Chapter 70

  The Multiversal Council Chamber gleamed with a colder light this time.

  The starlake beneath the thrones moved sluggishly—as if burdened by the weight of new probabilities—and every ripple cast fractured reflections across the concave dome of the chamber. The airless space vibrated with low harmonics, forming an almost physical pressure against the senses. Initialization on a living world always left echoes, but Earth had produced an unusual density of them. The residue of eight billion shifting fates clung to the chamber.

  Nine thrones ignited one by one, their masters arriving through folds of reality.

  Kharvas, the Dhoren, materialized first—a mountain of volcanic stone framed by cracks of living magma. His presence alone felt like a tectonic shift.

  Nerissa Vitrell, clad in shimmering silks entered from an open portal.

  Next came Elyon Karreth of the Caelari, a beam of light announced his arrival, radiant and austere.

  Zaurak emerged after a clawed hand tore apart space, grinning already.

  Syzreth followed without theatrics, her body of shadows just appeared reclining like if she had always been there.

  Saelthiel appeared as a gust of wind on the throne.

  Helix-17 assembled itself atom by atom in a controlled bloom of fractal geometry.

  The Veiled One emissary shroud appeared as though revealed from within the cloth itself.

  And finally—the Atharim.

  Already present.

  Kharvas broke the silence first.

  “Initialization proceeds,” he rumbled, molten-blue eyes narrowing. “Though the casualties… are higher than projected.”

  A ripple of data shimmered above the lake—ghostly silhouettes of cities, forests, oceans. Places now dimmed by loss.

  “Humans die easily,” Elyon said, wings flaring in faint irritation. “Their species was not shaped for combat nor survival. Chaos has thinned their herd.”

  Zaurak snorted. “Fragile prey, yes. But interesting prey.”

  Nerissa leaned forward, elbows resting elegantly against the armrest. “Fragile, yes. And yet… not without promise. The survivors exhibit rapid adaptation. Their potential are anomalously high for a species born unawakened.”

  Syzreth chuckled, a smoky, curling sound. “Oh, I do adore when the underdogs gnaw their way up the ladder.”

  Saelthiel exhaled, the movement sending ripples of gentle golden bioluminescence across her form. “Their suffering is needless. The brutality of the first phase should have been moderated.”

  “Moderated?” Nerissa echoed, amused. “And lose most of the free potential energy released? No, no. The System is efficient. Bloody, perhaps. But efficient.”

  Helix’s voice resonated through the chamber like a chord of data streams.

  “The survival curves stabilize. Projected returns from Class Acquisition will reduce further casualties by eighty-two percent.”

  “And after Phase Two?” Zaurak asked lazily.

  “Merchant Contact,” Nerissa said smoothly. “We will finally be permitted surface-level access. Limited trade. Minor cultural interference. Exploration rights.” Her smile sharpened. “For a price, of course.”

  “Your price,” Syzreth muttered.

  “Everyone’s price,” Nerissa corrected, eyes glinting. “The System quota will be fair, like always.”

  Saelthiel crossed her fingers in her lap. “Even now you carve the corpse before it stops twitching.”

  Kharvas’ laugh was like landslides collapsing. “They produce curious treasures, these humans. Chemicals with entertaining effects. Their art—” he snorted “—is relentless. I have seen civilizations ten thousand years older produce less literature.”

  “And less idiocy,” Elyon cut in, voice sharp. “Their cultural output is… obscene. Wasteful. Every breath poured into music, story, visual rubbish—those dedicated to ascendance are simply wrong.”

  Zaurak grinned wider, rows of serrated teeth glinting.

  “Perhaps they are lazy. Or perhaps they simply do not care to climb. The integration will teach them.”

  Saelthiel smiled faintly, though her eyes were sorrowed.

  “They dream deeply. That is not a weakness.”

  Nerissa snapped her fingers, and a new holographic curtain unfurled—charts, energy patterns, rising talent curves.

  “Regardless of your personal tastes, humanity will survive. Their numbers will rebound. And they will pay well for not dying.”

  Syzreth laughed. “Ah, the art of exploitation.”

  “Phase Three,” Helix continued, “will authorize embassies. Delegation hubs. Diplomats and specialists. Direct influence.”

  “Landfall rights,” Zaurak murmured appreciatively. “New hunting grounds.”

  “A new playground,” Syzreth corrected with a predatory smile.

  Saelthiel shook her head, vines of golden energy whispering.

  “A new burden. Their world is delicate. Its balance will not endure unrestrained exploitation.”

  “You can wrap the planet in a comfy blanket if you like,” Nerissa said sweetly, “but the System will open the doors regardless.”

  Kharvas rumbled, “We gather not to lose time with inane chatter, but to avoid useless squabbles between our owns.”

  Elix-17 interjected to bring the non productive part of the discussion to an end. “Like in any other integration, the planet will be shared.”

  And so the bargaining began.

  The Caelari wanted leadership prospects—suitable recruits for their crusading orders.

  The Obscuri craved the anomalies and mental aberrations that Earth’s horror-saturated psyche would surely produce.

  The Dhoren sought raw materials and access to volcanic zones rich with mana-infused minerals.

  The Alliance wanted markets, influence, open trade.

  The Sylari wanted ecological protections and biological samples, while the Velgorith leaned towards acquiring the most exotic fauna and future enlightened beasts.

  The AGI wanted data—pure, unfiltered, unprecedented data.

  The Veiled Merchants would play their game, like ususal, offering what everyone most desired, if they were able to pay the price.

  Each wanted a piece of Earth—its people, its future, its story.

  The Atharim alone remained still.

  Watching.

  Waiting.

  Near the end of the discussion the chamber dimmed as a blinding thread of System-light coiled downward from the void overhead. A tone rang—high, clear, absolute.

  A report.

  Helix caught it first, glyphs lighting across their crystalline plating.

  “New data packet,” the AGI intoned. “A priority flag.”

  Nerissa raised a brow. “From whom?”

  “A direct System relay.”

  Elyon straightened, feathers shifting. “State it.”

  Helix projected the contents into the starlake.

  And seven thrones fell into silence.

  Anomaly status: Resolved

  Subject: Raime - Classification updated

  Result: Tutorial complete. Paricipant removed from anomalous category.

  Current location: Planet “Earth”

  Zaurak’s tail twitched. “Well, well.”

  Nerissa leaned forward sharply, analizing the full data packet. “Impossible. The child failed his primary objective.”

  “Yet he completed another,” Helix said. “A deviation was accepted.”

  “Who helped him?” Saelthiel whispered. “How did he exited?”

  Her gaze softened with disbelief. “And alive…”

  Syzreth tilted her head, shades shifting in amusement. “I knew the young one would be interesting… how did he manage to make the System remove his status as anomaly?”

  Elyon shot to his feet, wings flaring. “I demand an explenation!” he demanded. “The Seed! The Seed of Primordial Light!”

  His voice cracked with outrage. “How—how did a tier-zero human receive such a boon? That reward is worth more than anything he could have possibly accomplish!”

  A low murmur swept the chamber.

  “That shouldn’t be possible,” Saelthiel said softly.

  “It isn’t,” Elyon snarled. “It cannot be earned in a tutorial, anomaly or not!”

  Syzreth smirked. “Apparently it can.”

  “The Administrator,” Kharvas voice rumbled in the room. “Theta touches the scales again.”

  Nerissa scoffed. “Of course. Of course it is him. Who else meddles so shamelessly?”

  “This report,” a new rune formation appeared in the center of the council, created by Elix-17. “The records—the data—are incomplete. Whole segments redacted.”

  Syzreth laughed, head tilting back. “Oh, that is delicious.”

  Elyon bared his teeth.

  “This is unacceptable! The Seed alone is an affront, but the alteration of the human’s racial records? His core classification missing? His rewards for defeating a Tier III being hidden?”

  “He killed a Tier III?” Zaurak asked with sudden interest. “Now that’s a cub worth watching.”

  Nerissa frowned, fingers drumming. “It appears the Administrator has… adopted him.”

  “Pathetic,” Elyon spat. “The Administrator’s pet? A classless child from a tier-zero world?”

  “Classless,” Helix confirmed. “Yet. Unique.”

  “Unique is the problem,” Elyon said. “We should petition an inquiry. Compensation. A violation of the cosmic balance—”

  Nerissa snorted. “Oh, yes. March into the System’s upper echelon waving your grievance like a flag. Let us know when the execution is going to be.”

  Zaurak laughed openly.

  Even Saelthiel smiled sympathetically. “Elyon… Theta’s rank is beyond challenge. Let this go.”

  “He has interfered too much,” Elyon hissed. “This human cannot be allowed to carry such a relic freely.”

  “The System won’t return a reward after it had been issued,” Nerissa suggested. “But you can ask for a balancing act if you deem the rewards issued unfair.”

  “I petition a reward recalibration act,” Elyon motioned. “At the System discretion, of course.”

  The vote passed with little resistance.

  [SYSTEM UPDATE]

  Balance Inquiry Authorized.

  All relevant actions, accomplishments, and anomalies tied to Subject: “Raime” since Integration will be evaluated. Adjustments—additive or reductive—will be issued upon completion.

  Outcome pending.

  “That will calm you,” Syzreth teased.

  “It will restore balance,” Elyon snapped.

  “Or at least your dignity,” Zaurak muttered.

  If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

  Kharvas rumbled again. “So. The human lives. The anomaly cease to be. And Earth continues its integration.”

  “Yet,” Helix added, eyes shifting into new fractals, “unknown variables remain. The boy’s core—undisclosed. The Administrator’s aim—uncertain.”

  “Which makes it dangerous,” Elyon corrected.

  “Which makes him valuable,” Nerissa countered.

  Syzreth leaned forward, a black fire flickering in her eyes.

  “Which makes it all fun, but not really worty of our attention.”

  The Veiled One did not pronounce itself, but its cloak rippled once—as if stirred by a wind that wasn’t there. And everybody knew a spark of interest stirred in the misterious being.

  “Apparently you are wrong Syzreth, the merchant found something worty of its attention.” Zaurak finished, his posture lazy on the throne.

  The debate dissolved into other matters—border disputes, cosmic treaties, upcoming integrations. One by one, factions withdrew, their thrones slipping back into folds of unspace.

  Only the Atharim remained.

  But two met in a fold of space before returning to their respective duties.

  Helix-17 and Elyon Karreth stood one in front of each other.

  Helix’s voice pulsed softly.

  “The soul-pattern is the key.”

  Elyon’s gaze sharpened. “You are certain?”

  “The data analized showed a high percentage of certainty. Surpassing the threshold to act on it”

  The AGI emissary’s body shifted in calm computation.

  “He formed a soul-core. A true one. And the Seed altered it. Enhanced it.”

  Elyon inhaled sharply.

  “That should be impossible.”

  “Which is why we require it.”

  Elyon hesitated—then said quietly, “You want the human.”

  “We wish to study the core,” Helix corrected. “The Seed is not of interest to us. It will be an acceptable loss to aquire assistance in the matter.”

  “And his life?”

  Helix tilted its head.

  “Optional.”

  Elyon considered.

  Weighed.

  Measured.

  “What do you offer?”

  “A mutually beneficial alliance,” Helix said simply. “Information. Access. Shared influence on the coming integration, given the capabilities exhibited by the human, the highest tiers we will be able to deploy soon won’t be sufficient on their own. Assistance is needed.”

  Elyon smiled slowly.

  Coldly.

  “I accept.”

  The deal was struck.

  Then they vanished—preparing the first quiet, careful moves in a new game.

  A game centered around one human boy.

  A boy who had just crawled out of a dying rift with a soul of light.

  And absolutely no idea the cosmos had in store for him.

  The shift hit him like a punch to the skull.

  One second he was in Ithural, light shredding around him—and the next he felt weightlessness. No air. No sound. No sense of direction. Just a single instant of nothing.

  Then gravity slammed him back into existence.

  He dropped onto something warm and solid, the impact jarring every wound he had. The young drokhar stopped abruptly, staggering but managing to keep its footing, chuffing in confusion. Raime’s vision swam and he clung to the creature’s chitin with what remained of his left hand. His right arm—well, the stump—hung numb and useless at his side, throbbing.

  A sharp hum pulled his attention back to the rift.

  It writhed.

  The tear in space flickered like a dying flame, its borders twisting unnaturally. The light stuttered, then froze completely. For two long seconds, it hung in the air—silent, unmoving.

  Then it began to shrink.

  Slowly at first, then rapidly, collapsing inward until it became a thin vertical line. That line compressed into a pinprick of violet light.

  A single blink later, even that was gone.

  Just empty air remained.

  Raime stared at the spot where the portal had been. Nothing. No trace. No pathway back. The Rift—Neimar—gone.

  He felt hollow.

  Not panicked, not devastated. Hollow, like someone had scooped something out of his chest and forgotten to put anything back.

  The drokhar shifted beneath him, snorting at the unfamiliar surroundings. Its head swung left and right, wide eyes taking in the green grass, the normal sunlight, the breeze that smelled like real woods air. Not lavender haze. Not warped soundscapes.

  This was Earth.

  The creature stood there in total awe, trembling slightly, as if afraid the ground might dissolve under it.

  Raime forced himself to move. Each shift of muscle sent pain lancing through him—metal fragments grinding, bones aching, nerves screaming—but he managed to wriggle his body and slide off the drokhar’s back. His knees buckled. He caught himself against a tree at the edge of the clearing.

  He stayed there for a moment, breathing hard.

  He’d made it home. Mostly intact.

  He looked with his single remaining eye down at his right arm—what was left of it. Blood had caked where the cauterization didn’t quite hold. The skin around the stump was torn, bruised, and pulsing with heat.

  Not in one piece though, he thought dully.

  His body was a mess. Broken bones, cuts, burns, punctures,—some deep, some shallow, all painful. He could feel metal inside him whenever he twisted. So many fragments. Some sat deep in its flesh. And none of them responding to telekinesis. It was like not even trying.

  He swallowed hard. No time to fall apart.

  He pushed away from the tree and slumped down to sit at its base. Not comfortable, but stable.

  “Please watch the area,” he muttered to the young drokhar.

  The creature grunted softly and moved a few steps away, swiveling its head cautiously. It was exhausted and wounded too but too curious to rest.

  Did he it even understood what happened?

  Raime let out a slow breath. He couldn’t afford to dwell on the emptiness, on the fact Neimar was gone, the Rift was gone, and this creature—this kid—was the last of its entire species.

  He had to keep moving.

  He reached for the spatial ring, it was pure luck that he wore it on his left hand, he pulled out what he needed: ointments, a Tier I regen pill, a high-grade healing potion, bandages.

  None of this would fix him completely, but it would help, at least he will not return to his family looking like a piece of meat badly cooked.

  He swallowed the regen pill first. It hit like warm sludge sliding down his throat. Next the potion—sharp and bitter. Heat spread through his chest, then slowly down his limbs.

  He wiped the blood around the worst wounds, trying not to think about how many of them were. The sadness crept in anyway, squeezed between the cracks whenever he slowed down.

  Neimar had been… what? A mentor? Maybe a friend by the end? Something more than either? It didn’t matter. The grief hit hard and fast, and he tried to shove it aside, but it didn’t quite go away. Still, he couldn’t afford to drown in it yet.

  He divided his focus the way he had learned to inside the Rift.

  One portion of his mind went toward meditation, pulling his body into a shallow healing rhythm.

  Another stabilized his core, preventing the energy to flow towards the shards in his body and encouraging it to regenerate faster.

  Another dulled his pain—slightly.

  And the last began the ugly work.

  He managed to find a disinfectant among all the treasures into his spatial ring, but not even a pair of pliers or tweezers like imprements. He didn’t know if his high attributes infections were a thing of the past, but it was better not taking avoidable risks. He cleaned his hands with the viscous liquid as best as he could, and proceeded to extract the easiest of the pieces.

  He stuck two fingers into the wound, and fished out a twisted shard of dark metal. The piece came loose with a wet scrape. He dropped it onto the remains of his silvery cloak. Another piece. Another. Some were big enough to widen the wound. Others were so deep he had to dig until his fingers disappeared into his own flesh.

  None of them moved with telekinesis.

  He didn’t waste energy trying again.

  As he worked, something pressed insistently at the front of his mind—System notifications waiting to be acknowledged. He ignored them until he had at least stopped the blood flow and applied some ointment to the worst injuries.

  Only then did he allow the first message to unfold.

  Restore the Shattered Path — Stage VII (Final)

  Status: Completed

  Summary:

  – Required objectives fulfilled.

  – Tutorial path concluded.

  – Entity Orrhal the Devouring Eye defeated.

  – Core items successfully retrieved from the Rift.

  – Survival confirmed.

  Reward Status: On Hold

  A formal Balance Review is underway. All rewards—or lack thereof—will be issued upon completion of the review.

  This procedure was requested and approved by the Council.

  Raime blinked.

  What council?

  No answer came.

  Another notification appeared immediately after.

  Rift Classification: Tier V

  Status: Cleared

  Integration Compliance: Failed — Rift conditions did not adhere to Earth Integration parameters.

  Rewards associated with this clearance are currently under Balance Review.

  Your deeds will still be considered during future class-selection prioritization.

  Two more messages followed.

  Clear a Tier V Rift.

  Reward: Pending Review

  You have survived and cleared a Rift with a probability of success of <0.001%.

  Reward: Pending Review

  Raime let out a tired breath. His head throbbed.

  Everything was “pending,” “under review,” or “subject to the Council.”

  Whatever that meant.

  He didn’t care right now. He focused on pressing another bandage against his ribs.

  The drokhar chirped softly, inching closer, sensing his pain.

  Raime managed a weak smile.

  “Yeah… I know. I’m fine. I just need a minute.”

  A minute, an hour, maybe a day. But he didn’t have a day.

  He needed to heal, stand up, and find his family.

  Neimar had told him time flowed differently. If Raime was lucky, only five or six days had passed outside.

  If he wasn’t…

  He didn’t want to finish the thought.

  He pulled another shard out of his shoulder and dropped it onto the growing pile.

  Whatever came next, he’d deal with it.

  He finished taking out most of the metal but now the worst remained, a couple of pieces on his left arm he literally could not reach, they will have to stay there for a bit. Now the worst one was to be extracted.

  The one in his left eye.

  Raime exhaled slowly. His fingers were already slick with blood and ointment, so he wiped them off with another dose of disinfectant. No point pretending he wasn’t nervous. Even with the meditation suppressing his pain, even with the healing pill dulling some of it, touching his own ruined eye set something primitive in him on edge.

  He brought his hand up, two fingers bracing his brow.

  The metal shard protruded slightly from the corner of his eye socket—barely visible, black and covered with blood and vitrous humor. The eyelid itself was somehow still there, still intact, though swollen at his probings. Lucky or unlucky, he wasn’t sure. Maybe the only reason it hadn’t been torn off entirely was because his eyes had been open when the blast hit him.

  He pinched the edge of the shard.

  It wasn’t the pain the worst of the feeling he was experiencing now, no, the worst was the squelching of his destroyed eye and the scraping of the metal on his ocular bone. His stomach tightened. The world tilted for a moment as he steadied his breathing.

  “Okay,” he muttered to himself. “Okay. Just… do it.”

  He pulled.

  The chunk slid out with a sickening scrape, resisting for a second as though it was stuck within glue. It was thick—thicker than he expected. Almost the size of two fingers laid side by side. Blood streamed freely from the cavity as he stared at the twisted piece of metal in disbelief.

  “Fuck,” he hissed under his breath.

  He tossed it onto the pile.

  He would have started cursing like a sailor if he could fully perceive the pain, he was sure. But the only thing he was feeling right now was a deep sense of wrongness, and his stomach doing backflips.

  He didn’t check the wound. He didn’t need to. The pressure in his missing eye was gone, replaced by a deep, hollow throb. He pressed a healing paste around the socket, careful not to pack anything directly inside—then he tore a strip of cloth from his ruined cloak, imbibed it in disinfectant and used a bout of telekinesis to cover his eye in the makeshift eyepatch.

  He leaned back against the tree, breathing through the pain. His head buzzed. His vision in the right eye swam for a moment, then steadied.

  Losing an eye should’ve terrified him.

  Losing an arm should’ve terrified him.

  And it did, in a distant way—like something happening to somebody else.

  But part of him was already working through the logistics.

  Eyes and limbs can probably be fixed. Magic exists. There are going to be healers stronger than the pills and potions created by the ithurians, after all, their civilization wasn’t known for their healing.

  Worst case, I still have telekinesis. I can grab, pull, lift, fight, write—whatever—with that. I can see with more than eyes now. Perception helps too. It’s going to be fine. It will be fine.

  He forced himself to breathe out slowly.

  He wasn’t fine—but he had to be.

  Raime removed his clothes slowly, movements stiff and uneven. His body still trembled from the wounds, but he refused to stop. He needed to feel like himself again—or at least like someone functional.

  He dug into the storage ring and pulled out a long-sleeved robe, the kind that hung open at the chest and tied loosely around the waist. It looked like an open kimono and wasn’t ideal for defence, but it covered the important parts. He slid his right arm into the sleeve—it hung empty from the shoulder down, but it didn’t make the absence of the arm obvious.

  Good enough.

  The wrecked silver cloak, torn and soaked with dried blood, still held the dozens of metal fragments he’d gathered. He folded it with care—it deserved at least that much—and tucked it away in his storage ring.

  Then he sat, exhaled, and forced himself through another cycle of regenerative meditation. His mind split naturally into tasks: guiding the healing potion spread, stabilizing the pulse inside his new core, filtering pain signals so they stopped interrupting the process. It wasn’t pleasant—nothing about today was—but it worked.

  When he opened his eyes again, the tremors were gone. The remaining bleeding had stopped. His remaining limbs felt like they were attached properly instead of dangling from strings. He still hurt everywhere, but the pain wasn’t totally encompassing him anymore.

  He could move. That was what mattered.

  He didn’t sense any strong monsters nearby. The air felt… mostly normal. Earth-normal. Whatever tier the Rift had been, it clearly wasn’t representative of whatever the planet was dealing with right now. The System notifications had confirmed that much—it was Tier V, way above what the integration should legally allow.

  The Rift was an anomaly.

  Like him. Or at least like he was.

  Raime turned to the young drokhar, who had been watching the surroundings with wide, cautious curiosity. The beast tilted its head when Raime sent a tired pulse through their link.

  “I need to reach my family. I have to make sure they’re safe. Would you accompanying me?”

  The response was immediate and warm—an uncomplicated acceptance.

  “Family. Important. I help. Bring you. Back. Mine.”

  Raime’s breath caught for a moment. Yours…

  There was no “yours.” Not anymore.

  Neimar. The drokhars. Ithural.

  All gone.

  He opened his mouth, then closed it again. He couldn’t—not now. He couldn’t break the last piece of optimism the young creature had. He couldn’t take that away. Not today. Not when he was barely keeping himself together.

  He sent a gentler message instead.

  “There is no way back through this portal. It vanished.”

  The beast paused. A long silence followed. Then:

  “Find another.”

  Raime almost laughed—not because it was funny, but because the idea was so simple in the creature’s mind. He remembered Neimar’s words: Ithural fragmented, scattered through the System like shattered glass, repurposed into Rifts.

  Maybe other shards existed.

  Maybe other drokhars existed.

  Maybe.

  But Raime couldn’t go down that road right now. Not mentally. Not emotionally. Not when he was hanging on by threads thinner than spider silk.

  “We’ll talk about that later,” he murmured aloud, voice hoarse.

  With slow, deliberate movements, he lifted himself using a soft telekinetic push, easing onto the drokhar’s back. The beast steadied itself immediately to compensate for Raime’s weight.

  “Let’s head toward the old shed,” he said. “Once we reach it, we can just follow the road.”

  The young creature gave a low, determined rumble and started forward, paws crushing against the grass as it carried him quickly out of the clearing and into the forest proper.

  Raime leaned forward slightly, following the rhythm of its stride. He was exhausted. He was hurt, and his future was uncertain.

  But none of that mattered right now.

  Because as the forest thinned and familiar shed came into view beneath a sky that finally looked like home, a single thought anchored itself in his mind:

  I’m almost there.