The storm had been gathering for hours—crimson clouds rolling in like a dying god's breath, thick with malice and iron. Rain pelted the narrow alleyways of Gravenridge City, washing away the filth, blood, and sins of another cursed day. Thunder cracked like cannon fire above the labyrinth of metal and glass, and in the darkest gutter of this iron jungle, a boy no older than sixteen collapsed to his knees, blood pouring from his side.
"Again, huh...?" he muttered with a broken smile. His voice was faint, threadbare. "So this... is how I go... again."
His name had once been Asher Vale—orphan, outcast, prodigy. To the world, he was a myth. To the underworld, a threat. But to himself, he was just a ghost living on borrowed time.
Asher had died once already. Four years ago, he'd drowned in the Blackwater Canal trying to escape the state enforcers after a data heist went wrong. His heart had stopped for six full minutes. And yet he came back—gasping, clawing, changed.
The second chance hadn't been natural. He awoke with a mark etched into his heart. Not ink, not metal, but something deeper. It was like his soul had been burned with a brand that no scanner could detect. It pulsed in moments of terror, of decision, of pain. It showed him things—threads, choices, weights on a scale no one else could see.
He had called it the Sigil. It wasn't magic. It wasn't science. It was... law. The law of Weight and Worth.
Everything in the world carried weight: actions, lies, truths, betrayals. Every choice tipped invisible scales. And the Sigil let him see that weight. He could make exchanges. Give something of value to gain something of equal worth. Strength for years of life. Memory for knowledge. Pain for power.
And now, he had run out of things to give.
---
Blood soaked his tattered coat as he fell against a cracked wall. Above him, holographic signs flickered in blue and gold. "NEUROTEK WONDERS: REWIRE YOUR WORLD!" laughed one ad. Another whispered, "WEIGHTLESS IS WORTHLESS. EARN YOUR VALUE."
Asher chuckled bitterly. "They don't even know how true that is…"
The pursuers were close now. Footsteps echoed. Three enforcers, clad in black exo-armor. Their visors glowed red. One of them leveled a railgun.
"Target: confirmed. Final protocol authorized."
The Sigil burned in his left wrist. A choice.
You may Transact. Worth will be taken.
He laughed. It was madness. He had nothing left. His body was broken, his mind frayed, and he had no friends left alive. The scales were empty.
"Take it all," he whispered.
The Sigil flared. The world exploded.
But not into fire.
---
Instead, it all stopped.
Rain froze mid-air. A single droplet hovered before Asher's eye, glinting like a pearl. Sound vanished. The neon flicker died.
And from the silence... came the sound of wings.
Black feathers drifted down around him. Not falling—rising, like smoke in reverse. A woman stood before him, barefoot on air. Her robes were darker than void, her eyes like eclipses.
"You have made a Transaction that cannot be balanced," she said, voice soft as a lullaby and sharp as glass.
"Figures," Asher croaked. "Not enough Worth left in me?"
"No," she said. "Too much."
He blinked. "What?"
"You burned every tether of your existence to fill the scales. But the value you gave up... was beyond even this world."
"…What did I give?"
She smiled. "Your place in reality."
Then the world shattered.
---
He fell through a sky of glass. Time unraveled. Memories slipped through his fingers like water. Cities burned in reverse. Oceans floated above mountains. He saw himself—seven years old, stealing bread. Twelve, slicing data banks. Fourteen, burying a friend. Sixteen... bleeding in the rain.
Then nothing.
Then darkness.
Then...
---
A New Sky.
Bright. Warm. Quiet.
Asher gasped as his eyes shot open. He sat up, his body strangely light. There was no pain. No blood. Just grass beneath his fingers and the scent of spring in the wind.
Birds chirped. A breeze swirled through golden trees. Beyond, hills rolled in a painter's dream.
He was in a forest. But not one made by man.
He touched his chest. No wound. No Sigil. But something… lingered.
A pulse. Deep. Dormant. Waiting.
"Where… am I?"
"You are within the world of Veylora," a voice answered.
Asher turned. An old man stood nearby. Robes of green and silver. Eyes like living stone. A staff crowned with a burning ring of runes.
"You have crossed through the Aether Vein," the man said. "The gate between worlds. A Transaction most rare."
Asher stared. "You... know about the Sigil?"
The old man's brow lifted. "Here, we call it the Weightbound Oath. Only those who Transact beyond life may bear it. You have given your world for a second fate."
Asher stood slowly, staring at his hands. They looked the same, but… something in them was not.
"What is this place?"
"Veylora," the old man repeated. "A world of Balance. Every act bears consequence. Every gift must be earned. Magic, power, strength—they are all rooted in the Law of Weighing."
The same law. The same system.
A new world. But the rules were familiar.
Asher clenched his fist.
"So be it."