Basic Maintenance Recommended

Donte awoke slowly.

Not with a jolt, not to panic—but to pain. A familiar ache, sharp and deep, blooming in his ribs like coals pressed beneath skin. Awareness returned in waves, soft at first, then crashing.

He blinked against the dim light. A single lamp buzzed weakly in the corner of the room, casting a pale halo across flaking walls stained by time. The air was still, thick with the scent of antiseptic and rust.

He shifted. The mattress groaned beneath him, protesting the movement like an old machine refusing to restart.

Bandages hugged his torso, tight and uncomfortable. Fresh. Someone had treated the wounds. Not just cleaned them—cared.

Vespera?

The thought came unbidden, but not wrong.

Gold eyes. Teal braids. Gentle hands. He remembered her kneeling beside him. The sound of her voice. Calm. Kind.

He didn't know her, not really.

But she had helped him anyway.

He sat up slowly, teeth gritted against the flare in his side. One step at a time. That's how it had to be now.

Crossing the small room, Donte caught a glimpse of himself in the cracked mirror above the dresser. The face that stared back looked wrong. Younger. Paler. Dried blood streaked his cheek, clinging to skin stretched too thin. Long hair fell past his shoulders—purple, fading to white at the tips, like smoke.

Eyes met their reflection—violet, steady.

Strange. But his.

This is me now.

The door creaked open behind him.

He turned.

Vespera stood in the doorway, her silhouette softened by the flickering lamplight. Concern lined her expression, though she tried to cover it with a faint smile.

"You're up," she said, stepping inside. Her voice was quiet, but not unsure. "Didn't think you'd be on your feet so soon."

He hesitated before speaking. "Thanks… for the bandages."

She leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "Don't thank me. This isn't the first time I've patched you up."

Donte frowned. Of course. The old Donte had needed help before—many times, probably.

But to him, it was new.

He didn't know how to answer. So he didn't.

Instead, he turned to the window, where neon light from the streets below shimmered through the thin curtain like city-colored starlight.

"How long until the Awakening?" he asked.

"Two days," she said. "Everyone's counting down like it's a miracle waiting to happen."

She paused. Then added, "Might be. If we get something good."

Donte nodded slowly.

For some, the ceremony was a door. A way out. For others, it was a wall. A reminder of who they'd never be.

He didn't plan to fall into the second group.

From somewhere deep inside, flickers of another life stirred—one filled with sparks, wires, and impossible machines. He remembered the hum of tools. The language of runes etched into steel. The feeling of making something that breathed power.

He swayed slightly, catching himself on the edge of the dresser.

Vespera moved closer. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," he lied. "Just a little off-balance."

She didn't push. Just studied him for a moment longer before speaking again.

"Look," she said, her tone shifting—firmer now. "You've let those guys walk all over you for years. I get it. They're cruel, and this place is worse. But the Awakening? It's your chance."

She met his gaze.

"Don't waste it."

Donte nodded again. This time, slower. "I won't."

That seemed to be enough.

She stepped back and left the room, the door closing behind her with a soft click.

The orphanage was awake.

Donte stepped into the hall, shoulders stiff and breath shallow. The building creaked and whispered around him—pipes clanking, lights flickering overhead, old wood moaning under footsteps.

Children moved through the corridor, most with heads down and arms wrapped around themselves. No one made eye contact. Survival here meant silence.

He kept walking.

A voice drifted from one of the common rooms. Then another.

"Everyone wants to be a knight, or a gunslinger. But most end up cleaning streets or growing grain."

It was an older voice, rough like sandpaper.

A boy answered. Younger. Hopeful. "But sometimes people get rare classes, right? Like that Blade Priest guy?"

Donte paused outside the door.

He leaned slightly, listening.

Inside, an older man sat at a warped wooden table. Thick scars traced his arms and face. One arm, made of brushed metal and humming quietly, rested beside a dented cup. Opposite him, a boy maybe ten or eleven leaned forward eagerly, eyes wide.

"Blade Priest was twenty years ago," the man said, voice dry. "That kind of class doesn't come around often. One in a million."

He took a slow sip from the cup.

"But even a strong class doesn't mean much if you don't survive long enough to use it."

Donte shifted his weight.

The floorboard creaked.

The man's head snapped around. Sharp eyes found him instantly.

"You're the one who got dragged in last night?" he asked. Not unkind, but not soft either.

Donte stepped into view. "Yeah. I'm Donte."

The man nodded. "Figured. I'm Marcus."

He motioned toward the seat across from him.

Donte sat.

"They say you're quiet. Useless," Marcus continued, tapping his metal fingers against the table in a steady rhythm. "But I've seen enough scrap to know a broken thing still has value."

Donte didn't speak.

Marcus studied him.

"Awakening's soon," he said. "Thought about what you want?"

Donte looked down at his hands.

"Something strong."

Marcus laughed once—dry and knowing.

"Everyone wants strong. But the gods don't give what you want. They give what you deserve." He leaned back, eyes narrowing. "Sometimes, if you're lucky, it's the same thing."

Donte didn't smile.

He didn't flinch either.

He just listened.

"I don't know what path you're on," Marcus said after a long pause. "But I've seen boys walk into that Church as ghosts and come out as monsters. Others walk in thinking they're chosen… and stay ghosts forever."

Donte nodded. "I won't waste it."

Marcus watched him for a moment longer. Then he nodded once. "Good."

He turned back to the boy across the table. "Now get some rest. Ceremony comes quick."

Later, Donte stepped out into the open air.

The city buzzed around him—skimmers whirring overhead, lights pulsing in waves down the skyline like a heartbeat.

He stood still. Let the sounds wash over him.

The towering spires of the Church of Ascension loomed in the distance, glowing like blades of light piercing the sky.

Soon, he'd walk through its doors.

Soon, he'd be offered a path.

He didn't know what shape it would take.

But he'd take it, break it down, and rebuild it into something his.

Piece by piece.

Some assembly would always be required.