The day was utterly pristine. Rory breathed in deep, taking in the blissful morning. He needed to get going soon. The antiques auction wasn’t going to wait for him, but he was allowed to enjoy little moments now. This was why he had retired early after all.
Clouds drifted slowly over the town, lazy shadows ambling along in their wake. A light breeze rustled the sycamore leaves, the soft murmur of distant vehicles and townspeople trickled into his ears, and the perfume he’d applied meticulously—not too much, not too little, just enough—brushed his nose and elicited a deep smile. Yes. This was going to be a good day.
The mood was so nice, Rory even decided to stretch before he set off. Something cricked in his lower back.
“Ow,” he muttered, massaging the spot through his shirt.
He thought he had retired early enough to enjoy the remainder of his life without being riddled by health issues or feeling cranky all the time. Apparently, according to his back, it hadn’t been early enough.
Viv kept telling him to start exercising now that he had free time, but retirement was supposed to be effortless and relaxing. Exercising was the opposite of that.
Shaking his head, he headed over to his truck. Well, Samuel’s truck. But it was Rory’s for the day, according to his lackadaisical friend, whose only payment had come in the form of a joke that he should have found a pack mule to carry his antiques.
Rory had allowed it. He was, after all, indebted to the guy. But the centuries old clocks, weapons and pieces of armour dating back to the Dark Ages, Bronze Age pottery, and other valuable, historical paraphernalia were too precious to trust to any beast of burden. Rory had packed them carefully into the cotton-lined boxes and stored them all onto the truck.
Pulling on his woollen jacket, dusting his trouser to make sure there was no dirt, he got on and drove out of the garage.
The vehicle rumbled down the road, a soft jostling in the back confirming that the boxes full of antique pieces were nested tight enough against each other. Rory tried not to pay too much attention to the sound and end up worrying. Gripping the steering wheel tighter, he decided to focus on the pleasure of the journey.
It was nice that the day was rather gorgeous.
The sun peeked out with lukewarm light from behind the puffy, white clouds, the streets were devoid of traffic, and the houses glowed with vivid individuality—some with marble-tiled roofs, some with solar panels, and some flat-topped with iron railings.
Rory approved of that. It embodied his own venture into the antiques business, a relaxing affair that earned him enough to live by while still affording more than enough time to pursue other hobbies and interests. An out-of-the-norm decision that most people would baulk at.
Viv was supportive of it, though, and that was all Rory needed. Just as he was supportive of her rise in Hillhard University. Who cared what people thought about an antiquarian and college professor couple.
The town’s buildings started to grow sparse as Rory drove uphill, trees starting to replace the artificial structures. One thing he loved about his town was all the greenery. Gardens, lush courtyards, and public art made from artfully grown hedges and bushes were a common sight all over. Spring couldn’t come soon enough.
For now, though, Rory ignored the nearby gas station and took in the gently swaying leaves all around. He was almost at the old palace where the auction was going to take place.
Except, Rory and the trees weren’t the only living things in the vicinity. As he turned a corner, his eyes went wide and his breath caught in his throat.
A kid was crossing the street.
“Hey!” he shouted. “Get—”
Too close. Rory was going to crash into the girl. The truck would run her over and leave nothing but bloody pulp.
He twisted the steering wheel with everything he had, blaring the horn at the same time.
Rory didn’t see if the girl was saved, nor did he even see where he ended up. The truck moved too fast. Through the windshield, the world revolved with frightening speed, a blur of riotous colour and amorphous shapes, before the truck crashed. It broke past the railing on the side of the road, slammed throughs several trees that made the glass crack, then dove into a ditch.
There was just enough time for Rory to curse his luck and feel a pang of longing for Viv before his head banged against the dashboard. Everything went dark.
----------------------------------------
Rory was groggy when he awoke. For a moment, he savoured the fact that he was alive.
Then he groaned.
If he thought the crick before he had set off was bad, things had taken a turn for the horrendous. His whole body ached as though he was the one who had collided with the ground in place of the truck, his head felt like it had a fissure running down the middle, spewing blood as hot as magma, and he was far, far too warm. A burning smell ratcheted up, clogging his nose in place of air.
He was also sideways. Orientation was a difficult thing to comprehend after waking up with a skull injury, but he eventually got that the trees weren’t hovering horizontally in the air. They were still the right way up. Rory’s truck had simply decided that it could no longer remain upright.
Twisting, turning, and biting through the pain, Rory climbed to the other side. He unlocked and opened the door, crawling out and flopping down to the ground, the drop jarring him like he had suffered a punch from… from a runaway truck. His head wound throbbed viciously.
Alright, enough of focusing on the accident. Rory checked his pockets. His wallet and cell phone were still there. Good. He had to make sure he was actually well enough to move, and then get help.
Though it was surprising no one had come yet. Both the gas station and the old palace were nearby, so someone should have heard something.
As Rory struggled to his feet, coughing as an ashen taste pilfered across his tongue, he slowed until eventually pausing mid-rise. His breaths came in harsher and harsher. It was obvious why no one had come to check his crash.
The whole world seemed to be burning.
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He hadn’t noticed before, but the trees around him were all alight with lurid, crimson flames. Embers flaked down like an infernal rainfall, setting patches of the grass on fire. Trails of sinuous smoke curled up from the burning branches, highlighting the thicker black columns towering off into the sky. Judging by the nearest smoky pillar, the gas station was on fire too.
Rory stared agog. It would have been the height of ill fortune if there had been another crash nearby around the same time as his.
Strangest of all, snow was falling down. Except, this snow was light blue instead of frosty white, like powdery sapphires. They fell sparsely. A small flake here, another a few yards away, too little to even be called a dusting. But their glow made sure their presence couldn’t be doubted.
The day had turned quite mad.
Rory’s head throbbed viciously, the world swaying even though he was sure he hadn’t moved. Not good. And not allowed, either. He hadn’t woken up just to fall to a split skull.
Biting through the wave of agony and nausea, Rory reached down and managed to tear off a length of his right trouser leg. Good thing they weren’t too strong. Leaning against the truck’s underside, with his hands shaking, he wrapped the length of brown cloth around his head.
The pain was a hot anvil pressing down on his head, but at least he had stopped the bleeding for now.
Just as Rory was about to start back towards the highway, a glint caught his eyes. Something was stuck on the truck’s windshield, trapped by the long wiper like a speeding ticket. What in the… Rory shook his head—bad decision since it made his injury clamp like a vice—and stumbled over. No point wasting time asking silly questions.
There was indeed a slip of paper, along with the strange, light-purple-and-gold object that had attracted his attention. It was like a large, crystalline coin but with a donut’s rounded edge instead of a coin’s rigid side, reminding Rory of old-fashioned wax seals.
He picked it up along with the ticket. The crystal had an image on it—a pattern of radial lines that coalesced into a dark blot at the centre, bounded by a thin silver circle with a triangular point at the top. A strange sensation came off it, a weird energy not unlike a small, electric charge making his skin tingle.
White words floated in front of him, moving as he moved his head in surprise as though they were embossed on invisible glasses.
New Sigil!
You’ve obtained a Sigil of Weaving. You can use this Sigil to convert anything in the world into a Sigil. However, you will no longer be able to use any other Sigils with an external effect.
[Argent I] allows object conversion into up to Exceptional rarity [Argent I] Sigils in a 1-meter radius.
Stats
Type: Concept
Rarity: Legendary
Tier: Argent I [0%]
Efficiency: Low [5%]
New Achievement!
Sigil Earner! You’ve obtained your first Sigil. Congratulations! Now onto the next until you hold all that exists in the world. Your survival depends on it.
Rewards
You now have access to your [Status]
New Achievement!
Lone Wolf! Here is a little something to brave the dangers of your new circumstance after being left behind.
Rewards
Sigil of Stats
New Sigil!
You’ve obtained a Sigil of Stats. You can now integrate yourself into the universal system architecture, enjoying the many benefits it provides.
[Argent I] allows 3 stat slots and 1-point gain in 1 stat per personal Tier.
Stats
Type: System
Rarity: Ordinary
Tier: Argent I [0%]
Efficiency: Extreme [99%]
Well then. Rory now had two Sigils, both of which were giving off eery feelings. He could make neither head nor tail of it. It had also said he’d been left behind, but by whom he wasn’t sure yet. Didn’t sound good either way.
Rory bent on reading the text on the ticket, though that deepened his confusion for the moment.
Greetings Saviour,
You may be wondering why your world feels like it’s ending, and why you have this strange object in your hand (unless some intrepid adventurer claimed said object before you, in which case, you can disregard the rest of this letter and die). You may also be wondering who I am.
It matters not. Suffice it to say, the Planar Apocalypse has begun. The world you used to know no longer exists. It is now time to start a new world. A new life.
A new war.
In seven days, the war between the Homeworlders and the Otherworlders will officially begin, and you must choose your side by then. Pick wisely.
The Plane your world exists in has collided with another. Your world has been seeded with many new species, new constructions, new adventures, and with Mana and Sigils. A Sigil, like the one you hold, grants its user a specific power or boon. Sigils can only be used in conjunction with Mana, an Otherworlder material. One is useless without the other.
Normally, you Homeworlders are left to figure this all out by yourselves, stumble through the apocalypse until some of you understand how it works and manage to survive.
However, you are different!
You performed a heroic deed in saving my life, at the peril of your own existence. Such generosity of spirit will never be overlooked. Therefore, I have taken it upon myself to grant you a quick explanation and a token of my favour—yes, the Sigil you now hold.
Use it well, mortal. Know its rarity and comprehend its power. Go forth and carve a place for yourself in this new life.
Yours in remembrance,
A System Invigilator
Rory read the letter a couple of times. Then he read it a few times more. Sure, he wasn’t as smart as Doctor Vivian from the Mechanical Engineering department, but a simple letter shouldn’t be taxing him this much. Sigils? Mana?
Apocalypse?
Despite the impulse, Rory didn’t shake his head this time. The wound hurt bad enough as it was. But wondering wasn’t going to reveal anything at the moment, not when he was too distracted by the feeling coming off the Sigil in his hand.
The sensation of the strange sparking and bubbling energy was strongest on his palm, on the circular area of skin that was in contact with the Sigil. He tried to imagine how exactly he could use the object, but nothing came to him. Was he supposed to throw it like a bomb? Maybe he needed an incantation, or some other supplementary ingredient.
Oh, right. The Mana. Rory didn’t have to look far.
A blue flake was floating down like a feather. So, this strange material had to be the aforementioned Mana.
When the flake landed on his palm, the weird energy he’d been feeling sizzled. There was no other way to describe the sensation, though it didn’t last long. It intensified, and as a sudden unbidden and internal tugging arose in Rory’s hand, both Sigils plunged into his flesh like ships sinking into the sea. It was, thankfully, painless.
Of course, Rory had questions, but for now, he understood one thing. He didn’t know about the other one, but the Sigil of Weaving that was now somehow inside him was going to let him turn other things to Sigils. What he might do with said new Sigils… well, that was one of his chief questions, considering he apparently couldn’t use them while he still had the Sigil of Weaving.
For a second, Rory felt the strange words he’d been reading. If what he understood was true, he could turn the whole world into these strange crystal coins.
If only that excitement helped with his injuries. The ticket and the Sigil had distracted him from most of his aches and throbs, but he needed to get going and figure out what exactly was going on. Rory looked back up at the edge of the highway. He needed to find Viv.
He needed to see the end of the world.
His first step made him stumble. The pain on his forehead flared, and he breathed out harsh and fast. He couldn’t go on like this.
Rory’s head slowly swivelled to the back of his truck. There was no first aid kit or anything of the sort that could help What he did have, however, was a ton of artifacts, and if his new Sigil could convert anything to Sigils, perhaps he could find something to help his current condition. After all, healing himself would be an internal use, not an external one.
Struggling against the pain, Rory headed to the back of his truck.