A heavy scavenged plate shield, scarred and dented, lay before Kaelen. Its dull, tarnished surface reflected the flickering torchlight of the Clan Elder’s hovel, like a dead eye.
His choice.
In the game, *Desolation Frontier*, the 'Ashrunner' class—their clan’s real-world equivalent—was often misunderstood. Most new players, fueled by testosterone and fantasy, went for the oversized blades. *Cool*, they’d think. *Spinning like a dervish, harvesting lives.*
He knew better. Those players died. A lot. Kaelen had tried it, too. His initial fascination with the Ashrunner’s raw power always ended in an ignoble heap, usually berserking himself into oblivion.
Survival was the only metric that mattered. Research, trials, error. The solution had been counter-intuitive, almost heresy to the core fantasy.
*A tank.*
Ashrunners boasted the highest raw vitality and strength among selectable classes. They could shrug off blows, wear the heaviest plate. They weren't as annoyingly resilient as the 'Stoneborn' dwarves, but they had the basic toolkit. It went against the 'savage brute' image, but Kaelen was nothing if not pragmatic. He’d abandoned preferred playstyles for efficiency countless times.
Now, in this twisted reality, he would do it again.
Stepping forward, Kaelen reached for the shield. His fingers brushed the cold, rough steel.
---
Returning to his spot, the stares of the other young Ashrunners felt like physical blows. Their expressions ranged from confusion to outright disdain. They clutched their chipped axes, crude spears, and rusted machetes, their faces alight with anticipation of glorious battle.
What, never seen an Ash-Aegis before?
Kaelen lifted his chin. His shoulders squared. The weight of the shield felt right, solid, a promise of defense. No need to act. He was an Ashrunner, through and through, even if he played it smarter.
"Next!" The Elder’s voice boomed, cutting through the stifling silence. Kaelen clenched his jaw. No regrets. Not now. Not ever.
His decision was a triple threat. First, a shield, even a beat-up one, fetched more scrap than any starter blade. Second, his real-world combat experience amounted to zero. A bladed weapon in his hands now would be a liability, a clumsy ornament. Third, the Ash-Aegis was his ultimate pursuit. He’d built his strategy around it in the game. He would build his survival around it here.
Today, he’d made the most rational choice available.
"With this, you are a warrior!" The Elder proclaimed, hands raised. The initiation ceremony rolled on for the remaining youth. Kaelen ignored them, his thoughts already racing.
---
*Tutorial complete.*
The message had flashed across his vision like a brand, searing itself into his mind. He still tasted the bitter metallic tang in his mouth from when he’d first arrived, his head almost detonated by some unseen force.
It was a vicious joke. *I've told you everything you need to know, now survive.* No context, no explanation, just a brutal shove into the deep end. Whoever designed this wasn’t just cruel, they were sadistic.
His heart hammered a slow, heavy rhythm against his ribs. The raw, primal surge of anger, usually so easy to suppress, felt dangerously close to the surface. It was the Ashrunner body, he decided. This new, tougher frame came with a coarser emotional palette.
He sucked in a slow, ragged breath. In the Wastes, anger was a luxury. A mistake. Wallowing in the past changed nothing. What was done was done. His focus had to be on the present, on the immediate crisis.
*How to survive.*
---
The initiation finished. Now, they were moving. The Clan Elder led, his hulking frame cutting a path through the gnarled, ash-choked trees. Behind him, a ragged line of newly-blooded Ashrunners, Kaelen among them.
Jokes flew, boasts were exchanged. They bounced along, high on adrenaline and the thrill of their new status, like a picnic stroll. Kaelen couldn’t join their easy laughter. He knew their destination. He knew the horrors waiting there.
Hours later, a shout from the Elder ripped through the still air. "Halt!"
They stood before it. A wall. Not a crude barrier of scrap and hide, but a true pre-collapse ruin, its reinforced concrete scarred but defiant. At its center, a monstrous gate, rusted iron plating riveted over thick steel, like a metal maw.
"Open the gates!" The Elder’s voice was a command.
A grinding groan, slow as a dying beast, shuddered through the air. Gears the size of wagon wheels, half-eaten by rust, dragged open the gate. It took ages. Enough time to yawn, to nap, to die of old age.
But the young Ashrunners watched, mesmerized. Their mouths hung open. Kaelen felt a similar pull. Beyond the threshold, a gray vista stretched, buildings of cracked stone and skeletal metal reaching for the pallid sky. Paved roads, impossibly intact in places. And through it all, piercing the haze, a towering spire, its uppermost reaches lost in the constant ashfall.
*Steelwatch.*
He’d seen it countless times on loading screens, in concept art. Now, it was real. A knot tightened in his gut. This was it. The game, made flesh and steel.
---
The gate creaked fully open. The Elder whirled, his voice a thunderclap. "Warriors! Your destiny awaits! Go!"
No flowery speeches needed. Ashrunners didn’t deal in poetry. A primal howl erupted from the group. They surged forward, a tide of young, eager savages, charging into the city. Kaelen, against his better judgment, let a shout rip from his own throat, falling in line with the rush.
Who cared if some drone was sleeping in a darkened building? He was an Ashrunner. A savage. For now.
*Claaaaang!* The gate slammed shut behind them. The echo vibrated through the ruined streets. Not a single head turned. Too excited. Too caught up in the moment. The primitives. Kaelen snorted, the sound lost in the din.
Their initial fervor couldn’t last. Gradually, the screams died down, the frantic sprint slowing to a brisk walk, then a cautious ramble. Only then could Kaelen properly assess the situation. His emotions were a tangle of wires.
Fear, cold and sharp, for the horrors he knew lay ahead. But also, a strange, undeniable hum of anticipation. He was *in* it. The world he'd spent thousands of hours exploring, strategizing, conquering. It was absurd.
He wasn’t normal. But he still had more sense than these idiots.
---
"Stop!" Roric, son of Grok, the most boisterous of the Ashrunners, halted at the head of their meandering group. He turned, puffing out his chest. "I must have lost my way!"
A chorus of shouts erupted. "Roric, son of Grok, has led us astray!"
"He has no qualification to lead!"
"Take responsibility!"
Kaelen rolled his eyes. These same sycophants had cheered Roric on moments ago. The true face of Ashrunner society. Vile.
"I admit I am not worthy." Roric bowed his head, surprisingly contrite, and slunk back into the pack.
Next, Lyra, daughter of Rauth, was chosen. Lean, fierce, with eyes that promised violence. "Wise Lyra! She will lead us!"
Lyra beamed. She took the lead. For all of five minutes. Then she, too, stopped.
"I must have lost my way." Her voice was a flat echo of Roric’s.
More shouts. "This can’t be! We need to reach the Maw on time!"
"Lyra has no qualification!"
The Ashrunners devolved into a confused argument. Who would lead next? "Tetran's third son, maybe?"
Were they truly this brainless? Did they not realize that a new leader wouldn't magically give them direction? The city was a maze, a broken labyrinth of steel and concrete. He’d probably be next.
---
Kaelen quietly peeled away from the squabbling group. He approached Lyra, who stood a little apart, her shoulders slumped, staring at the ash-covered ground. She stood almost two meters, a giantess in her despair.
"Kaelen Varrick? Have you come to blame me too?" Her voice was low, wary.
No. They were all equally foolish. He shook his head.
Lyra tilted her head, a confused frown on her face. "Then why? I don't need pity."
"No." Kaelen's voice was flat, matter-of-fact. "I've come to show you how to find the path."
Her gaze snapped to his. "Truly? How?"
He pointed. Ahead, down a wide, broken thoroughfare, figures moved. Many figures. All heavily armed, cloaked in scavenged armor, their gait purposeful.
"Follow them." His answer was simple, direct.
"Just... follow them?" She looked incredulous. Midnight in Steelwatch. Most buildings were dark, dead eyes. But the streets weren't empty. Not entirely.
"Look closer," Kaelen explained, patiently. "These aren't citizens heading home. They're all armored. All moving in one direction. Why? Where do people go, armed to the teeth, in the middle of the night, if not to fight?"
Lyra's eyes widened. A flicker of understanding. "Now I see it. You are right. I will try."
She marched back to the group, a newfound resolve in her stride. "I have found the way!" she roared. The Ashrunners, abandoning their squabble, erupted in cheers.
"It’s Lyra! The wise warrior!"
---
The group moved again, following Lyra, who now followed Kaelen's unspoken lead. As they advanced, the stream of armed figures grew denser. Soon, far off in the perpetual twilight, a haze of pulsing, multi-colored light spread across the horizon. A swirling maelstrom of energy, visible even through the ashfall.
No chance of getting lost now.
"The Maw! I see the Maw!" Lyra screamed, her earlier despondency forgotten.
"The Dimension of Sacred Battles!" others echoed, their voices raw with excitement.
Kaelen kept his thoughts tight. One burning question remained: was entering the Maw the correct decision? He could slip away now. These excited primitives wouldn’t notice. He wouldn't have to face the terrors, spill his blood.
But he knew better. Running wasn't a solution here.
*Ashfall Protocol* had its own brutal economy: the Scavenger's Tax. From the age of twenty, all city dwellers were required to pay tribute to the Enclave that maintained Steelwatch. Failure meant death. A chilling reality. The game had explained the necessity: maintaining pre-collapse tech, fueling defenses against the Wastes' horrors.
He didn't need to worry about the *why* right now. Only the *what if*.
"Lyra! Faster!" A roar from Roric.
Kaelen had to make credits. The Maw wasn't the *only* way. He might find a job, maybe in a tavern, hauling goods. Simple labor. But he was an Ashrunner. In the game, Ashrunners were given weapons at the start for a very simple reason.
*[Ashrunner? Sorry, already got a guy.]*
*[Don't you have something else to do? Can't hire an Ashrunner! You'll just break something again!]*
Ashrunners, by game design, were too volatile, too prone to aggression, too destructive for normal work. Their only path to income was fighting in the dungeons.
How that translated to reality, he couldn't be sure. Maybe he'd find an exception. But that hope, fragile as it was, wasn't enough to justify breaking away from the group. Not with the stakes this high.
"Ten minutes until closing! Come on in!" A gruff voice boomed from the Maw's entrance.
---
The Maw, in game, opened only once a month. If he missed this window, he’d be stranded in Steelwatch for thirty rotations. What if he found no work? What if his Ashrunner frame truly barred him from civilian life? The future would be bleak. The meager rations the Elder provided would last a week, at best. Then, scavenging for scraps, battling starvation, succumbing to the cold and the toxic air.
His body, strong now, would waste away. He knew, from years of gameplay, how devastating deprivation could be. If he was going in, he had to go in now. While he was at his peak.
"I'll be first!"
"No! Me!"
He joined the frantic rush. Survival wasn't a choice. It was the only game in town.