Again

Dion stepped out of the weaponsmith's shop, the weight of his new sword hanging at his hip. He had no expectations for it—just another blade, no different from the last one he used.

The steel was cold against his fingers as he ran a thumb along the flat of the blade. He took a few swings, testing the balance. The edge cut through the air cleanly, but there was nothing exceptional about it. No sudden surge of power, no hidden force humming beneath the surface. Just steel.

It would do.

It is not everytime you need a blade to slain, sometimes you only need to use your head.

Tugging his cloak tighter, he moved through the streets of RidgeFort. The city was alive with the constant thrum of survival—shouting traders, clanking armor, and the murmur of deals being made in hushed tones. The air carried a mix of smoke, damp earth, and the faint metallic tang of Nyx Crystals.

He passed by scavengers bartering over broken gear, their faces sunken with exhaustion. Mercenaries leaned against stone walls, eyeing the passing crowd like hungry predators, waiting for a job worth their time.

The deeper he went, the more the scenery changed. The outer edges of the city were a mess of makeshift homes and patchwork roofs, but further in, the buildings grew sturdier, crafted from stone and reinforced with iron. The wealthier residents lived there—those with power, those who had carved their place in RidgeFort with strength or cunning.

Dion didn't linger. That world wasn't for him.

His home was on the city's outskirts, tucked between crumbling walls and narrow alleyways where the forgotten dwelled. It wasn't much—a single room with a cot, a small storage chest, and a battered table. But it was enough.

Locking the door behind him, he set the sword against the wall and took a deep breath. There was still much to do before he left.

Dion moved through the familiar routine with practiced efficiency.

First, supplies. He crouched near a wooden crate, lifting the lid to reveal his stored rations—dried meat, hard bread, and a small pouch of bitterroot leaves.The leaves were for energy, though they left a sharp taste in his mouth.

The food he ate in the city will last him till the next day. Combined with what he have left here, he will last three to four days.. that better than nothing

He wrapped the food tightly in cloth and stuffed it into his pack. Next came water. His flask was half-empty. He refilled it from a metal basin, shaking his head as the water swirled with sediment. Not the cleanest, but it would do.

Then, his weapons.

His new sword rested within reach, but he wasn't foolish enough to rely on it alone. He strapped a small hunting knife to his boot, its handle worn from use. Another blade, thinner and easier to conceal, was slipped into the inside of his cloak. His hands moved with certainty—this was habit, muscle memory.

Next came his armor. He pulled on his leather vest, adjusting the straps until they sat snugly against his body. The material was cracked from repeated use, but it still held. He ran a hand down the front, feeling the rough texture, the familiar weight.

A thick cloak followed, heavy enough to shield him from the cold winds outside the walls. He fastened it with a simple iron clasp, ensuring it wouldn't snag on anything mid-fight.

Finally, his essentials.

A small pouch of Nyx Crystals—his lifeline, his currency. His hunting kit—wire, hooks, and a length of cord, all rolled up and tucked into a side pocket. A piece of chalk, a habit from his early scavenging days, used to mark paths in unfamiliar ruins.

Everything was set.

Dion glanced around the dimly lit room, taking in the worn-out furniture, the scuffed floorboards, the scratches on the doorframe from past struggles. There was nothing left to take. Nothing worth keeping.

With that, he slung his backpack over his shoulder and stepped out, locking the door behind him as if it made any difference.

He wasn't sure if he'd be coming back. He is powerful for a Hollowborn? Yes. But he is not arrogant. There are many things are out that could kill him without him knowing what did. Many times too, things powerless than you can kill you if you are too arrogant.

Gripping his backpack tighter, he move.

RidgeFort's outer gate loomed ahead, thick with reinforced metal and lined with jagged spikes meant to ward off attacks. The torches lining the wall flickered, casting long shadows against the cold stone.

A line of hunters stretched before him, waiting for clearance. Most were Awakened, their bodies exuding the subtle confidence of those who had power. Some chatted amongst themselves, trading information about recent hunts. Others stood in silence, their gazes fixed on the horizon beyond the walls.

Dion barely earned a glance.

He stepped toward the checkpoint, stopping before a rusted metal console embedded in the wall. The screen flickered to life, its interface glowing with faint blue light.

[Oracle Exchange System]

Confirm Point Transaction for Gate Pass?

Dion scowled anytime he saw it. Why exactly does the city collect charges for going out of the city but not for coming inside, isn't it supposed to be the other way round.

His balance flashed in the corner—almost nothing. Whatever was left had been meant to buy a better sword, but that no longer mattered.

He selected Yes.

A soft hum filled the air as the console processed his request. The screen flashed.

[Transaction Complete. Remaining Balance: 4.]

The gate official, a grizzled man with a scar running down his cheek, glanced at him and snorted.

"Didn't you just come back yesterday?" He scoffed, arms crossed. "What, trying to get yourself killed already?"

Dion didn't react.

The man leaned forward, voice lowering. "Even Awakened take time to rest. You? A Hollowborn? You should be grateful you made it back in one piece. Running out there again so soon—you must have a death wish."

Dion adjusted his backpack, rolling his shoulders.

"They have their path," he said, voice steady. "It's clear where they're headed."

He turned toward the gate.

"Me? I haven't figured that out yet. I don't even know where to start."

The machine beside him blinked green. The locks on the gate hissed open.

Without another word, he stepped past the threshold.

The cold wind hit him immediately, sharp and biting against his skin. The vast stretch of land beyond RidgeFort was silent, untouched, waiting.

Behind him, the guard shook his head and muttered,

"Damn fool."