Chapter 1: The Exile’s Awakening

Roen Kast came to with a face full of cold, jagged stone and a wind that howled like it had a grudge. His eyes cracked open, stinging from the damp gray mist swirling around him. Cliffs jutted up ahead, sharp and ugly, half-swallowed by the haze. The ground under him was a mess of cracked rock, littered with pebbles that dug into his palms as he pushed himself up. His arms shook—hell, his whole body ached like he'd been dragged behind a truck for miles. What he had on could barely be called clothes anymore: shredded rags, caked in dirt and something dark that might've been blood. He coughed, spitting out a gritty taste, and tried to figure out where he was.

"Christ," he rasped, voice rough as sandpaper. His breath puffed out in little clouds, fading fast in the chill. Last thing he remembered was the construction site—steel beams groaning, then snapping, the whole damn scaffold crashing down on him. He'd been an architect, 27 years old, good at his job, maybe too good, staying late to double-check blueprints when it all went to hell. A beam through the chest, lights out. That was it. But this? This wasn't some sterile hospital room or pearly gates bullshit. This was a wasteland—floating slabs of rock stretching into a foggy nowhere.

He rubbed his temples, head throbbing like a jackhammer was loose in there. Then it hit him—a flood of memories that weren't his, slamming into his skull so hard he staggered. A grand hall with too much gold trim, some pompous bastard in robes glaring down, voices yelling "Traitor!" and "Exile!" like they were auditioning for a bad play. A younger guy—Roen Kast, but not him—kneeling in chains, head down while the sentence dropped. It was like watching a movie in fast-forward, except he could feel the cold metal on his wrists, the shame burning in his gut. He wasn't just Roen the architect anymore. He was this other Roen too, some piss-poor noble from a family that'd rather see him dead than deal with him.

"Exiled," he muttered, kicking a rock into the mist. It bounced off something and vanished with a faint clatter. "Screwed over in one life by a collapsing building, and now by my own damn family. Perfect." He'd always had a knack for seeing the dark humor in things—kept him sane on late nights hunched over blueprints. Guess that'd come in handy here, wherever "here" was.

The memories settled, jagged pieces clicking into place. This was the Crack Void Era, a world busted apart into floating islands drifting in an endless sky. Magic, or something like it, held the chunks aloft, but nobody really knew how it worked—just that it did, until it didn't. The Kast family, big shots on some fancy island somewhere, had decided he was a liability. Accused him of plotting a coup, no evidence, no trial worth a damn. Just a quick "Get lost" and a one-way trip to Gray Mist Island—a rock so pathetic it barely qualified as land. All he'd been left with was a crumbling watchtower, a relic from some forgotten war, and a death sentence dressed up as banishment.

Before he could wallow too long, a sharp voice cut through his head—not his, not anyone's nearby. "System activation complete. Host: Roen Kast. SSS-Grade Castle Evolution System online." He flinched, whipping around, but there was nothing. Then a glowing panel popped up right in front of his face, hovering like a goddamn hologram from a sci-fi flick. White text scrolled across it, stark against the blue:

System Notification: Welcome, Host. The Crack Void Hub is now bound to your will. Primary Task: Absorb the Gray Mist Island Core within 72 hours to evolve the castle. Failure will result in island collapse and host termination.

Roen stared, mouth half-open, then squinted at the tower a few yards off. It looked like a stiff breeze could knock it over—walls cracked to hell, gate dangling like a drunk leaning on a lamppost, roof caved in on one side. "That's the castle?" he said, voice dripping with disbelief. "My big break's a pile of stones a toddler could've stacked better? You've got to be kidding me." He half-expected the system to snap back, but it stayed silent, the timer ticking down: 71 hours, 58 minutes, 32 seconds.

"Seventy-two hours," he said, running a hand through his matted hair. "Not exactly a generous deadline." His architect brain kicked in—three days to stabilize a structure, you'd need a plan, tools, a crew. Here, he had none of that. Just a glowing screen and a rock about to fall apart. But that word—"termination"—lit a spark in his chest. He'd died once, pinned under steel like a bug. No way was he letting this place bury him too. Not without a fight.

"Alright, core it is," he muttered, trudging toward the tower. Up close, it was a disaster—moss choking the stones, vines snaking everywhere like the place was trying to strangle itself. Inside smelled like wet rot, the kind you'd get in a basement after a flood. Broken junk was scattered around: a chair in pieces, a sword rusted to uselessness, a table that'd seen better days. He poked at the sword with his foot, wondering if it'd hold up in a pinch, when a growl stopped him dead.

It came from the shadows—low, guttural, the kind of sound that makes your hair stand up. Two yellow eyes glowed back at him, then a shape lumbered out: a gray wolf, big as a damn bear, fur clumped with dirt, teeth flashing. Three more followed, claws scraping as they fanned out. Roen's stomach sank. No weapon, no strength, just a body that felt like it'd collapse before they even got to him.

"Fantastic," he said, backing up slow. "Guess I'm lunch before I'm lord." The lead wolf lunged, jaws snapping where his arm had been a second ago. He dove, crashing into the debris, and snatched the rusted sword. It was dull as hell, but he swung it anyway, yelling to keep the panic down. The wolves circled, growling, and the system panel flashed again:

System Notification: Gray Mist Island Core detected. Location: Central stone platform, guarded by Mist Wolves. Eliminate or bypass to proceed.

"Central platform?" He parried a claw with a clang, stumbling back. "Where's that?" His eyes darted to a stairwell in the corner—narrow, half-broken, leading up. Towers always had something at the top—observation posts, signal fires. Maybe the core too. He bolted, legs screaming as he took the steps two at a time, wolves snapping at his heels. One grabbed his cloak, yanking him back. He twisted free, slashing down with a grunt, and kept moving.

He burst onto the roof, gasping, the mist thicker up here, swirling like a living thing. In the center was a rough stone dais, a glowing orb embedded in it—blue, cracked, pulsing faintly. That was it, had to be. He stepped forward, then froze as the big wolf loomed behind him, growling low. "Yeah, I get it," he said, tightening his grip. "Nothing's free."

"Hey, ugly mutts!" a voice bellowed, cutting through the tension. A figure vaulted from the mist, landing hard between Roen and the wolf. She was tall, built like she could wrestle a bear, leather armor patched up and scratched to hell. Dark hair flew wild around a scarred face, and she swung a dented longsword with a grin that said she loved this shit. "Old lady's here to save your sorry ass!" she roared, thumping her chest. The wolf lunged; she dodged, drove her blade into its side, and laughed as it yelped.

Roen gaped. "Who the hell—?"

"Liya, kid," she said, kicking the wolf off. "Mercenary extraordinaire. Saw you flailing like a drunk and—oh shit, bug!" She shrieked, hopping as she swatted her leg, bravado gone in a flash. "Get it off me!"

Roen snorted, couldn't help it. "A bug? You're kidding." She glared, flustered, as he eyed the wolves closing in. Crazy or not, she'd bought him time. The core was right there, and the timer wasn't stopping: 71 hours, 54 minutes, 12 seconds. He wasn't a waste lord yet—not if he could help it.