Hillel scrambled to match Ezra's brisk pace, stumbling over hidden roots as twilight surrendered to darkness within the dense forest. Ezra navigated with confidence that revealed his intimate familiarity with the woods. Hillel moved like a newborn fawn—startled by every snapping twig, his senses overwhelmed by the ordinary sounds and scents of a world he couldn't remember experiencing. He kept close behind Ezra as commanded.
Their journey continued in silence for what seemed like hours. Occasionally, Ezra broke the quiet with probing questions: "Which way is north from here?" "Recognize that constellation?" "What's the usual toll on the King's Road this season?" Hillel could offer nothing beyond confused headshakes or stammered confessions of ignorance. After several such exchanges, Ezra lapsed into contemplative silence, though Hillel could sense him reassessing, fitting the pieces of this peculiar puzzle.
As they pushed through a particularly dense patch of undergrowth, Ezra spoke without turning. "Total blank slate, then? Bizarre." The words hung in the air awkwardly, a pointed statement rather than a question.
Hillel nodded silently.
"Right," Ezra sighed, the sound weighted with resignation. Something seemed to solidify in his mind. "Listen up, Hillel. Since you're apparently clueless about everything, basic orientation might keep you from getting yourself killed immediately. The country is Asira. We're currently in the southern stretches where the power of the law is significantly lesser than the north. Therefore, there are more... opportunities for trouble." He paused meaningfully. "Like that farm."
Hillel flinched at the memory. "What... what was that place?"
"Not a place, exactly," Ezra corrected, his tone hardening. "More like a pocket. A dimension belonging to someone we haven't identified yet. They cultivate those organs in there. It's the wellspring feeding half the international black market—forbidden reagents, dubious 'medical' supplies, you name it. It's all untraceable, unnatural, and incredibly profitable for whoever runs it." He kicked a loose stone from the path with controlled frustration. "My associates and I? Well, mostly me but anyway. We aim to put a stop to it. Permanently."
Hillel absorbed this horrifying information in silence. A different dimension? Black markets? Ezra hunted the people behind it? The revelations piled atop the already confusing reality of his existence.
Why was I buried in a separate dimension of all places?
Eventually, the trees thinned and they emerged onto a rocky outcrop—a cliff face overlooking a vast, dark valley. Far below, nearly swallowed by night, Hillel could faintly discern the rolling contours of hills stretching into the distance. Ezra stopped at the edge, scanning the ground before selecting a smooth, flat stone about the size of his palm. He examined it briefly, then stepped firmly onto it with one boot. As he did, Hillel caught a glimpse—a faint, almost subliminal shimmer-like heat haze flickering in Ezra's dark pink eyes.
"Alright, Hillel," Ezra said, half-turning. "Same drill as before. When I give the word, grab my hand. Don't hesitate." Without waiting for acknowledgment, Ezra drew his arm back and hurled the flat stone with incredible force. It sailed over the valley, defying gravity as it flew far into the darkness before vanishing from sight. The display of strength stunned Hillel—clearly beyond standard human capability.
They waited in silence. One second. Two. Three. The stillness of the cliff pressed in around them.
"Now!" Ezra commanded sharply.
Hillel reacted without thinking, seizing Ezra's outstretched hand. The now-familiar sensation of non-existence washed over him—a dizzying lurch through nothingness—before his feet again struck solid ground.
He blinked against the disorientation, finding himself standing in the flickering orange glow of a campfire. They were in a small clearing surrounded by tents. Four figures lounged around the fire—one tending the flames, another sharpening a knife, two conversing quietly. They glanced up as Ezra and Hillel materialized, their expressions unsurprised, clearly accustomed to Ezra's dramatic arrival.
That nonchalance vanished the instant they registered Hillel beside their leader.
In perfect unison, they moved. The silver-haired woman with unsettling amethyst eyes rose fluidly, pulling out a curved blade. A blond teenage boy, barely older than Hillel, flipped a pair of wicked-looking daggers into a defensive grip. The wavy black-haired teen with a hooked nose hefted a giant cleaver. A tall, dark-skinned young man, probably nineteen or twenty, pushed back the wide brim of his hat, revealing narrowed eyes as his hand rested on the hilt of a sword at his hip. Weapons drawn, stances taken, hostility radiated toward the unexpected newcomer named Hillel.
"Easy, all," Ezra said calmly, raising his free hand placatingly while still holding Hillel's. "Put the cutlery away." He nudged Hillel slightly forward. "This is Hillel. Seems he'll be joining us for a while."
The hook-nosed boy reacted first, but the cleaver was still held ready. "Joining us? What the hell is that supposed to mean, Ezra?" His suspicious eyes raked over Hillel. "Who is he?"
"A complication from my latest errand," Ezra replied smoothly, releasing Hillel's hand. "The Golden Dawn sends their regards, by the way." A flicker of understanding, perhaps shared history, passed through the group at the name. "Things went sideways, though. Then I ran into him." He offered no further details, his vagueness definitely on purpose. Clearly, Ezra was controlling the narrative, hiding something about their encounter.
But why?
The silver-haired woman sighed, the curved blade in her hand slowly lowering. "Ezra, your little escapades are becoming annoying and problematic. Bringing a complete unknown..."
"Is necessary this time, Gaja," Ezra cut her off firmly but with a hint of familiarity that confirmed her name and perhaps her position. "He stays." He then glanced around the camp. "Lands, have you finished the supply check?"
The blond boy – Lands – was startled slightly at being addressed directly. "Uh, nearly done, Ezra," he replied, reluctantly sheathing his daggers.
"Good. Caladeus," Ezra nodded towards the tall man in the hat, "appreciate you keeping the fire going."
Caladeus gave a slight tip of his wide-brimmed hat in acknowledgment, his hand finally leaving his sword hilt. Hillel mentally filed the names away: Gaja, Lands, Caladeus. And the aggressive one with the cleaver remained unnamed for now.
Though the weapons were lowered, the tension hadn't entirely dissipated. The group's acceptance felt fragile, mostly because it was born of deference to Ezra rather than trust in Hillel. Caladeus, however, offered Hillel a small smile and held out a bundle wrapped in cloth – the dried meat and hard bread from before. "Might as well eat," Caladeus said, his voice a low rumble.
Hillel accepted it wordlessly. The flavor hit him unexpectedly as he bit into the rugged, salty meat. I know this taste. The sudden certainty was jarring. It fueled the gnawing ache inside him – the need to understand who he was and what had been taken from him.
Later, as the camp settled, Gaja addressed the sleeping arrangements. "Right, space is tight. Stick him in the tent with..." she gestured towards the hook-nosed boy, "...him. He sleeps like a log; shouldn't cause any trouble."
The hook-nosed boy shot Hillel another distrustful glare but didn't argue with Gaja. Resigned, Hillel ducked into the small tent, which smelled of the outdoors, leather, and the faint metallic tang he now associated with the unnamed boy's massive cleaver. He lay down on the offered bedroll, the rough fabric scratchy against his skin. Sleep, however, felt like a distant shore he couldn't reach; every time he closed his eyes, the suffocating darkness of the coffin pressed in, the memory of dwindling air and struggles stealing his breath as his heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
He must have made some sound, a shaky breath or a slight movement, because after a long silence, a quiet voice came from the other side of the tent. "Can't sleep either, huh?"
Hillel jumped, startled. "Oh. Uh, no."
There was a rustle of movement. "Yeah, me neither. Ezra showing up with surprises tends to do that." A pause. "Name's Johan, by the way."
Finally, a name for the face. "Hillel," he replied, the name still feeling slightly awkward.
Another silence stretched between them before Johan spoke again, his voice low. "Look... Hillel. Can you fight? Handle yourself at all?"
Hillel thought of the giants and his own helpless terror. "No," he admitted quietly. "Not really."
Johan sighed, a sound somewhere between frustration and resignation. "Figures." More rustling followed. "Alright, get up. Come with me."
"Now? Where?" Hillel asked nervously.
"Just come on. And keep quiet."
Hesitantly, Hillel followed Johan out of the tent and away from the dying campfire, deeper into the shadows of the surrounding trees. The walk did a number on Hillel's heart, which was pounding frantically—Johan didn't seem to like him very much.
Johan stopped and turned, his expression surprisingly serious in the moonlight filtering through the leaves. "Listen," he said, keeping his voice low, "I don't get why Ezra brought you here, okay? But it's also not within my interests to understand it either. However, if you're gonna be around us, even for a day, you need to know – it's unsafe out here. There are things... people... that can kill you before you even blink." He clenched his fist. "Most of us," he nodded back towards the camp, "got something extra. A 'spark,' yeah?"
Spark. The word resonated again, that strange flicker of unearned knowledge. A power. "I... I think I've heard that term," Hillel admitted cautiously.
"Good. Doesn't always mean much," Johan continued. "Some sparks are barely worth mentioning." He grinned suddenly, that same flash of teeth Hillel remembered. "Mine's like that, mostly. Good for one thing. Watch."
Johan flicked his wrist. Hillel saw his eyes flash dull grey and felt rather than saw a translucent ripple pass through his legs. Instantly, his knees buckled as strength vanished from his limbs, sending him stumbling to the ground.
"Nerve disconnect," Johan explained as feeling rushed back into Hillel's limbs with uncomfortable pins and needles. "Lasts barely a second, but takes about five for your brain to reboot." He watched Hillel struggle back to his feet. "So? You got one? Anything like that?"
Hillel thought back to his time in the coffin and remembered feeling an odd heat—the sensation that had occurred just before the top of the coffin was destroyed. Could that have been his spark? "I... don't know," he said honestly. "How do you even know if you have one?"
Johan scratched his head, looking stumped for a moment. "Uh... it's different for everyone, I guess. For me, the first time, it felt like... like static electricity, but more intense. Like a weird warmth zipping through me right before it happens."
Heat. That was exactly what Hillel had experienced—the burning feeling that had flooded through him just before the coffin lid broke. Wondering if he could recreate the sensation, he looked down at his right hand and knelt, pressing his palm flat against the cool, damp earth. Closing his eyes, he concentrated, trying to summon that same feeling by pushing against the ground and straining his muscles while focusing on the memory of that desperate, final push from within the coffin.
At first, it seemed hopeless—just straining against dirt—but then he felt it begin: a warmth deep inside that grew rapidly, spreading through his chest and down his arm. The sensation intensified into the familiar searing heat, causing him to gasp as he pushed harder, channeling both memory and desperation. Energy surged through him, hotter than before, pouring from his palm into the ground with focused intensity.
FWOOMPH!
With a soft concussion, the dirt beneath his hand erupted outward, pulverized into fine dust. Hillel stared wide-eyed at what hovered in the air just above the small crater—a fist, solid-looking yet translucent, glowing with a dim crimson light and connected to his hand by faint, pulsing red tendrils. The spectral appendage perfectly mirrored his own clenched hand beneath it.
Johan released a low whistle as he stepped closer to examine the glowing manifestation, his gaze shifting thoughtfully between the energy fist and Hillel. "Huh," he breathed, a flicker of something—surprise, respect, perhaps calculation—crossing his face. "So you do have one after all. That fist thing... guess that's your spark, Hillel."