The City

Dion squinted eyes against the extreme against brightness. After the gods know long he's been in the suffocating dark, the daylight felt unnatural, pressing against his vision.

He stumbled forward, his boots crunching against loose gravel. The ruins behind him yawned like an open wound in the earth—twisted beams, collapsed stone, and the remnants of something long forgotten.

Whatever had kept the Grimlings at bay still lingered down there, but he wasn't about to turn back to find out why.

His limbs ached from the impart of the fall and tension of walking for so long, and his throat was dry, but there was no time to stop.

The city walls stood in the distance, towering high, an unshakable presence against the broken land. RidgeFort. Safety.

He adjusted his cloak, patting the pouch at his side to make sure the Nyx Crystals were still there. They weren't much, but they were all he had.

The landscape between him and the city was desolate. Old roads cracked and split, nature reclaiming them with jagged roots. Ruined vehicles lay like forgotten bones, rusted beyond repair. Yet, signs of life still clung to this wasteland.

Makeshift tents and wooden stalls lined the dirt roads leading to RidgeFort's gates, forming an unspoken boundary between those who had a place inside and those who were stuck outside.

This is the outer slums.

Dion pulled his hood lower as he walked. The people here weren't fools—they could tell a desperate man when they saw one, and desperation was dangerous. Children with hollow eyes sat on crumbling steps, their gazes tracking him as he passed.

Traders called out half-heartedly from their stalls, selling scraps, dull weapons, and whatever food they could scavenge.

Some of them weren't merchants by trade but hunters who had barely made it back alive, their wounds hastily wrapped, their expressions empty.

Afterall only few crazy Hollowborn like Dion could dare to face Dreadspawns, abominations that appears after the shockwave that break the order of the world 80 years ago.

Even though all he could slain are the lowest of then called Gremlings, it is still consider craziness or maybe a bit of death wish

The further he went, the denser the crowds became. A long line stretched toward RidgeFort's gates, people waiting for entry. Some would never make it past the checkpoint. Dion knew better than to join them. He took a different path—one that avoided the scrutiny of the guards.

A narrow alley led to a side entrance, its walls lined with faded posters and claw marks from past fights. He knocked twice, waited, then knocked again.

A slit in the metal door slid open. A pair of wary eyes studied him.

"Payment?"

Dion reached into his pouch and pulled out a Nyx Crystal, pressing it into the waiting hand. A moment later, the door creaked open, and he stepped through, into the city.

The difference was immediate.

The air inside RidgeFort was cleaner, the streets paved and intact. Unlike the outskirts, where desperation clung to every surface, here there was structure, purpose.

The lower districts were still rough—narrow streets, aging buildings, the scent of sweat and metal—but they were a far cry from the slums outside.

He navigated the familiar paths quickly, avoiding trouble where he could. RidgeFort wasn't just a city; it was a system. The further in you lived, the higher your status.

The wealthy occupied the inner districts, where the buildings were pristine, the roads wide, and the lights never flickered. The powerful lived in the central strongholds, where the walls gleamed, and danger never reached.

Dion didn't belong in either.

His home lay in the mid-districts, where people like him—those who weren't completely powerless but weren't worth much either—tried to carve out a place for themselves.

He turned down a quiet street, stopping in front of a small, worn-down building. The door creaked as he pushed it open, stepping inside. The air was stale, but it was his.

He shut the door behind him and exhaled.

Finally, he was home.