As Kael’s voice trailed off, Yareeth found herself staring at her own hands, the sharp claws that had once only dug for roots or woven delicate baskets now covered in grime and blood. Her reflection in the faintly rippling puddle at their feet showed a face she barely recognized—a girl caught between worlds, her scales dulled, the markings of her tribe now a faint echo of the vibrant patterns they had once been. Who was she now, in this strange, harsh place? A survivor? A lost child? Or something else entirely, something the System would mold and shape as it pleased? The thought chilled her more than any cold night in the swamp ever had.

The flickering firelight painted the inn’s rough-hewn walls in hues of gold and shadow, casting the faces around her into a grotesque, dancing spectacle. Yareeth’s gaze shifted from one stranger to the next, each one a stark contrast to the familiar, comforting forms of her own kin. Their movements were awkward, their expressions unreadable, and their eyes—ranging from brown to blue to green—lacked the depth and primal clarity of her people’s gaze. The air was thick with unfamiliar scents: roasted meat, fermented grains, and a cloying sweetness she couldn’t quite place. The warmth, so different from the perpetual dampness of her home realm, felt oppressive, suffocating—a tangible reminder of the chaos that had swallowed her world.

She glanced across the table at Kael, the human who had brought her to this... this place. His head was bowed, his shoulders slumped, exhaustion etched into the lines of his face—a stark contrast to the fierce warrior she’d seen battling the Blightmaw. Even in the wavering candlelight, she could make out the wounds marking his skin—the fading bruises, the raw scrapes—a map of the battles he’d endured. His hands were calloused and scarred, the fingers long and agile despite the tremors that ran through them. When his eyes met hers, they held a deep sorrow that mirrored her own.

He had finally told her his name: Kael. A simple word, yet it carried a strange weight, resonating with the power he wielded and the destruction he’d inadvertently unleashed. It felt as if... as if everything she had known, everything she had ever believed in, had been shattered, leaving only jagged fragments—a mosaic of memories and unanswered questions.

He’d tried to explain. The words—clumsy, inadequate—had tumbled from his lips: a story of betrayal, of power, of a chaotic world she couldn’t fully comprehend. Broken fragments of a tale that both fascinated and terrified her, woven with threads of magic and violence. A world she hadn’t known existed until he’d stepped into her life.

Until he’d destroyed it.

Her heart ached with a dull, persistent throb, echoing the silence of her lost village—a phantom pain that lingered despite the System’s insistence that she was alive, that she was... Level One.

**Level One.**

The term itself felt alien, a label imposed by an unseen force she’d never even heard of until the System’s interface had seared itself into her mind. Strange, angular symbols burned into her consciousness like a branding iron, claiming her, pulling her into a world where intuition and belief had been supplanted by a cold, calculating logic that defied everything she knew, everything she’d been taught.

“The Realms.” The word itself was foreign, unsettling, sending shivers of apprehension through her. "Shattered pieces... remnants of a world destroyed." The way he spoke, the haunted look in his eyes—each revelation felt like a new wound opening. A terrifying truth began to settle over her.

She couldn’t comprehend it. How could her world, her entire existence, be just... a fragment? A piece of something larger, broken and scattered across... What had he called it? The Void? A place that sounded like a nightmare, a devouring emptiness whispering of oblivion. And those creatures, the ones he’d fought—were they guardians of these fragments, or merely manifestations of their decay?

She remembered the day, the moment when everything changed.

It had all happened so fast. One moment, she’d been tending her stall at the edge of the village, her hands weaving a new basket, her mind focused on the intricate patterns, the gentle rhythm of her craft. She’d been humming a lullaby her grandmother had taught her, a song about the ancient protectors of the marsh, her heart filled with the simple joy of creation. The sun had been warm on her scales, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and blooming swamp lilies. The world around her was vibrant, alive—her village a sanctuary within a sanctuary.

She remembered the stranger emerging from the fog, his ragged clothes, and the weapon he carried—a brutal, primitive thing that seemed so out of place in their world. And those eyes, intense, filled with a hunger that made her skin crawl, like the gaze of the predators that lurked at the fringes of their realm.

“Perhaps he is a castaway,” she’d thought, her heart filled with a compassion her elders would have warned against, a naive belief in the inherent goodness of all living beings. She’d watched him, hidden behind the woven curtain of her stall, as he moved through the village. His steps were hesitant, his gaze wary, the scent of fear clinging to him like a shroud. He didn’t seem like a threat. Not really. He was too thin, his movements awkward, his clothing a mishmash of scraps.

She’d seen vulnerability, not malice.

And a desire, a yearning for... connection.

She’d smiled at him, a small, shy gesture meant to ease his fears.

But her greeting had been met with… what? Fear? Disgust? The question still haunted her, even now, as she tried to make sense of all that had happened.

Then he had vanished—a ghost slipping back into the fog as if he’d never been there at all. But the unease lingered, the air itself feeling charged, the shadows deepening, the usual symphony of the swamp’s rhythms disrupted by a dissonant hum she couldn’t shake.

Something had changed.

“He carries the taint of the Void,” she’d heard the elder whisper to Vask, their voices low and urgent, the hushed tones meant to be kept secret. She should have turned away, should have pretended not to hear. But curiosity—a yearning for knowledge that her grandmother had always encouraged—was too strong.

The memory of that night, of their words—whispered warnings and dire predictions—was already fading, replaced by the brutal, immediate reality of what had followed, by the sensory overload of this strange new world. She hadn’t understood.

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She still couldn’t bear to remember it all—the roar that had shattered the stillness, the creature emerging from the fog, a behemoth with eyes burning with malevolent light, its stench a suffocating wave of rot and decay. The Blightmaw. It had come for them, a monstrous shadow consuming everything in its path—their huts, their stores, her people. The air had thickened, becoming heavy and suffocating as the stench of decay and poison washed over her.

It hadn’t even been a hunt, not really—just a massacre. Her people, armed with spears and nets, their strength drawn from the very essence of the marsh. The creature had crushed them like dry leaves, devouring her kin without hesitation, their cries of terror swallowed by the fog’s oppressive silence.

Her heart had pounded in her chest. Her scales itched with an unbearable urge to flee, but she’d been frozen, trapped by the sheer terror of the unfolding nightmare. She had never seen anything like it, never felt such raw, overwhelming power. The ground beneath her feet had trembled with the creature’s every step. The creature moved through them like a force of nature, its claws flashing, blood spraying as bodies fell. The screams were a single, unending note of terror, and she could only watch, paralyzed, as everything she’d ever known was torn apart.

The others, her tribe, had fought back. Vask, his spear flashing in the dim light, had been a blur of motion. Eshta, always the calm one, had moved with practiced grace, her arrows striking true. But it had been a hopeless battle. This creature, this monster—it had shrugged off their attacks, its scales shimmering, its claws ripping through flesh and bone. She had known, with a sickening certainty, that they couldn’t win. That they couldn’t survive.

She had tried to join them, to fight back, to do anything. The intricate patterns on her scales—marks of growth and achievement—felt like meaningless decorations in the face of such overwhelming terror. Her mother’s teachings about the sacredness of life, of balance, rang hollow against the Blightmaw’s destructive roar. She had tried to remember the defensive stances her father had taught her, but her limbs felt heavy, as if the very air had turned to sludge. It was the first time she truly understood what it meant to be powerless.

Her heart ached. Her throat tightened as a choked sob tried to escape her lips, but she swallowed it down. She wouldn’t break. Not here. Not now. The memories were too sharp, too vivid—the screams, the smell of blood, the terrifying roar that had reverberated through the very foundation of her world.

And he had been there. Kael.

Fighting alongside them, his weapon—a brutal, primitive tool—wielded with a strength and ferocity that both fascinated and terrified her.

She had caught only a fleeting glimpse of him, standing in the clearing amidst the carnage. His clothes were tattered, his eyes wide with terror that mirrored her own, blood staining his pale skin. But this time, she had felt the power radiating from him—the Void Shard’s presence, an echo of the creature’s malevolent glow.

“He’s the one. He’s the cause,” a voice whispered within her.

The voice—panicked, breathless—had snapped her out of her paralysis. But the fear he projected—the pure, primal terror of a creature facing its doom—was as potent as the Blightmaw’s venomous breath. It pushed her forward, urged her to run, to escape before it was too late. She hadn’t understood his words then, but she had felt the urgency, the desperation. The world was ending, and somehow, the boy had opened the door to this darkness.

The ground beneath her feet had been slick with blood, the lifeblood of her world mingling with the Blightmaw's poisonous stench. Her scales seemed to darken, as if reflecting the very essence of that horror, her world crumbling around her—her people, their way of life, everything.

Then he had come back for her, dragging her away from the carnage, his words a chaotic mix of desperation and something else she couldn’t grasp. He was wounded, blood soaking his clothes. Her own terror had taken over—terror of the Blightmaw, of his touch, of his urgency. She’d been certain he was leading her to her death. They had stumbled through the village, the air thick with the scent of rot and decay, the ground slick with blood. Her tail had whipped back and forth, her scales scraping against rough walls, her claws digging into his flesh. Everything around her had been a disorienting blur of pain and panic, his grip tight on her arm, pulling her toward the swirling purple energy that shimmered in the distance.

Then that creature—his creature—had burst into their path.

He’d let go. He’d abandoned her. The realization had been a shard of ice, freezing her heart as his form blurred, twisted, as he unleashed his power to fight off the Blightmaw.

The portal had been her first glimpse into the abyss—a swirling vortex of light and color, a tearing of the very fabric of her world, a gateway to... what? There had been no time to think, no space for rational thought. Everything had happened so fast, so... wrong. Yet within the darkness, something had awoken within her. It had felt as though she were burning from the inside out, her scales melting away, the scent of smoke filling the air as he had pulled them through another portal. And then, darkness—the basement—and the dawning realization that she hadn’t died, hadn’t even been harmed.

She had found herself in a cold, dark place, the air thick with the scent of damp earth, a musty, suffocating contrast to the vibrant, humid air of her swamp home. The boy, her only anchor in the storm, had lain sprawled on the ground. His face, pale and drawn in the dim light filtering through a broken window high and down the stairs, had been contorted in a grimace of pain.

To her, it had felt like a tomb—a silent, empty space where the shadows whispered secrets of loss and despair. The air had been heavy, stale, clinging to her scales, making them feel dry, brittle. Her heart had pounded, a frantic drumbeat against the oppressive silence. Fear had clawed at her throat, choking her. Where was she? What had he done? What had become of her family? Of her home? The questions had been a torrent, a flood of panic that threatened to drown her. But even as the fear had threatened to consume her, a spark of defiance had flickered within her, an ember fueled by the memory of her father’s words—“Fear is a shadow, Yareeth. It can only control you if you let it.”

It had been a shock, this new world—the dampness, the darkness. He had collapsed, poisoned, and a wave of guilt had washed over her. Was she a part of his pain?

The System screen’s blue glow was a stark contrast to her shadowed world. The words appeared as she watched: "[Awakening Ritual Completed. Welcome to the System]." It had been an anchor then—a message, in its own way. A reminder that there was still a world to navigate, even if it wasn’t the one she knew, even if the language was unfamiliar.

She had drawn it for him, then, in the mud, sharing the screen, the information.

He had struggled to understand, his gaze unfocused.

But they had been on their way out then. She had fought the terror, the overwhelming urge to curl up in the darkness. She had followed him. Through the stench of the slums, through the madness of the marketplace, his pace quickening, his fear mirroring her own. She had seen their predators—the way they moved, the way their gazes settled, eyes judging, hungry.

He had led her through a maze of dark, twisting alleyways, the shadows deeper and colder than any she had ever known, the air thick with the stench of rot and decay. The sounds had assaulted her: harsh shouts, the clatter of metal, desperate pleas for mercy lost against the backdrop of a relentless, grinding hunger.

Her village had been a living tapestry of life and water—floating platforms woven from reeds, huts shaded by great fern canopies, the rhythmic splash of paddles as her people moved through the narrow waterways. Here, there were only harsh angles, hard stone, and the endless press of bodies in a maze of narrow, suffocating alleys.

They had reached the temple—a place of towering walls, shadowed recesses, a sanctuary dedicated to powers she couldn’t comprehend. The boy had pointed toward the center of the room, to something that pulsed with a familiar energy, and there, in the heart of that alien space, had been the Artifact—a pulsating stone, its surface cold and smooth, a shifting tapestry of light and darkness. It had called to her, drawn her in. A shimmering, obsidian stone, its surface a whirlpool of darkness and light that made her scales hum in response. His voice, his urging, had seemed distant. It was her own instinct, the tug of a power she didn’t understand but felt deep within her core, that compelled her forward.

She had reached out, driven by a force that transcended reason.