Chapter Two: Rejection

Pxis residence

Maggot's crown

Outer Pit

Pitland AKA "The Pit"

Continent of Zenithan

The Apocalypse—the cataclysm that reduced an entire civilization to ruin. That was the name history gave to the event that reshaped the world, leaving behind nothing but ashes, dust, and despair where once stood a thriving empire.

Before the great collapse, the seven nations had flourished, bound together by an era of peace that spanned centuries. They thrived on unity, their prosperity woven through trade, knowledge, and an unbreakable alliance. The heart of it all was the seventh nation, the jewel of the continent—a beacon of power, wealth, and innovation. It stood at the center, its influence stretching far beyond its borders, a place where cultures converged and the future was forged.

But then came the end.

The central nation—the pillar of civilization—was the first to fall. Its land, once fertile and rich, crumbled into oblivion, devoured by an unseen force so absolute that even its ruins were lost to the abyss. The very foundation of the continent fractured, twisted, and sank, giving birth to the gaping maw known as the Pit—a void where reality itself seemed broken.

Yet, the devastation did not stop there. The Agni Tear, the vast inland sea that once bound the nations together like an azure lifeline, suffered the same fate. Its waters vanished, leaving behind nothing but a desolate wasteland, its seabed cracked and dry, littered with the skeletons of forgotten ships and the ruins of drowned cities. Where waves once danced under the sun, there now stood a barren graveyard of fractured earth, jagged chasms, and corrupted Astral storms—a land twisted by the remnants of the cataclysm.

The six surviving nations had no choice but to adapt or perish. For centuries, they clawed their way through this new reality, battling the chaos left in the wake of the Apocalypse. After six long ages of struggle, they conquered the forsaken land of Agni Tear, claiming dominion over its treacherous, energy-scarred ruins.

Yet, the Pit remains—a constant reminder of what was lost, a wound upon the world that will never heal. This was a place where the forsaken found refuge, where the desperate called home—the Pit. Or, as its people named it, Pitland.

A geographical anomaly, a paradox in itself—both a sanctuary and a graveyard, a land of freedom and suffering, of untamed power and unrelenting despair. A contradiction woven into its very existence. After the fall of the old world and the rise of the new order, many had ventured into this abyss, seeking escape from the iron grip of the six ruling nations. They fled oppression, abandoned the chains of kings and councils, and carved out their existence in the Pit's chaotic domain. Now, their descendants remain, inheriting the freedom their ancestors bled for, whether they thrived in it—or were consumed by it.

And here, in the depths of this lawless, ever-shifting ruin, was where I grew up. The moment I stepped through the Amethyst Pillar, I felt it—that distinct, rancid air unique to the Pit.

Maggot's Crown.

The stench of oil, rot, and ozone greeted me like an old companion, twisting through the air in a noxious blend. A scent that would churn the stomachs of newcomers, yet to me—it was nostalgic. It made me smile.

As my eyes adjusted, I took in the chaotic sprawl of the arrival sector. Around me, others emerged from Fluxgates, stepping through shimmering rifts similar to the one I had used. Some hesitated, their gazes darting about in wary confusion, while others, seasoned travelers, strode forward with purpose.

I descended the platform, my steps steady, my eyes scanning the armed Cognis guards stationed nearby. They stood like silent sentinels, their bodies encased in high-grade Astral-tech armor, each one carrying weapons more dangerous and sophisticated than those on the outside. These weren't just border enforcers.

They were Cognis Operators.

The Cognis Organization—a global entity that held dominion over all things Esper and Astral. Part research institute, part international military force, they had been created to regulate and control the chaos left in the wake of the Apocalypse. Their official mandate was to prevent the misuse of Psychic power, an act many believed had been the catalyst behind the destruction of the former seventh nation.

Their presence in the Pit wasn't a surprise. They were always watching.

But here, in Pitland, even Cognis knew—they could never truly control it.

I pulled my hood over my head, a quiet motion, one born of habit rather than fear. Slipping into the flow of the crowd, I stepped away from the Fluxgate Center, leaving its cold, metallic hum behind. The building itself was a husk of its former self, a structure that had once stood as a symbol of order, now reduced to a canvas of defiance—its walls tagged with crude graffiti, layers of filth and corrosive burn marks eating into its once-pristine surface.

Even with Cognis claiming ownership, even with their high-tech defenses, their watchful sentries, and their unceasing presence, the building stood as a reminder:

This was Maggot's Crown.

And here, the gangs and thugs did as they pleased.

Above, the sky was lost, swallowed by an endless canopy of smog, electrical storms, and the flickering neon glow that bathed the city in a sickly, artificial light. No sun, no stars—just the ever-present hum of power grids, the sharp buzz of malfunctioning street lamps, and the occasional crackle of a distant energy surge.

I moved through a labyrinth of decay, where rusted metal, shattered concrete, and makeshift buildings stacked upon each other like a shantytown built in defiance of gravity. The structures, haphazard and unstable, formed a vertical maze of slums and crime dens, their narrow alleys twisting like the veins of a dying beast. Overhead, tangled webs of wires and cables crisscrossed the gaps between crumbling towers, their black tendrils siphoning unstable energy from ancient, half-drained Astral Cores, their flickering surges a constant reminder of the Pit's relentless hunger.

I pressed forward, my steps measured, my hood low. Eyes followed me—not all unfriendly, but none warm.

The people of Maggot's Crown.

Little kids skittered between the broken streets, their fragile bodies marked by hunger and hardship, their hollow gazes betraying the reality of their existence. Vendors in their makeshift stalls whispered among themselves, their conversations hushed, guarded, their words lost beneath the distant echoes of gunfire and roaring engines deeper within the district.

My throat tightened.

This was home.

The place I had grown up in, the ruin I knew best.

But I had been lucky.

Luckier than most.

I hadn't known the ache of true starvation, the bone-deep hunger that turned men into shadows of themselves. No, I had a guardian—someone who had taken me in, kept me fed, given me shelter when no one else would.

Pxis.

And now, as I walked through these streets, heading for his home, I couldn't help but wonder—

How much had changed?

I got my answer as soon as I reached Pxis's residence. Nothing much had changed in the past year since I left the Pit.

Tucked away in the depths of Maggot's Crown, Pxis's residence stood in stark contrast to the surrounding decay. While most of the district was a patchwork of crumbling structures and rusted metal, his home was a fortress of modern ingenuity, a relic of old-world technology fused with cutting-edge defenses.

The outer walls were reinforced with high-density alloy plating, embedded with defensive nodes that crackled with residual Astral energy, forming a protective barrier against unwanted guests. At first glance, it seemed like a simple bunker, just another structure lost in the sprawl. But the moment one got too close, the illusion shattered—the house recognized threats instantly, its automated turrets tracking movement with precision, and the sentinel drones lurking in the shadows ready to strike.

The main entrance was sealed with a biometric lock, accessible only to those Pxis permitted. A holographic display flickered to life at the door's surface, scanning any visitor with an artificially intelligent gaze, verifying their identity against its extensive database.

Inside, the contrast was even starker.

Where the outside world was grime, ruin, and scarcity, Pxis's home was pristine, sleek, and impossibly advanced. The floors were made of polished composite metal, and the air inside was filtered, free from the polluted stench of the streets. The walls were lined with state-of-the-art monitors, streaming live feeds from surveillance drones patrolling the sector. A centralized AI system, built into the very framework of the residence, controlled everything—from the security to the climate, ensuring the home remained a self-sustaining sanctuary.

At the heart of it all was Pxis himself, confined within his private quarters.

Age and illness had made it impossible for him to leave, but in response, he had fortified his domain, turning it into a place where even the most dangerous of Maggot's Crown would think twice before trespassing.

This house wasn't just a home—

It was a last stand, a technological citadel, protecting a man who had once been a force to be reckoned with.

Pxis.

A former Cognis Operator, a man who had once walked among the elite, standing at the top of the food chain, commanding respect and fear in equal measure. Now? He was just a dying relic, bound to this ruined wasteland, living out his last days in a place that most would have abandoned without a second thought—all because he had chosen to raise me.

Pxis never spoke about his past.

Never spoke about his time in Cognis, about the missions, the power struggles, or the choices that had led him here. Whatever ghosts haunted him, he never let them escape his lips. His past was a vault, locked tight, and I had long since stopped trying to pick at its seams. But more than anything, he never talked about my mother. Or who my father was.

He raised me with the cold, matter-of-fact certainty that I wasn't his blood, that my existence was never part of some grand plan or emotional bond. I was just a burden he chose to bear. A responsibility he shouldered, not out of love, but out of some unknown sense of duty.

"A burden with the privilege of being raised by me."

His words, not mine.

The moment I stepped inside, the door hissed shut behind me, the airlock sealing with a mechanical sigh. The chaotic noise of Maggot's Crown—the distant gunfire, the low murmur of the streets, the ever-present hum of unstable power grids—all faded away, swallowed by the stark silence of Pxis's domain.

Inside, it was calm. Sterile. Controlled.

The lights flickered soft blue, illuminating sleek walls lined with embedded monitors flashing system diagnostics. The air was cool, filtered, and free of the toxic haze that choked the city outside. The house had no clutter, no wasted space—every inch calculated, precise, just like the man who lived here.

Then, I heard it—the sound of machinery at work.

The soft whir of servos, the clicking of delicate joints.

I stepped forward, my boots making no sound against the polished composite flooring, and entered the main living space.

Pxis sat in his usual spot, his thin, frail frame resting within the gravitic support chair that hovered just inches above the ground. Wires trailed from the chair, connecting to various life-support modules, their faint pulses of Astral light a constant reminder that his body no longer functioned on its own.

Two automated attendants—sleek, humanoid drones crafted from Astral-infused alloys—moved silently around him. One adjusted his IV drip, a tube filled with a slow trickle of silver Astral fluid, while the other carefully folded a thermal wrap over his lap.

Even with the machines keeping him alive, he still looked like hell.

His skin was pale, almost translucent, stretched too thin over the sharp angles of his face. His once formidable frame had withered, muscles replaced with hollows, and his eyes—once piercing, filled with sharp intelligence and calculated menace—were now dull, clouded with the weight of time.

But despite all of it, the moment he turned those fading blue eyes toward me, there was still something sharp there.

Something that refused to die quietly.

"Took you long enough," he muttered, his voice like sandpaper—rough, strained, yet still carrying that same cold precision he had always spoken with.

I let out a slow breath, stepping further inside. "I was in Lucionis."

"I know where you were. Doesn't change the fact that you're late."

One of the attendant bots turned toward me, scanning me for any weapons, then immediately dismissing me as non-hostile. I ignored it and crossed the room, letting my eyes roam over the organized chaos of the workstations, the glowing monitors, and the stacks of sealed data drives lined against the far wall.

And then I saw it—

A small pile of envelopes and holo-mails, neatly arranged on the edge of the metallic table near Pxis's chair.

Even before I reached for them, I knew what they were.

My mail.

Still addressed here, to this place I no longer lived in.

I picked up the stack, flipping through them. A few were junk notices, but others bore official seals—letters from Cognis, from various Ranker organizations in the Pit.

"You should update your damn address," Pxis muttered, watching me from the corner of his eye as I sifted through the pile. "You've been in Lucionis long enough."

"Still feels like a temporary arrangement." I thumbed through another envelope before stuffing the stack into my coat.

He let out a slow, wheezing chuckle. "Everything's temporary. Especially around here."

One of the drones leaned in, adjusting the positioning of a nutrient tube, and Pxis swatted at it weakly, grumbling under his breath.

For a long moment, we sat in silence—just the quiet hum of the machines, the beeping of vital monitors, and the distant whir of data processing systems in the background.

Finally, he broke it.

"How long are you staying?"

I exhaled, slipping the mail deeper into my pocket. "Not long."

He scoffed. "Figured."

Even now, even with him like this, the distance between us never truly changed. He had raised me, trained me, kept me alive when no one else would—but there had always been a wall.

And now, as I stood there, watching him withering away in this technological tomb, I wondered—

Would I ever truly know why he had chosen to?

I slid my thumb along the sealed envelope, breaking the Cognis insignia with a sharp flick. The holographic script projected itself from the letter, its sterile blue light casting faint reflections on the metallic table.

My eyes skimmed the contents.

Then I read it again.

And again.

My grip on the letter tightened.

Applicant: Ashlar Kain

Application Status: Denied

Reason for Rejection:

Despite demonstrating exceptional tactical ability, survival expertise, and proficiency with Astral Tech, the Cognis Organization cannot approve your induction into the Rank Operator division. Given the inherent dangers of Inner Pit expeditions, Cognis requires its Operators to possess an acceptable threshold of Esper abilities to ensure the safety of their unit and mission success.

Your lack of verified psychic potential poses an unacceptable risk, regardless of technological augmentation. We cannot, in good conscience, approve a mundane for a position where the lives of others would depend on our capabilities.

If you wish to pursue exploration of the Inner Pit, we recommend registering as a Free Ranker under the Independent Ranker Division. While Cognis cannot guarantee your safety, this alternative path will allow you to act without official sanction.

This decision is final. No appeals will be considered.

Signed,

Director Atrius Vale

Cognis Operator Admissions Board

I exhaled slowly, setting the letter down before I crushed it in my hands.

Denied.

The one path I thought would put me closer to unraveling my system's mission—cut off before I could even start.

I had prepared for this possibility, but reading their exact words—"an unacceptable risk", "lack of verified psychic potential"—still stung.

Pxis, who had been watching me with the same tired, unblinking stare, made a sound that was somewhere between a chuckle and a cough. "Hah. Should've seen that one coming."

I didn't answer.

He gestured lazily toward the letter. "Took them long enough to tell you what I've been saying for years. You're a stubborn little shit, Ash, but Cognis? They don't gamble with people like you."

I clenched my jaw. "People like me?"

Pxis met my gaze, unflinching. "People without psychic potential. Espers. That's the game, kid. You were never meant to play in their arena."

I sat back, exhaling through my nose. "That's bullshit, and you know it."

"Is it?" He raised a brow, tilting his head slightly. "They let you take the trial assessments, sure. Let you run their gauntlets, let you prove how good you are with Astral Tech. But that was all for show. The moment they saw you didn't have the real thing—the moment their scans came up empty? You were done."

I hated how right he was.

Even before this, I had known Cognis wasn't going to bend their standards for me. But I thought—maybe—my experience, my skill, my connection with Astral Tech would be enough to compensate. That I could force them to see past their bias.

But to them, I was just another mundane.

Not worth the risk.

Pxis shook his head, his gaze never leaving me. "So, what now? You gonna sit there brooding like some moody little orphan, or are you actually gonna think about what comes next?"

I scoffed. "You already read the letter, didn't you?"

His lips curled in the ghost of a smirk. "Didn't need to. Knew they'd reject you the moment you sent that damn application."

I didn't respond.

Silence stretched between us. The quiet hum of his life-support systems filled the space, the soft beeping of monitors syncing with the rise and fall of his shallow breaths.

"You could still turn back, you know," he said after a while, his voice quieter, rougher.

I frowned. "Turn back?"

Pxis leaned forward as much as his frail body allowed, his gaze hard. "Drop this Ranker nonsense. Go back to Lucionis. Get yourself a stable life. You don't need to chase ghosts down in that abyss."

My fingers curled into a fist.

"You really think I'd just walk away?"

He let out a slow, tired sigh. "No. I don't. But you sure as hell should."

I pushed the chair back, standing up. "That's not happening."

Pxis gave me a long, searching look before shaking his head. "Yeah. Figured."

He closed his eyes briefly, his thin, bony fingers tapping against the armrest of his gravitic chair, the soft hum of energy pulsing beneath him.

"Cognis rejected you. So what? You already know what your next step is."

I didn't respond right away. My eyes flicked down to the Cognis letter, to the crisp, unyielding words that had shut the door on my only official path forward.

Become a Free Ranker.

That was their alternative. A way for me to descend into the Inner Pit without their sanction, without their protection. A death sentence for most—but for me, it was my only way forward.

Because my system's mission wasn't just a suggestion.

It was a directive.

And I had come too far to ignore it now.

Pxis exhaled through his nose. "I won't stop you, Ash." His voice was quiet, unreadable. "But you and I both know this path doesn't end well."

I turned toward the door, my hand already moving toward my pocket, fingers brushing against the letter that marked my failure.

"Then I'll just have to prove you wrong."