A pulsating ache throbbed behind Alaric Thorne’s eyes, a persistent percussion against his temples. He pushed himself from the rumpled sheets of his cot, the stale air of his study clinging to him like a second skin. Last night’s foray into the Elder Geographies had been particularly potent, fueled by copious draughts of potent absinthe and the flickering gaslight of his cluttered workspace.
Ugh.
Throat raw and parched, he made for the small, chilled decanter on his desk. Its contents, a crystalline, glacial water siphoned from the deep wells beneath the Obsidian Observatory, sluiced down his gullet. Each frigid swallow cleared a cobweb from his mind, a refreshing shock against the lingering haze.
Ha. Perhaps he might live after all.
The complex planar calculations, while taxing, had yielded promising, if unsettling, results. Now, however, other matters called. He needed to transcribe the newly deciphered glyphs from the ‘Scrolls of Aethel-Khûm’ before their volatile aetheric signatures faded. Such ephemeral knowledge, once lost, remained lost for aeons.
Click. He activated the Aether-Receptor on his desk, its brass coils humming softly as it drew ambient energy from the city’s grid. A familiar, intricate melody, a cantata from the Age of Iron, began to fill the quiet room, a perfect accompaniment to his meticulous work.
Yet.
Curiosity pricked him. A broadcast icon on his chronos-screen glowed with unusual intensity. One of the more sensationalist ‘Aether-streamers’ he occasionally tolerated for their unfiltered glimpses into popular sentiment—a man named Gilderoy Flint, known for his histrionics—was streaming live.
“The Veridian Paths Manifest! Reality Crumbles!” The title screamed across the display, typical overblown rhetoric. But the viewer count… over three hundred thousand souls fixated on a live feed. Something significant had occurred.
Alaric's finger hovered over the activation rune. Pound. Pound. A primal thump against his ribs, a rhythm of apprehension he rarely experienced, accelerated. He touched the rune.
Click. The chronos-screen burst to life.
“By the Star-Scribes, do you see that? All of Aethelburg is watching this!” Gilderoy’s voice, a frenzied shriek, spilled from the speaker.
Across the screen, a colossal, impossible structure dominated the Aethelburg skyline. Its obsidian spires pierced the heavens, adorned with glowing green glyphs that pulsed with an otherworldly luminescence. It was an edifice that defied all known architecture, all natural law. A structure he knew intimately from countless hours of ancient texts and forbidden lore. A tower.
“Aether-caster ‘Whispering Willow’ just confirmed this colossal anomaly is identical to the ‘Veridian Paths’ from the ancient sagas! Can you believe it? Wait!” Gilderoy’s voice hitched, his hand raising to shield his eyes.
The screen, reflecting Gilderoy’s alarmed visage, began to bleed crimson. Not the gentle dusk of Aethelburg’s perpetual twilight, for it was still early morning. No. This was something else.
Alaric swallowed, a dry, metallic taste in his mouth.
He knew this sight. It was the Sky-Rupture, the Crimson Anathema, the omen that preceded the cyclical Great Shift in the elder prophecies, and, more recently, the opening sequence of the virtual recreation he had diligently studied for years.
[[The First Conjunction of the Veridian Paths has commenced. Reality has aligned.]]
Boundaries between the mundane and the esoteric blurred. The grand observatories that mapped the stars, the nascent steam-powered contraptions that whirred in the streets — all suddenly felt fragile. Then, a shimmering, cerulean status window flickered into existence before Alaric's very eyes, its archaic script searing itself onto his retina.
It had begun.
[[All aspirants to the Veridian Paths: Ascend the next tier of the Spire within 90 cycles.]]
The ordered world humanity knew was unraveling.
[[Failure to comply shall herald the Great Silence.]]
Just like that, the ancient game, the esoteric lore, had become the world’s grim new reality. His mind, usually a fortress of logic, reeled, feeling like a complex arcanum-engine deprived of aetheric current. Still, Alaric’s intellect, honed by years of navigating convoluted rituals and forgotten histories, quickly seized control.
Phew. Phew. Phew. He steadied his breath, a cold resolve settling in his core. If the Veridian Paths truly manifested, hesitation was not an option. He had to move.
Now.
Alaric rose abruptly, his chair toppling backward with a clatter, but he spared no glance for it. He needed to depart. Outside. Specifically, he needed to reach a particular nexus point, a locale of nascent aetheric flow.
He threw open the heavy oak door of his study, the musty air of his apartment giving way to the cool, crisp morning. Down the winding, gaslit stairwell he sprinted, his breath already laboring, an unaccustomed exertion for the reclusive scholar.
Yet.
This burgeoning excitement, this thrill of true, unfolding mystery, banished all pressure. Instead, a peculiar warmth bloomed in his chest, a sense of purpose. For once, he ran with a definite destination, not merely on the treadmill of academic pursuit.
Minutes later, he burst into the labyrinthine thoroughfares of Aethelburg’s Central District, now a maelstrom of fear and confusion. Steam-carriages stood abandoned, their engines hissing. Pedestrians jostled and shrieked.
“W-what’s the fastest route to Port Lys? We must flee the capital!”
“By the Great Orrery, to the Granite Peaks! Anywhere but Aethelburg!”
A woman, clutching a child, wailed, “The spires appeared everywhere! Where would we even go?”
“Not in Aethelburg! These old sagas… I’m not some naive apprentice to perish here!”
Most sought escape, their faces etched with primal terror. Fear of the unknown, the inherent instinct of all living things. Yet, within every crisis, Alaric knew, lay opportunity. Now was not the time for retreat, but for decisive advance.
On the Aethelburgian server of the virtual Paths, this particular subterranean space was designated a ‘Nexus Anomaly.’ Of the thirty such locations across the realm, this was the closest to his apartment.
Alaric, looking down into the yawning maw of the Undercroft Plaza, descended the whirring aether-lift.
[[Entering Nexus Anomaly: The Undercroft Plaza.]]
The subterranean market, typically a bustling hive of commerce, lay eerily silent. A colossal spire had appeared, the sky had bled crimson, and the end of humanity was openly declared. Small wonder no one remained for mundane transactions. A few bewildered souls sat near a closed bakery, gnawing on stale pastries.
Of course.
Not everyone was so unperceptive.
As anticipated. Alaric narrowed his eyes, surveying the two dozen figures scattered around the Plaza’s central fountain. Without a word exchanged, he recognized them. They were the early adopters, the scholars of the virtual Paths, those who had delved into its nascent tiers.
Each person regarded the others with a silent, wary calculation. Right. This was the way of it.
Items of profound significance would soon manifest here, but in limited numbers. Perhaps five, at most. Two dozen aspirants. Low supply, high demand. Most would leave empty-handed.
Just then. “Alaric Thorne, is that you?” A voice, oily and self-assured, drifted from behind him.
That voice. It clawed at a dormant irritation. Alaric turned. Valerius Thorne stood there, a distant, disgraced cousin. Valerius, taller than Alaric, with impeccably styled golden hair and a self-satisfied smirk. A renowned ‘Chronicle-caster’ with half a million followers, a master of superficial charm and relentless self-promotion.
“Haha. It is you! Even you, the reclusive Scribe, have stirred from your dusty tomes! A true awakening!” Valerius approached, grin widening. He was the representative of the ‘Thorne & Sons Guild,’ a venture that had, through legal machinations, left a trail of exploited apprentices and misappropriated research in its wake.
“Shouldn’t you be broadcasting your theatrics now, Valerius?” Alaric’s voice was flat, devoid of warmth.
“Ah. In such a momentous time, how could one focus on mere public display?” Valerius shrugged, a practiced gesture of false humility.
“What momentous time?”
“Do not play coy. Your obsession with the Paths is legendary. Tell me, how many tiers did your 'research' reveal? We are cousins, colleagues in this unfolding narrative. Let us not hoard information.”
Colleagues? The word struck Alaric like a physical blow. He remembered Valerius’s sneering dismissal of his early research, his subsequent theft of Alaric’s aetheric conduit designs, passed off as his own. The ruin of Alaric's mentor, framed for an oversight Valerius engineered. And the unfair contracts that bled nascent scholars dry, leaving them indentured and broken. Valerius had used the very law firms that defended the powerful to crush the weak.
“You are exceptional with ancient lore, Alaric. Your planar cartography is unparalleled. I will make the terms of our… collaboration… considerably more favorable, should you join the Guild,” Valerius patted Alaric’s shoulder, a cloying touch. Disgust curdled in Alaric’s stomach. Not a single word from this man held any genuine worth.
“Valerius Thorne.”
“Now, now, cousin. You address the head of the Guild. Show some respect.”
“Head of the Guild, you say? Then act like one. Then I shall grant you that title.” Alaric’s gaze sharpened, cutting through the thin veneer of Valerius’s composure.
“What?” Valerius’s smile faltered, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. Alaric continued.
“Do you not recall? Your little performance with the apprentice, Elara, when you rejected her thesis? The public humiliation, the screamed threats, the tears? A pity only I bore witness.”
He should have recorded it. Every damning second.
“And was that all? You then tracked her to her lodgings, harassed her relentlessly, until the Chronos-Guard had to intervene. Ha. A truly vile display. Were it I, I would have died of shame.”
“Y-You are… insane! I can bury you so deep, your name will be utterly erased from the Aether-archives!” Valerius’s hand shot out, grabbing Alaric by the lapel of his coat.
“My apologies, cousin. My professional endeavors concluded yesterday.”
And. “Do not be so impertinent, you arrogant fool. I am older than you.”
Kwang! Alaric’s head snapped forward, a precise, calculated impact against Valerius’s nose. A sickening crunch echoed in the quiet plaza.
Kuak! Valerius reeled backward, blood spurting from his broken nose, a pristine white tooth skittering across the flagstones. So satisfying. A decade of suppressed contempt seemed to drain away with that one, sharp blow.
Ugh. Alaric massaged his forehead, a brief wince, but his gaze remained fixed on the fountain. The moment had come.
Kukukukuku! Drops of water, hitherto still, began to rise violently from the fountain’s basin, swirling into an ethereal vortex. An unnatural emerald light pulsed beneath the churning surface.
Puak! A towering, gnarly entity, four meters in height, burst from the water. Its gnarled branches writhed, adorned with viscous, glowing dewdrop-like fruits. A Whispering Arbor, ancient and alien, manifesting in the heart of Aethelburg.
Finally. It appears.
“Ohh!”
“The Whispering Arbor!”
“As expected, my calculations were accurate!”
The waiting aspirants murmured, a mixture of awe and avarice. [[The Whispering Arbor of the Chronos-Root has manifested.]] [[One Temporal Dewdrop may be consumed per aspirant.]] It was one of the prime early augmentations, a boon for those entering the perilous Veridian Paths.
Alaric observed the glistening Temporal Dewdrops clinging to the Arbor’s branches. Each droplet, ripe with nascent power, promised to enhance one’s Vitality, Aetheric Capacity, or Agility. They were undeniably powerful items.
That was an undeniable fact. But the problem was… the number.
All told, there were just four. Twenty-four aspirants stood ready, a staggering competition ratio of six to one. Alaric bit his lower lip. This would be intense. The advantage gained from enhanced attributes at the outset was paramount.
“M-Mine!”
“Do not make me laugh! It is mine!”
Kuaaak! Everyone surged forward, a desperate, frantic scramble towards the Whispering Arbor. Somehow, no matter the cost, they had to seize the advantage before others.
In moments, the Undercroft Plaza devolved into chaos, a writhing mass of bodies clawing and clambering over one another, scaling the alien tree.
“D-damn it! I am too late!” Valerius, clutching his bleeding nose, staggered to his feet, momentarily forgotten in the frenzied rush. He had arrived too late for the initial advantage.
Step! “E-enough!” One aspirant, a burly man, had already plucked a dewdrop and crammed it into his mouth. The remaining droplets would soon follow.
“It would be mutually beneficial to share a dewdrop with me!” Valerius shrieked, but Alaric did not respond. There was no need. In the first place, this was not what he sought. It was not time yet. Ordinary aspirants would only recognize the surface value, the temporary boon of the Dewdrops. Those who merely scratched the surface of the lore would snatch them.
But the true reward. The perverse, sadistic nature of the Paths always offered more to those who understood the deeper, hidden mechanisms. The greater prize still awaited.
Finally, the Dewdrops vanished, all four consumed. Just as the last one disappeared, a guttural shriek tore from the Whispering Arbor.
Kiiik. Its gnarled branches thrashed, the emerald glow intensifying into a malevolent pulse. A chill wind, carrying the scent of primordial earth and ozone, swept through the plaza. The trunk of the Arbor began to twist, its roots tearing at the flagstones. Everyone who had consumed the initial offerings began to recoil, expressions of dawning horror on their faces.
“R-right! It was dangerous to take all the Dewdrops!”
“By the Observatory, it was so long ago, I forgot the warnings!”
“Uh, ahhhh! Retreat now! I perished fifty times in the simulation here!”
Those who understood the true gravity of their actions began to flee, scrambling away from the now-hostile Arbor. There was no chance a newly ascended aspirant, without weapons or developed abilities, could face this monstrosity.
“Um…” Valerius also stumbled backward, his face a mask of terror.
“Are you conceding, Valerius?” Alaric asked, his voice low, almost contemplative.
“O-of course! Everyone knows this Arbor turns murderous!”
“Is that so? How lamentable. The true remuneration of this Nexus Anomaly comes when…”