The sky was soft with filtered light, that late-afternoon haze where the sun dipped low but refused to leave. Down a crooked hill, past leaning signs and tired wooden shacks, stood a tent—torn in places, but sturdy in spirit. Faded flags fluttered above it, stitched with strange symbols. The air smelled of cloves, dust, and old metal.
A large tent held up by long pikes stabbed into the ground. A figure marched through the slums and soon lifted the curtain and entered. The tent groaned in the wind, fabric walls creaking like tired lungs. Lanternlight spilled amber across shelves of warped wood, glinting off jars filled with preserved eyes, rusted trinkets, and trinkets pretending not to be cursed. Every inch of space was claimed by the strange or the sacred—feathers tied with red thread, masks carved from bone, coins with holes that smelled like burnt oil.
Shadows curled around the trinkets like they had weight. Shelves bowed under the pressure of impossible things—stone beetles that twitched in sleep, marbles that held tiny, moving galaxies, and teeth far too large to belong to anything living in the last few centuries.
At the center sat a table cloaked in blood-red velvet, ink-stained scrolls scattered across it like discarded fortunes. Behind it, the old man waited. His face was lined like a canyon wall, deep with time and too many tales. His robe was layered in patches, feathers, bones, rusted keys. His left eye was milky, the right a sharp and knowing gray.
And in the middle of the tent, standing like a stray gust of wind that hadn't decided where to blow, was Yuga.
White hair tousled from the cold, sleeveless shirt still clinging to him like he hadn't realized it was spring yet. Bandages wrapped his forearms, black pants tucked into weathered boots. His pink eyes scanned the room lazily—half bored, half cautious.
The old man didn't look up. He simply began to speak.
"Iota. A city of beginnings. They say the first stone of the new world was placed there."
Yuga raised an eyebrow. "Cool. I just got in. Not looking to settle down or start a revolution, if that's where this is going."
The old man chuckled, voice dry like snapping leaves. "You've got the same tone. The same look."
Yuga narrowed his eyes. "What look?"
The man finally looked up, peering over the rim of a cracked pair of reading glasses.
"White hair. Veilborn. Eyes like sunset over ash. That's the look of old stories. That's the look the Paladins wore before they became gods walking in armor."
Yuga blinked, lips twitching into a sarcastic half-smile. "Oh great. First day in town and I'm already somebody's reincarnated savior. Should've stayed on the mountain."
"The Paladins weren't born gods," the old man went on, ignoring him. "Just six souls. Six friends, or enemies—it changes depending on who's telling the tale. But what they did… that stayed the same."
He leaned forward, his breath curling in the cold air.
"Once, there was only one empire. No borders. No thrones fighting for breath. Just unity. But pride's a poison no kingdom escapes. The leaders split—half went west, built Adenia, draped in wealth and gold. The other half stayed east and founded Ambrassia, with blades in their hands and fire in their hearts."
"War came like a second sun. Lit the world up for 700 years. Cities bled. Rivers dried. And the six—those Paladins—they survived every damn year of it."
Yuga scoffed lightly. "Seven hundred? That's a long time to be pissed off."
"Longer than most names last. But the Paladins didn't just survive. They won. Not with swords, not with spells. With time. When everyone else was dust, they were still standing. Still building. Brick by brick, they turned Ambrassia into an empire again—and made Iota the crown on its head."
He gestured to the map sprawled out across the table. Old, hand-drawn, ink bleeding at the edges.
"They turned the word 'Paladin' into a council. And the council into a guild. The most powerful guild in the world. They run it all now—economy, armies, religion. Hell, even the weather listens sometimes."
Yuga folded his arms, looking at the map, then back at the man. "And let me guess. You think I'm gonna march up to their front door and knock?"
The old man smiled. "No. I think you're going to stumble into something you don't understand. And by the time you do, it'll be too late to walk away."
Yuga rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck, and glanced toward the exit.
"Nice speech, old man. But I've got a pair of boots and a stranger to find. Save the omens for someone who reads tea leaves."
As he pushed back the tent flap, the sunlight painted his silhouette in gold. The wind outside smelled like dust and cities he hadn't met yet.
Behind him, the old man spoke one last time—low, but certain.
"Beginnings never look like much, Veilborn. But they all leave footprints deep enough to follow."
And then the flap fell closed.
Yuga began to think to himself as he made his way into a line leading towards a entry point into the capital.
One question. Just one. Keeps me up. Follows me. Whispers in my ear like it knows something I don't.
What makes someone human?
Is it skin? Blood? A heartbeat that won't shut up? Some glittering soul buried somewhere deep inside?
I don't buy it. Never have.
Humanity isn't some box you check off. It's not some universal truth hanging in the stars, waiting to be found. It's chaos in a coat. It's bleeding and breaking and choosing to get back up anyway.
People love to talk about normal. But let's be honest—normal is a fairytale. And in a world full of walking miracles and universe-kissed egos, it's a word that don't mean a damn thing.
We're surrounded by the chosen. The blessed. The ones who think their power means purpose. They strut like they were born to lead. Act like the rest of us are just background noise in their origin story.
And maybe that's why I hate them. Not gods. Not myths. The Walkers.
Those anointed freaks who use their gifts like weapons, Who smile like saints and burn through human lives like devils.
So I hunt them. I cut them down.
I maim them. Not for justice. Not for revenge. To prove something simple:
Faith? It's just noise until someone listens. And power? Power only matters if you give it to someone.
So I'll tear down their altars. Shatter their false crowns. And when they fall, I will make damn sure their world watches.
Because if they want to play god—I'll be the one who reminds them what it means to be human.
Yuga didn't so much arrive in the capital as he drifted into it. Like a stray thought that had taken physical form, pushed forward by stubborn legs and a purpose still foggy around the edges.
The streets swallowed him whole—huge, paved with blackstone and edged in gold-leaf gutters. Buildings rose around him like cliffs, all polished limestone and obsidian tilework, every corner bleeding wealth and clean angles. Traders shouted over one another, guards with capes too crisp to trust eyed passersby with thin suspicion, and above it all loomed that tower.
It looked like something plucked from a fever dream. Black granite that drank in the sun, crisscrossed with molten-gold veins that glowed faintly like they were alive. No windows. No banners. Just... watching.
Yuga stared up at it for a long second. Then blinked.
"…Yeah, no."
He turned away, instead walking up to the building beside it—second-largest on the block, still massive, still imposing, but not as ominous. This one had more foot traffic, more sound bleeding out from the cracks in its doors—cheers, clashing metal, boots scuffing against marble. Lived-in chaos.
He stepped forward and gripped one of the lion-head handles mounted on the wide double doors. Steel, cold to the touch. With a grunt, he pulled them open.
A wave of warm light and noise poured over him like a bath. Inside was less a guild hall and more a noble's idea of what a tavern should be—high ceilings hung with crests and chandeliers made from bent sword hilts, long oak counters running along each wall, and rows of tables packed with mercenaries, knights, and the occasional scholar-type. The floor was polished marble, not a speck of dirt in sight. The air reeked of citrus oil, whiskey, and blood that had been cleaned up too recently.
Behind each counter stood women dressed in black and red uniforms—sharp, militaristic, but somehow still warm enough to not scare off newcomers. The eastern counter had the fewest people crowded around it. Yuga wandered over and sat down without a word.
The receptionist at this desk was a tall woman, probably in her mid-twenties, with thick blonde hair tied into a tight braid. Her smile was the kind that made it clear she didn't get surprised very easily, and when she looked up at him, her eyes flicked over the bandages still visible around his fingers and neck.
"What can I do for you, ma'am?" she said sweetly, cocking her head.
Yuga gave her a flat look. "Guy, I am a man." he said, then leaned forward, voice just loud enough to be heard over the bustle. "I'm looking for work. Information. A steady income. You got a job board or are you one of those 'we pick the worthy' places?"
The woman chuckled softly. "Well, you're not wrong. This is the Paladins Guild—nobles, sell swords, witches, the whole parade. We work under the Six Hands. A re-ranking course starts in two days. If you've got skills, now's the time to prove them."
Yuga's eyes wandered down the counter—and landed on a bowl. Ceramic. Blue and white porcelain, filled to the brim with glistening hard candies in shiny wrappers. Without breaking eye contact, he reached out, grabbed one, and popped it into his mouth. His face slightly turning into a drool filled smile.
"Consider me mildly convinced," he said around the candy, his tone dry. "What's the pay for mildly convincing?"
The receptionist laughed again, clearly amused. But the moment cracked like glass under boot when a voice rasped in behind Yuga, thick with breath and something more sour.
"Look what we have here…"
The voice was slow, loud enough to hush the nearest tables. Heavy boots clomped closer, and Yuga could already hear the belt jangle. A shadow draped across the counter. The man it belonged to was thick-necked, stomach hanging over a too-tight belt, face flushed with alcohol and smugness. Greasy, cropped hair. Breath that smelled like dead fish pickled in beer.
He was looking at the receptionist like she owed him something. Then at Yuga like he was something caught under his boot.
"Well well well," the man said, tongue dragging over his teeth. "Two pretty things behind a desk, one with silver hair and hips like a girl. You new here, sweetheart? This one giving you trouble?" He leaned in, too close to the receptionist.
"You know, we could take care of him for you. Or you could take care of me—eh?"
He cackled. Reached forward and slapped the receptionist's counter hard enough to rattle the bowl.
Yuga didn't say a word.
He stood. Reached down. And in one fluid motion—bowl still full of candy—smashed it square into the man's face.
The ceramic cracked with a sharp crunch, shards digging into fat and nose and lips. The man reeled back with a squeal that sounded more pig than human.
Yuga followed it up fast. Grabbed the man's face—his nostrils, specifically—and yanked his head down with enough force to lift him onto his toes. And then, with a sound like wet meat on tile, slammed the man's skull against the marble counter.
Once.Twice.Three times.
The man slumped to the floor in a heap—blood leaking out, jaw twitching, shards of porcelain and peppermint sticking to his scalp. A few stray candies rolled across the floor, leaving pink streaks through the blood.
Yuga exhaled through his nose and turned back to the receptionist.
"Next time," he said calmly, brushing his hands off on his coat, "make sure the pig understands the menu before he starts squealing."
The woman behind the counter blinked. Then slowly pulled the cracked remains of the bowl back, candy and all, and set it aside like this happened all the time.
Yuga caught movement in his peripheral.
Across the street. Just beyond the guild doors. A figure—cloaked, half-shadowed—stood at the edge of the cathedral plaza. Watching. Still as a statue.
Black hair. Slim shoulders. Silent presence.
Yuga narrowed his eyes.
He didn't know if they were there for him, or if it was some holy zealot scouting out sinners, or worse, someone from before. But something in his gut itched. He needed to keep moving.
In the chaos, with the crowd swarming around the unconscious man, Yuga leaned down and tugged free the fat bastard's coin pouch. The leather was slick, stamped with weapons crossed over a serpent's tongue. Probably belonged to some minor house or gang. He didn't care.
By the time he made it to the inn, the sun had started to droop, turning the skyline hazy orange. The "Drunken Serpent" loomed ahead with a crooked sign and a crooked roof, but the building was solid enough, and it smelled like it had hot food and warm bedding. That was enough.
The moment he stepped through the door, a voice exploded out:
"WELCOME TO THE DRUNKEN SERPENT, BEST INN IN THE DISTRICT UNLESS YOU PLAN ON STIFFING ME!"
Behind the counter stood a woman with short curly hair, big round eyes, and a grin that could punch through armor. She waved at him like she knew him from somewhere.
"I'm Linda! You need a bed, booze, or a bath?! Pick two!"
Yuga didn't even stop walking. Just gave her a small nod and kept moving toward the stairs.
"HEY! HEY I SAW THAT! DON'T YOU DARE PRETEND YOU CAN'T HEAR ME, WHITE-HAIR! GET BACK HERE!"
Yuga sighed, hand already on the stair rail.
"Damn," he muttered. "She's worse than the candy guy."
"Guess I've been found out... Um, can I get a room? Sorry for trying to leave; I'm kind of new here."
Linda smiled warmly, her eyes glinting with joy, and tossed him an apple. Without thinking, Yuga caught it. The fruit was bruised and warm in his hand, like it had been sitting out in the sun all day. He gave her a tight nod, handed over the coin sack, and made for the stairs without another word.
Once in the room, Yuga shut the door gently but firmly, locking it. The apple hit the bottom of the waste bin with a dull thud. He peeled off his sleeveless shirt—its stitched-on hood sticking to his neck—and let it drop onto the chair beside the bed. His goggles clattered to the floor as he collapsed onto the mattress, arms hanging loose at his sides. He stared up at the ceiling.
It looked… darker. Not in the way shadows fall, but like the color had been drained from the wood above, replaced by something cold and creeping. He blinked. The wooden planks remained still, but the edges blurred just slightly, like heatwaves rising from desert stone.
A twitch built behind his eyes.
Flashes of memory ripped through him—crimson hands reaching, muffled screaming, that awful crack of bone. He turned his head sharply, nausea punching him in the gut. He stumbled into the bathroom, barely making it before his body gave in. Retching echoed against the walls. He gripped the sink until his knuckles blanched, the porcelain cold and uncaring beneath his palms.
When the sickness subsided, he sat on the tiled floor, breathing heavily, eyes hollow.
It was night when he emerged again. Or close to it. The sky outside was a dense purplish gray, casting strange shadows across the room.
Then he noticed her.
A figure sat calmly on the windowsill, one leg dangling lazily outside. Her hood was still on, and even in the low light, her presence overwhelmed the space like perfume in stale air.
"You're not from around here, are you, little one?" The voice was a woman's—silky, yet sharpened at the edges like a knife hidden in velvet.
Yuga didn't flinch. He was too tired for theatrics. "Nah, I'm not. Just passing through to help my village," he said with a shrug, lying smoothly.
The figure chuckled, soft but unsettling. She rose in one fluid motion, the cloak sliding from her shoulders like oil across glass.
She was tall. Almost inhumanly so. Her long black hair poured down her back like ink, framing violet eyes that seemed to glow faintly in the dark. Her clothes were midnight black, almost consuming light around her. There was something about her—the way she stood, the way her presence made the room feel smaller, tighter, harder to breathe in.
Yuga's eyes darted to the window, briefly considering a retreat. But her voice held him in place.
"Who are you?" he asked finally, his tone sharpened with suspicion.
Before the last word left his lips, she vanished.
No footsteps. No rustle. Just gone.
A breath later, she was in front of him—too close. One hand lifted toward his face, fingers tipped in long, void-black nails, and she touched the edge of his hood, just above his left eye.
Yuga recoiled, stumbling back. He hit the bathroom doorknob with a sharp thud, the pain radiating up his spine. His heartbeat jumped erratically, and for the first time in a long while, he was afraid.
Her laugh—low, resonant—filled the room. Not mocking him. Just Amused. Like watching a kitten hiss at a storm.
She offered her hand. "My name is Salina," she said, voice suddenly gentle. "I am a traveler, much like you. I come from many places."
Still shaken, Yuga took her hand. It was colder than it should have been. In a blink, his shirt and hood adjusted themselves, tightening at the seams, the fabric fitting him like it had been tailored just moments ago. It was Magic? It was too obvious.
He hesitated, his curiosity outweighing his fear for a moment. He picked up a pair of goblets from the shelf, gripping them tightly, and asked the question with careful tone.
"How do you travel? By boat or wagon?"
His bright pink eyes narrowed slightly, the color beginning to pulse and shift into a slow spiral.
Salina's smile returned. "I walk."
The word hit like a detonation in his skull.
Pain burst behind his eyes, sharp and ringing, like a scream pressed into his brain. He staggered. The goblets in his hands shimmered, their edges blurring—phasing in and out of his grip as though they weren't bound to this world anymore.
The bottle of alcohol on the table began to vibrate violently, clinking against the wood, then lifted—freezing mid-air, perfectly still. Everything in the room bent, warped by an invisible pressure. The air shimmered like static, colors bleeding into one another as if reality itself had started to peel apart.
Yuga gritted his teeth and forced himself to breathe through the searing noise in his head.
Salina just stood there, watching with an almost maternal softness.
"Little one," she said again, her voice now echoing slightly, "you must be new here. I know a great deal about this world. I've been here for many years."
She moved forward slowly, the bottle in the air rotating slightly behind her.
"But don't worry. I'm not here to harm you. I was sent to meet someone like you. My role is simple—to test and to guide."
The ringing faded, but the unease remained. Yuga's hands trembled slightly as he steadied the goblets again.
"Guide me how?" he asked, his voice low, guarded.
"In the form of a challenge," she replied. "Prove yourself. Show this world who you are, and perhaps you will earn the right to be part of something far greater. The path you take will shape your future."
Her words hung in the air, like the bottle still frozen above the table.
Yuga's eyes flicked toward it, then back to her.
"Funny," he said quietly, his voice like flint, "I didn't ask for a path."
Salina smiled, violet eyes glimmering. "No one ever does."
Salina circled him, slow as a moon's orbit. Her footsteps made no sound, but her presence was a pressure against his skin—like the air shifted to accommodate her.
"You know," she said, her voice dipping like a purr, "you're rather handsome when you're terrified. There's something honest about it. Most men wear masks even when they scream."
Yuga scoffed, adjusting the goggles now slung around his neck. "Most men don't get flirted with after nearly vomiting."
"Oh, but I don't flirt with most men," Salina said, stopping behind him. He could feel her breath near his neck. "Just the ones who catch my interest. And it's not easy to catch my interest, little one."
He turned, slowly. "You keep calling me that."
"Would you rather I call you something else?" she asked, tapping her chin theatrically. "Sweetling? Darling? My brave little liar?"
"I'll stick with Yuga," he said flatly, though a flicker of red burned across his cheeks.
She tilted her head. "Yuga," she repeated, savoring the name like it was a rare wine. "Strong name. Like someone who's trying very hard to sound like he's not scared out of his mind."
"Bold talk from someone who just melted through space and made my dinnerware glitch," he muttered, his tone dry.
Salina's laugh was low, and it rippled through the air like smoke. She leaned against the window frame, one leg bent up casually, the fabric of her cloak shifting like ink in water.
"Would it help if I apologized for breaking your dinnerware? You really know nothing don't you? The veil? How we know when one of our own is near? Nothing?"
He stared at her. "You don't really do normal conversation, do you?"
"Normal is boring," she replied with a shrug. "And I don't do boring. Not when there's a boy with eyes like bottled lightning standing in front of me, pretending he's not fascinated."
Yuga folded his arms. "I'm trying really hard not to be."
Salina took a step closer, reaching out—but she didn't touch him this time. Her fingers hovered near his face, like she was tracing his silhouette in the air.
"I like your sarcasm," she whispered. "It's cute."
"I'll take that as a compliment," he said, keeping his tone even. "I think."
"Oh, you should," she grinned, eyes glowing faintly now. "I rarely compliment anyone. But you... you have potential. And not just magical."
"Are you... hitting on me while telling me I'm in danger?"
She smirked, stepping back just a little. "Flirting is a form of danger."
Yuga rubbed the bridge of his nose. "You're exhausting."
"You're welcome." She gave him a small wink before twirling lightly, her cloak fanning behind her. "Now rest, Yuga. I'll be watching."
"Creepy."
"Affectionate," she corrected, already fading toward the shadows.
"Still creepy."
"I can live with that," she paused before snapping her fingers as if she forgot something.
"In two days, there's a re-ranking course, and I suggest you go. If you truly seek income—and information, of course—then it's there you'll find both."
Without a sound, Salina lowered herself from the window ledge, her movements fluid, as if gravity had no hold on her. She didn't seem to hesitate or falter, her feet never touching the ground in the traditional sense. A soft chuckle escaped her lips as she dropped from sight, like a phantom vanishing into the night.
His heart skipped a beat. He rushed to the window, peering over the edge, expecting to see her sprawled on the ground, but there was nothing. No sign of her, no body, not even the faintest trace. She was simply... gone. The ground below was as clear as the night sky above, and yet there was no way she could have disappeared so thoroughly. She hadn't leaped to the roofs or dashed into the streets. She had vanished into thin air, as if she had never existed at all.
A chill ran down his spine. Just when he thought he might be losing his grip on reality, a sound—light and playful—floated up from below, mingling with the commotion of the bustling capital.
Salina's unmistakable laughter echoed through the air, soft and haunting, as though it was carried by the wind itself. Who was Salina really, and what were her true intentions? Yuga had tracked down the Walker he'd been searching for, but the real question was whether she was worth the headache.