The decision weighed on Vargan as he turned to Eliath. His voice was steady, though a hint of unease lingered beneath. “I’m logging off to check my condition in the real world. I’ll be back soon.”
Eliath gave a curt nod, his sharp gaze lingering on Vargan for a moment. “Be quick.” His usual smirk softened just slightly—a rare display of concern. Then, Vargan disappeared, his form dissolving into a cascade of light as he logged out.
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Back on Earth
Vargan—Nash—ripped the gaming helmet from his head, gasping as if he had just surfaced from drowning. His heart pounded in his chest, his breath shallow, as reality crashed down around him. The hum of the device faded, but its ghost lingered in his skull, a phantom vibration echoing in his bones.
The room was too still. Too quiet.
He swallowed hard, his throat dry as dust, and turned toward the window—toward home. But the sight beyond the glass stole the breath from his lungs.
It wasn’t home. Not anymore.
The familiar skyline trembled, distorted, as if reality itself was struggling to hold its shape. Towering crystalline trees shimmered where concrete should have stood, their luminescent branches stretching toward a sun that burned too bright, too golden. Spires of glass and shadow twisted impossibly high, the architecture of Eidolon bleeding into Earth like a wound refusing to close. The edges of the world wavered, two realities clawing for dominance in an unspoken war.
Nash pressed his palms against his eyes, willing the illusion to break. When he looked again, nothing had changed.
A deep, nameless dread coiled in his gut.
“This can’t be real,” he whispered, though the words felt hollow. The Rift hadn’t just breached the game—it had woven itself into him, threading through his mind, his body, his very sense of self. It hadn’t merely followed him. No—it had claimed him.
His stomach twisted. He staggered to his feet, his legs weak beneath him, and stumbled to the bathroom. He gripped the edges of the sink, white-knuckled, and forced himself to look in the mirror.
His reflection stared back—except it wasn’t entirely his own.
Vargan’s face haunted the glass. His jawline was sharper, his cheekbones more pronounced, his eyes carrying that same cold, unyielding intensity he had wielded on the battlefield. The warrior’s confidence lingered in his posture, in the way his shoulders squared, in the way he felt taller, stronger.
But that wasn’t the worst of it.
A thin line of dried blood streaked down his temple. He reached up, fingers grazing the spot. A sharp, electric pain shot through his skull, making him flinch. It wasn’t a physical wound, not really. The Rift had touched him—left something behind. The echoes of its pain, its agony, were seared into his mind like a brand.
And he could still feel it.
It wasn’t just a game anymore.
A tremor ran through his fingers as he turned the faucet, splashing cold water onto his face. The shock grounded him—barely. Droplets traced the contours of his skin, sliding over the remnants of a battle that shouldn’t have followed him here.
Nash gritted his teeth.
This wasn’t over. It had never been over. The Rift had chosen him, bound itself to him in ways he couldn’t yet understand. It was more than an invasion of worlds—it was an invasion of self.
His reflection steadied, his eyes meeting his own—his real eyes, if they still belonged to him.
With a slow, deliberate breath, Nash turned back to the gaming helmet. The faint hum, once eerie, now felt almost comforting. Familiar.
A doorway, not an escape.
His fingers hovered over it for only a moment before he slid it back over his head.
“Let’s finish this,” he murmured.
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Returning to Eidolon
Nash slid the helmet back on. A breath. A heartbeat. Then—
The pull.
Darkness. A familiar weight settled over him, and then the world reformed. The sharp scent of torches. The distant clang of steel. The hum of unseen magic in the air. Eidolon.
As the city materialized around him, Nash inhaled sharply. The weight of the Rift still pressed at the edges of his mind, a silent presence that hadn’t stayed behind with his body. He flexed his fingers, half-expecting them to flicker like a glitched character model. They didn’t. But the feeling lingered.
He reappeared beside Eliath, the city’s lantern-lit streets flickering in his periphery.
Eliath crossed his arms, studying him. “Everything intact?” His tone was light, but his eyes lingered a beat too long.
Nash rolled his shoulders, shaking off the residual tension. “I’m fine. Let’s continue.”
“Good.” Eliath turned, already moving. “Because you’ve got four hunting quests left, and if we’re getting you to level twenty, we can’t waste time.”
They walked, the city’s hum wrapping around them—traders haggling, steel clashing in the distance, the murmur of players and NPCs alike. Yet, beneath it all, Nash felt it. The weight. The shift.
The Rift was still with him.
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The Town’s Buzz: Earth and Eidolon Collide
A blacksmith leaned on his forge, speaking in hushed tones to a group of players. “I swear I saw it,” he said, his voice rough but certain. “The lights of another world. It’s like we’re being watched from the other side.”
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A pair of merchants whispered as they exchanged goods. “You’ve heard the rumors, haven’t you?” one asked. “People are saying you can see their world from here. Roads with machines instead of carts. Towers that scrape the sky.”
Another NPC, a weathered scholar seated on the edge of a fountain, addressed a small crowd of onlookers. “The Veil grows thinner by the day,” he intoned gravely. “The gods warned us of this. Two worlds cannot coexist without consequences.”
A hooded street performer strummed a lute near the marketplace, his melody hauntingly slow. As a few coins clinked into his cup, he murmured to no one in particular, “The song’s changed, don’t you hear it? The wind hums with voices not our own… like echoes from a place we were never meant to know.”
Vargan and Eliath weaved through the streets, their pace brisk but unhurried. Nash couldn’t help but feel the weight of the townsfolk’s words. The blending of worlds wasn’t just a backdrop—it was everywhere, a constant reminder of the stakes.
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Into the Wilds
The air in the forest was different, charged with an unspoken tension. Shadows stretched unnaturally long, and the faint sounds of rustling leaves carried a sense of unease. The animals, once fearless in their territories, now moved skittishly, their eyes wide with fear.
Eliath led the way with his usual confidence, though Nash noticed the subtle way his hand hovered near his weapon. “Your quests,” Eliath began, his tone matter-of-fact. “They’re straightforward. Four targets, four objectives. Each one harder than the last.”
The forest stretched out in ominous silence, the muted cries of distant creatures adding to the tense atmosphere. Nash—Vargan—followed closely behind Eliath, who moved with practiced ease through the dense foliage. Shadows stretched and shifted in the dim light, creating a playground for Nash’s newfound abilities.
Eliath stopped abruptly, raising a hand to signal Nash to halt. His sharp gaze fixed on a nearby thicket, where faint movements betrayed the presence of Umbral Stalkers—level 13 shadow-infused beasts with sleek, predator-like forms that shimmered faintly in the half-light.
“They’re quick, and they hunt in packs,” Eliath murmured, his voice low but commanding. “Each one will try to flank you while the others keep you distracted. You’ll need to stay mobile and unpredictable. Remember your skills—Shadowmeld, Phasing, and Veil Slip. Use the environment to your advantage.”
Nash tightened his grip on his blade, but a flicker of doubt passed through him. The creatures were stronger than anything he had faced alone, and while his skills had come naturally in controlled fights, the unpredictability of the wild set his nerves on edge. He nodded anyway, forcing his hesitation down.
“Good,” Eliath continued. “Start with Shadowmeld. Get close to the lead stalker, but don’t rush. Wait for the opening. Your first strike from stealth will hit harder. After that, use Shadow Surge to reposition before they can counter. Let’s see how well you’ve learned.”
Nash exhaled and activated Shadowmeld, his form melting seamlessly into the surrounding darkness. The ambient light seemed to bend around him, reducing his presence to little more than a whisper in the shadows. Moving soundlessly, he closed the distance to the nearest stalker, a large, muscular creature with glowing red eyes.
The stalker’s ears twitched, sensing something amiss, but Nash hesitated for half a second too long. Its head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing. Shit. He struck before it could fully react, but the delay cost him—his blade found its mark, but not as cleanly as he intended. The beast howled in pain, its form flickering as Ethereal Wounds left a glowing mark on its flank.
“Good strike,” Eliath called from the safety of the treeline. “Now move—don’t let them surround you.”
Two more stalkers leapt from the shadows, their movements a blur. Nash activated Shadow Surge, propelling himself out of their path with a burst of speed. The surge granted him a temporary edge, but as he turned to counter, his footing slipped on the damp forest floor. His blade cut into the nearest beast, but not deep enough to cripple it. The creature snarled and lunged, forcing Nash to react fast—he barely activated Veil Slip in time, phasing through the attack as claws passed through empty air.
He reappeared behind the stalker and drove his blade home, this time landing a solid strike. The creature yelped as the Veil-infused energy bypassed its defenses.
A fourth stalker emerged from the underbrush, its glowing eyes fixed on Nash. Eliath’s voice cut through the chaos. “You’re outnumbered. Use the terrain and your Phasing ability to control the fight. Don’t let them dictate your movements.”
Nash scanned the area, spotting a fallen tree nearby. He sprinted toward it, but one of the stalkers anticipated the move and lunged at his side. A sharp sting of claws grazed his ribs before he could phase through the barrier. He clenched his jaw against the pain, breath hitching for a moment as he steadied himself.
From his concealed position, Nash used Vision, focusing on the lead stalker. Echoes of its past flickered before his eyes—a glimpse of its movements, its attack patterns, and a faint glow revealing its weak point just below the ribcage.
He stepped out of the shadows, moving with precision. His blade struck true, piercing the stalker’s vulnerable spot and ending its life in a burst of shadowy wisps. The remaining creatures faltered, their confidence shaken by the sudden loss of their leader.
“Finish them,” Eliath encouraged, his voice calm yet commanding.
Nash surged forward, alternating between Shadow Surge and precise strikes. The Veil energy in his attacks tore through the stalkers’ defenses, but his body was beginning to feel the strain. Each movement required precision, and a single misstep could be costly. He exhaled sharply, forcing his mind to stay sharp.
One lunged at him. Nash activated Veil Slip, avoiding the attack and countering with a devastating slash that marked it with Ethereal Wounds.
The final stalker, sensing its pack’s demise, let out a guttural snarl and turned to flee, its form melting into the shadows. But Nash was faster. He activated Shadowmeld, the darkness swallowing him whole as he gave chase. Every muscle screamed in protest, fatigue gnawing at his limbs, but he forced himself forward, his pulse hammering in his ears.
The beast darted between the trees, its form flickering in and out of sight. Nash anticipated its path, reappearing just ahead of it—his blade already swinging. The stalker barely had time to react before steel met flesh, cutting deep with a surge of Veil-infused energy. The creature let out a strangled cry as its body fractured, splintering apart into tendrils of black mist that coiled and faded into nothing.
Nash remained still for a moment, his chest rising and falling with each sharp breath, his fingers curled so tightly around his weapon that his knuckles ached. The fight was over. But the shadows still lingered.
He let out a slow breath, only now noticing the ache in his ribs where the claws had raked him. The fight was over, but his body still felt the strain —and his mind replayed every mistake.
Eliath stepped forward, nodding approvingly. “Not bad,” he said, though his eyes flickered toward Nash’s wound. “But you hesitated on the first strike, and you let one flank you. Clean up your timing.”
Nash exhaled, rolling his shoulders. The sting of pain reminded him this wasn’t just a game anymore. Every fight had consequences.
He nodded. “Got it.”
Eliath smirked. “Good. Because this was just the first hunt.”
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After the Fight
As the last stalker dissolved into shadowy mist, Nash exhaled, his breath measured but his body thrumming with exhaustion. His muscles burned from exertion, his ribs ached where claws had grazed him, and the weight of his blade felt heavier now. The clearing had gone still, yet the tension still coiled in his chest, unwilling to release its grip.
Eliath approached, his gaze sharp, assessing. “Not bad,” he said at last, though his tone carried less praise and more scrutiny. “You’re learning to use the Veil and your surroundings to your advantage. But you hesitated. Twice.” His eyes narrowed. “In a real fight, that hesitation will get you killed.”
Nash clenched his jaw, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He had hesitated. He had felt it—the fraction of a second where instinct battled uncertainty. Where thought overruled action. And it had cost him. His grip on his weapon tightened. “I’ll get better,” he said, the words not just a promise but a vow.
Eliath: smirks “You’d better.” He turned, already moving. “The wild won’t go easy on you.” A pause. “Neither will I. Next time? I expect better.”
As they pressed deeper into the forest, the shadows shifting around them, Nash’s mind replayed the battle—the weight of each strike, the moments he’d faltered, the way the Veil had responded to him. The fight had tested him, but it had also shown him something: he wasn’t just wielding shadow. It was part of him now.
And next time, he wouldn’t hesitate.