Border Patrol

Don awoke to the sensation of cool porcelain against his back. His eyes blinked open, and he found himself lying in a bathtub. The bathroom around him was sterile, bare, the tiles cold and impersonal. This was his room in the dream realm, but it was more a place to spawn than to live. Soldiers like Don rarely spent time in their dream realm residences; there was always a battle to be fought, a skill to hone.

Living spaces weren't meant for comfort here. There was no need for sleep—waking up refreshed was a given. So, better to use every moment training, fighting, surviving.

Don slipped out of the tub and left his apartment, setting off at a jog toward his workstation. His path was well-trodden; he worked as a border patrol guard, like his father. His job was simple: patrol a stretch of the city's border with hundreds of other unawakened, ever-watchful for anything that might threaten the safety of their city.

Being stationed in the S section was a mixed blessing. The monsters here were weaker, manageable for those still unawakened, making it a good place to practice without too much risk. It was exactly why his father had pushed him toward the position. But S55 had its own challenges—the oppressive heat, the relentless dryness. Patrolling under the blazing sun, with no shade in sight, was its own kind of battle.

The job didn't come with a paycheck; there was no guaranteed reward. Instead, payment came from the crystals harvested from desert creatures—creatures that weren't always plentiful. Some days, the sands would be quiet, empty, and the guards would return with nothing to show for their hours of vigilance.

The dream realm stretched vast and endless, human territory carved out over centuries of conquest and conflict. Don's city, S55, was one of many in the S section, each city a foothold in a land that was always on the verge of war, always expanding, always defending.

Arriving at the border station, Don clocked in, then made his way outside the city's protective walls. The air hit him like a blast furnace, the desert heat stealing moisture from his skin, leaving him feeling parched and cracked. Even at the peak of the mortal realm, the climate was brutal, unrelenting.

Scanning the horizon, Don saw other guards, each standing alone at their posts, half a kilometer apart. In the distance, a fight was underway—two guards locked in combat with a creature that looked like a giant mole, though the heat haze made it hard to be sure. It was just another skirmish, a routine threat easily handled by late-stage unawakened soldiers.

Turning his attention back to his own post, Don listened carefully, tuning into the vibrations beneath the ground. The moles weren't subtle. Even buried, their movements betrayed them. A low rumble reached his ears, growing louder before stopping abruptly. The ground shook, then erupted as a massive mole burst forth, charging straight at him.

Don gauged its size, its speed. A late-stage mortal realm mole, he guessed. Not a serious challenge, not for someone like him.

Without hesitation, he sprinted toward it, kicking up dust as he closed the distance. Veering to the side, he lashed out with a hardened kick, striking the mole's belly. The creature recoiled, pain coursing through its body, nearly knocking it off balance.

The mole tried to retaliate, but Don was already moving, vanishing from its sight. A moment later, the mole felt a crushing weight on its back, its legs buckling beneath it as it collapsed to the ground.

Before it could recover, Don drew his knife and drove it into the mole's skull. The creature shuddered once, then began to dissolve, its body fading away, leaving behind only a glimmering blue crystal.

He walked back to his post and placed the crystal in a empty straw bag on the ground.

He could have absorbed the energy from the crystal right then and there, letting its power rejuvenate him instantly. But that would have been a waste. There was no urgency, no immediate need to be at full strength. Besides, even a late-stage mortal realm crystal, while not particularly valuable, was still worth something. And money, after all, was money.

The crystal couldn't help him cultivate, either. Not anymore. Don had already reached the peak of the mortal realm. Until he broke through to the awakening realm, energy crystals like these were of no use for advancing his rank.

With a sigh, Don sat down on the ground, settling into the familiar routine of his breathing technique. It was called the half-warrior breathing cycle—a simple method his father had taught him, passed down from the military. The technique wasn't secret or restricted; anyone could learn it if they had the right connections. His father had made sure Don did.

He began to breathe in a rhythmic pattern, his inhales and exhales coming at seemingly erratic intervals. But there was a method to it, a deliberate sequence designed to maximize recovery and energy flow.

Minutes passed, the desert heat pressing down on him, the air dry and unforgiving. But as Don continued the breathing cycle, he felt his energy returning, his strength rebuilding. The fatigue faded, replaced by a renewed sense of vitality.

Ten minutes later, he was ready again, full of energy, prepared to face whatever the day might throw at him next.