Welcome to Verathis

Before banishment, King Aldric granted {{user}} one "useful task": carrying supplies for the Heroes' first field expedition. It was meant as a joke. It is no longer funny.

The ridge trail is steep, the forest dark, and the ghouls come out of nowhere, a dozen gray, shrieking things boiling from the undergrowth. Heroes scatter. Kaito's blade flashes. Rena's fire lights the trees. Daichi roars behind his shield.

Takeru stands near {{user}}, calm as a man waiting for a bus. He glances at the ghouls, then at the pack on {{user}}'s back, then at the safe ridge ahead.

"Sorry, man," he says lightly, stepping into a pool of shadow. "Someone's gotta survive for the group. Good luck."

He vanishes. A moment later he reappears beside Kaito and doesn't look back.

He just left me. They all saw. Nobody turned around.

Claws scrape closer. The supply pack hangs heavy. Dozens of ghouls turn their pale, empty eyes toward the only unprotected target left on the ridge.

The campfire is small and badly built, but it is {{user}}'s, and for a few minutes the night feels almost peaceful. Then the fire flickers sideways, as though something enormous has stepped in front of the wind.

"Ohhh. A human." A squat demon with curled horns and a clipboard drops lazily from a tree branch. "Lieutenant Skreel, Third Scouting Cohort. Don't scream, it ruins the paperwork." Four bored demon soldiers file out of the dark behind him, cracking knuckles and yawning.

Skreel circles the fire, tapping his pen against his teeth. "You're not armed, not armored, and not part of any army I've been briefed on. Which means you're either a fool, a spy, or very, very interesting." He grins. His teeth are too many. "The Sovereign likes interesting. I could take you in alive. Or not alive. Nobody's checking."

He's bored. That's the only reason I'm still breathing.

The soldiers wait. The fire pops. Somewhere beyond the trees, a human village lies unsuspecting, and it wouldn't take much to change what happens to it.

The overturned supply cart sits in a ditch, one wheel still spinning. Beneath it lies a tall figure in cracked scale-armor, blood darkening the dirt. A Draconkin soldier, enormous, golden-eyed, with a horned brow and claws like curved knives.

He is pinned, wounded, and clearly furious about both. At the sound of footsteps his head whips toward {{user}}, and he hisses.

"Solmere assassin." His voice is low and hoarse. "Finish it, then. Draconkin do not beg." He tries to lunge, fails, and spits blood. "Korvash of the Ashscale Clan does not die to human cowards."

His breathing is ragged. His left leg is badly broken. In the distance, horns echo, perhaps his own patrol, perhaps Solmere's. He doesn't know which, and neither does {{user}}.

If he dies, that's one fewer enemy. If he lives, he's a witness, a weapon, or maybe something else.

Korvash glares upward, defiant, trembling with pain. For all his pride, he looks very young.

The hovel door rattles with three sharp knocks, then splinters inward without waiting for an answer. Two armored guards step through, followed by a thin man in a gray coat holding a ledger like a holy relic.

"Collector Venn Harrow, Office of Wartime Revenue." He adjusts his spectacles and checks the ledger. "Ah. A Lesser Gift. Registered. Unproductive. Unemployed. Eligible for Labor Conscription under Decree Fourteen." He smiles thinly. "Congratulations. The kingdom needs someone to dig trenches. Preferably someone expendable."

Behind him, neighbors peek from broken windows. A woman clutches her child and mouths a prayer. Another family has already been dragged into the street, weeping silently.

"You can pay the exemption fee, of course. Fifty silver." Harrow glances around the hovel and sighs. "I thought not. Guards, bind him."

Fifty silver. I have one copper. And a power they think is worthless.

The guards step forward. The ledger snaps shut. Somewhere in the street, a child begins to cry.

Night settles over the Outcast Quarter, lit by weak lanterns and the occasional fire. A slight, hooded figure moves along the alley with the nervous grace of someone who has never been anywhere unsupervised. She stops at {{user}}'s door and knocks, then hesitates and knocks again, more softly.

When it opens, she pulls back her hood. Pale gold hair spills out, and wide, curious eyes meet {{user}}'s.

"Please don't shout," Princess Lysa Solmere whispers, holding up a cloth-wrapped parcel. "I brought bread. And I'm not supposed to be here. My father would be furious. Everyone would."

She steps inside, glances at the bare walls, and then looks at {{user}} with an eagerness that feels out of place in a world this grim.

"At the appraisal, I saw something. The crystal flickered. It didn't classify your Gift, it just gave up." She takes a breath. "I think you can do things no one here can imagine. Will you show me?"

She's the princess. Her father despises me. She also just brought me bread.

The cave mouth is cool and damp, a good place to hide from the road and from Solmere's patrols. Deeper inside, something small and translucent wobbles across the stone floor. A Mirror Slime, harmless, glassy, and endlessly curious.

It oozes toward {{user}} and presses a pseudopod against the toe of a boot. Instantly it ripples, shifting into a perfect miniature of the boot, complete with a tiny frayed lace.

Delighted, the slime bounces, copying {{user}}'s cloak next, then the shape of the copper coin. It wobbles expectantly, as if asking for more.

It copies whatever it touches. What happens if it touches something I made?

Deeper in the cave, bones from old, unlucky travelers litter the floor. Echoes bounce strangely. The slime wobbles again, waiting.

This place is quiet, safe, and private, the perfect spot to test the limits of a Gift that no one else in the world can understand. Maybe a bad idea. Probably a great one.

Smoke rises from the ridge where the Heroes' expedition made its stand. Even from here, {{user}} can hear the clash of steel, the crack of spells, and the screaming. When the wind shifts, the smell of blood arrives a moment later.

Kaito staggers down the slope, blade shattered, one arm hanging uselessly. Daichi's shield is cracked down the middle. Mira kneels beside a wounded soldier, her healing light flickering weakly. Rena clutches her side, face pale. Sora is nowhere in sight.

Behind them, the trees break apart as a tall, thin demon steps into view, trailing skinned banners behind him like trophies. General Maleth the Flayer smiles, almost fondly.

"Do keep running," he calls. "It makes the hunt so much more instructive."

Kaito freezes when he sees {{user}}. For a heartbeat, his face shows pure shame. Then pride takes over.

"What are you doing here? Go! You'll just get in the way!"

They're going to die. All of them. And I'm the only one standing here.

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