucian’s voice rose, his frustration spilling out. “What do you mean you don’t know ?”

“I mean it!” the boy said, his voice trembling slightly. His hands moved to clutch at his head, his fingers digging into his scalp as though he could wring out lost memories. “I don’t remember my name… I don’t remember how I got here… Nothing!”

Lucian threw up his hands, exhaling sharply. “Great,” he muttered, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Just great.”

The boy’s panicked tone didn’t sound like a lie. Even though his confusion didn’t answer the bigger questions—why we were here, surrounded by soldiers—it was clear this conversation wasn’t going to offer any clarity.

As the tension lingered, I found my gaze drifting downward. That’s when something caught my eye—a faint, glowing pattern on the floor beneath us. “Wait… there’s something here,” I said, taking a step back to get a better look.

The group followed my gaze, and all eyes turned toward the intricate markings stretching across the room. The designs glowed faintly under the dim light, their sprawling, symmetrical lines forming what looked like a massive magic circle. The engravings seemed to pulse faintly, as though alive, radiating an eerie, otherworldly energy that sent a chill down my spine.

“Could this be it?” I muttered, more to myself than anyone else. “The connection… the thing that brought us here?”

The realization settled over the group, a heavy silence falling as we all stared at the circle, the reality of our situation pressing down even harder.

The heavy doors open, the sound reverberating through the room, silencing any thoughts. Instinctively, we froze, all eyes turning to the imposing figure who stepped forward.

A large man emerged, dressed in sleek black attire adorned with two gold chains draped from his shoulder to his waist. An eagle insignia gleamed on his chest, a symbol of unmistakable authority. His build was broad and muscular, his stance deliberate and commanding, like someone used to giving orders that were followed without question.

“Stand at ease!” he barked, his voice loud, sharp, and demanding. It carried the weight of someone accustomed to absolute obedience. 

The soldiers responded immediately, snapping their spears upright before stepping back in perfect unison. They moved with practiced precision, reforming into two lines that flanked the path leading to the man. Their movements weren’t just orderly; they were calculated, a display of the discipline he commanded.

He paused, his sharp eyes sweeping over us as if assessing our worth. “Jacquin Caltrich,” he announced, his tone firm and unrelenting, “Vice Commander of the Amoptera Kingdom. 

“Follow me,” he commanded, his voice as steady as before. “I don’t want any questions”

Without another word, he strode forward, his steps deliberate, his presence demanding compliance. The soldiers stood firm, their silent vigilance urging us to follow.

We all started following the man silently, our steps echoing softly against the pristine marble floors of the grand palace. The sheer scale of the place was overwhelming, with high vaulted ceilings and intricate carvings adorning every wall. Occasionally, a few soldiers would pause as we passed, snapping to attention and saluting the man. Their eyes would then shift to us, lingering with a mix of curiosity and disdain, as though we were pests who didn’t belong.

I didn’t like the way they looked at us—curious, disdainful, almost pitying. Their eyes lingered just a moment too long, as if we were beneath them, unworthy of being here. It made my skin crawl, and the ceremonial outfits we wore only added to my discomfort. The thin, unfamiliar fabric felt more like a costume than clothing, leaving me feeling exposed and humiliated as we walked through the grand halls. How big was this place, anyway? Each step felt like it stretched the distance further. I just wanted to get wherever we were going and be done with this ordeal.

Suddenly, the silence shattered.

“Hey, sir!” the Lucian  called out, his hand half-raised, hesitating as if even he wasn’t sure of his own audacity.

The sound jolted me, and my head whipped toward him. I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard. Was he seriously speaking up? My chest tightened with irritation as I stared at him, my eyes pleading silently, Stop. Please, stop. But he wasn’t looking at me. His focus remained locked on the man in front of us, oblivious to the sheer stupidity of his actions. Didn’t he realize the situation we were in? Did he want to drag all of us down with him?

The man didn’t respond, his pace steady and deliberate, as though the interruption hadn’t even registered.

“HEY! I’m talking to you!” Lucian shouted again, his voice louder this time, echoing off the towering walls of the corridor.

The man stopped. Everything felt like it froze in place—the air itself seemed heavier, like the calm before an explosion. Slowly, the man turned around, his piercing gaze locking onto the skinny boy. There was no anger in his expression, but that was what made it worse. His calm, cold demeanor was far more terrifying than rage. My stomach twisted as the tension crackled in the air, thick enough to choke on.

The man strode toward him, his boots clicking ominously against the marble floor. Each step echoed louder than it should have, like a hammer striking a nail. My breath caught, and I instinctively took a step back, as did most of the others. Except for the Victor . He stood rooted to the spot, his expression unreadable, his eyes narrowing slightly as he observed the scene. How could he stay so calm? My heart was hammering so hard I thought it might burst.

“Can you explain what’s going on?” Lucian stammered, his earlier confidence melting away. His voice wavered, trembling like his outstretched hand. “We don’t know what’s happening, where we are, or—”

The man moved in a blur, his large hand shooting out to grab the skinny boy by the face. The boy let out a muffled yelp, his voice silenced as the man’s iron grip held him firmly in place. I flinched at the suddenness of it, my pulse spiking. The sight was enough to send a cold shiver down my spine. Idiot.

“Can you understand what’s coming out of my mouth?” the man asked, his voice low, sharp, and cutting.

The boy’s muffled response was incoherent, his hands weakly gripping the man’s wrist as though trying to pull away.

“CAN YOU?!” the man bellowed, his voice reverberating through the corridor like a thunderclap. The sheer force of it made me flinch, my legs instinctively wanting to take another step back, but I held my ground, my fists clenched tightly at my sides. Don’t move, I told myself. Don’t make it worse.

“All of you have received the Gift and ascended,” the man growled, his voice still loud but controlled, laced with authority. “Which allows you to understand us. But why do you act like you can’t?” His words felt like a blade cutting through the tension, cold and precise.

The man shoved the boy back, releasing him with a rough motion. Lucian stumbled, crumpling slightly as he backed away, his hands trembling and his face pale with fear. I could feel the boy’s humiliation like it was my own, but I wasn’t about to speak up. None of us dared to. Victor remained unmoved, his gaze flicking between the man and the trembling boy, his expression calm but his jaw tightening slightly.

The man straightened, brushing off his uniform as though nothing had happened. “Follow me,” he said coolly, turning on his heel. “And do not speak again until I permit it. This will be the last warning.”

We followed. The weight of his words hung in the air like a storm cloud, suffocating and heavy. My thoughts raced, but I kept them to myself. What kind of "Gift" had we supposedly received? And what did it mean to "ascend"? Questions churned in my head, but I knew better than to ask them now. The man’s warning echoed in my mind with every step we took. This is no place for defiance, I thought grimly. We’re playing by their rules now.

Following the man, the hallways felt strangely empty, with only the occasional guard stationed at their posts. The silence was unnerving. It was as if this section of the palace was unimportant, or perhaps the key members of its operations were elsewhere. The echoes of our footsteps against the marble floor only added to the eerie stillness.

Eventually, we entered a large, stately room. It resembled a dean’s office, austere and formal. A single ornate chair sat at the far end of the room behind a polished wooden table, its surface immaculate except for a few scrolls and what looked like a ledger. The man strode forward confidently, settling into the chair and leaning back slightly, his arms crossed as he stared at us with a measured gaze.

“Welcome to the kingdom of Ampotera,” he began, his tone authoritative. “Ruled by Lord Greylark. To answer your most immediate question—yes, you have indeed been transported here. Why? We do not know. But every five years, new individuals are teleported to this kingdom from… elsewhere. It is a phenomenon we’ve yet to understand.” He gestured vaguely toward the room as he continued, “The circle you arrived in is the teleportation site. We guard it day and night in case of anomalies or disturbances. It is the only known link to your world.”

His words hung in the air like a storm cloud. The weight of them settled over us, and for a moment, none of us spoke. It was as though we were all hoping someone else would voice the confusion and disbelief swirling in our minds.

I glanced at Lucian, expecting him to say something—anything—but he remained silent, his earlier confidence completely shattered. He seemed too shaken to even meet anyone’s gaze.

“Why us?” Sophie finally asked, her voice cutting through the tension. There was a sharp edge to it, but it was clear she was struggling to keep her composure.

“As I said,” the man replied, his expression as cold and unchanging as his tone, “we do not know. The phenomenon is random. Every five years, people like you appear here. That’s the only certainty.”

“Are there others like us?” Sophie pressed, not letting the subject drop.

The man’s gaze flicked toward her. “If you mean other outworlders still alive, I cannot say for sure. We do not maintain contact with them—they are rare to come across.” His voice remained steady, almost dismissive, as though it wasn’t a question worth entertaining.

“What do you mean we’ve received gifts? We didn’t receive anything,” the Victor interjected, his tone calm but carrying a sharp skepticism.

As the man mentioned that we had received gifts enabling us to understand them, I brushed it off at first—it didn’t make much sense. But then I started to wonder: was he speaking literally? Did we truly have these gifts? I was curious about what he meant, but I didn’t want to ask—I didn’t want to risk looking foolish. 

The man’s eyes narrowed slightly, and for the first time, he paused, his gaze sweeping over us as if weighing his response. After a moment, he spoke again, his voice even but with a hint of condescension.

“I have done some research on your world. From what I understand, there are no gods governing it—no divine presence influencing your existence. Here, however, our world is ruled by gods. They are real, active, and they bestow gifts upon chosen humans. These gifts allow you to ascend, becoming something greater. Those who do not receive these gifts remain earthbound—ordinary. There are still many in our world who have not ascended.”

He gestured idly in the air, his finger tracing slow circles as he explained, his tone never shifting.

“You have received these gifts. Whether you realize it or not. To better understand, say the word ‘Status’ in your mind.”

“Status,” the brown-haired boy blurted out almost immediately, not even waiting for further explanation.

We all turned to him, startled, and then glanced at each other hesitantly. Curiosity and apprehension hung thick in the air. One by one, we each murmured the word, letting it roll silently in our minds.

“Status.”

Status - Level 1

* Name: Beliah Scriv

* Age:20

* Title: [??????]

* Affinity: Bitter Chill – The Goddess Nyvara (C Rank)

* Affinity Description: A divine blessing bestowed by Nyvara, the Goddess of Bitter Chill. Nyvara, a cunning and ambitious deity, took interest in this sly boy. She is the twin sister of Ephyahra, the Goddess of Calm Frost. Locked in a bitter rivalry, Nyvara seeks to destroy her sister and ascend to greater Status. Nyvara’s intentions are veiled, but she has plans for Beliah, and their paths are destined to cross again.

* Affinity Abilities: Frost Manipulation 

* Passive Ability: Minor Cold Resistance. 

* Attributes: -

* Debuff: -