Neil approached the glowing sphere with cautious reverence, its amber light pulsing in sync with the beat of his transformed Core. The energy within him, fresh and alien, resonated with the artifact's hum like two tuning forks locked in mutual recognition. As his fingers brushed the stone's smooth surface, warmth surged up his arm—gentle, insistent, alive.
Light burst outward from the sphere, swallowing the room in golden brilliance.
And from the heart of that light, a presence emerged.
It wasn't a figure in the conventional sense—no body, no clothing, no flesh. Instead, the air shimmered and condensed into a vague silhouette of flickering particles, a translucent figure robed in tattered light. His face was etched with the lines of ages, his eyes twin embers set into hollows of wisdom and fatigue. His voice, when it came, was deep and layered, echoing not just in sound but in soul.
"You are not one of the Chosen," the specter said.
Neil stepped back instinctively. "No. I wasn't supposed to be here."
The specter tilted his head slightly, considering. "Yet here you stand. Coreforged. In these shattered grounds."
He paused, his gaze distant, as if sifting through forgotten tomes of memory.
"I am Veylan," the specter continued. "Arch Seer of the Eighth Generation. Or...what remains of him. This projection was left behind to guide those who succeeded in the trials. Though I admit—I never expected to awaken again."
Neil's brow furrowed. "You were part of this? The Trial Grounds?"
Veylan nodded. "One of its architects. A shepherd for the ascension of worthy souls." He turned his head, regarding the hall of doors. "These chambers were meant to forge legends. But the gods saw our work as defiance."
Neil's fists clenched slightly. "They tried to destroy it. I know. They struck from afar. The damage was incomplete."
"Indeed," Veylan said. "Their reach was vast, but not absolute. What you experienced—fragments of the full design—should not have been enough. And yet, you broke through."
He floated closer, inspecting Neil with quiet curiosity.
"You reached Coreforged using broken pieces and remnants. That should have been impossible. Even the Chosen could not have done it under these conditions. And yet, here you are. A paradox."
Neil remained silent, watching him.
Veylan's expression was unreadable. "Tell me. Did you receive an inheritance?"
Neil nodded. "Behind Door Three. Something ancient. Powerful."
Veylan's eyes widened, then narrowed in contemplation. "That explains much. The inheritance must have granted you more than raw power. It changed the equation. Essence alone was insufficient to reach Coreforged in these conditions. But something within you... adapts. Either your Core processes energy with extreme efficiency, or it requires less to ascend."
Neil blinked. "You're saying I'm... thrifty?"
Veylan smiled faintly. "In a manner of speaking. You walk a path of conservation, of precision. And such paths are rare. Even dangerous."
He turned away, gazing toward the wall behind the third alcove of the main hall. A faint shimmer passed over the smooth surface, revealing the outline of a door—previously invisible.
"There is a room behind that wall. A supply room, though I hesitate to call it that now. Once, it brimmed with tools, weapons, and relics forged by our finest artificers. But time and divine wrath have left it in ruin. What remains, I cannot say."
Neil stepped closer to the newly revealed door, its edges now faintly illuminated.
"Why tell me this now?" he asked.
Veylan's form flickered slightly, his light dimming. "Because my time ends. I am not truly alive, only a whisper left behind, tied to the awakening of this hall. Your resonance with the sphere allowed me this moment. But that moment wanes."
Veylan raised one glowing hand and touched Neil's forehead. A spark of warmth surged through Neil's skull, sinking deep into his consciousness.
"A parting gift," Veylan said. "An energy print—woven to your Core. It will resonate with the echoes of our lost establishments. If you draw near one, even a ruined one, you will sense it. Perhaps more. Perhaps nothing. But I give you what I can."
Neil took a shaky breath. The print settled within him like a compass needle, humming softly just beneath awareness.
Veylan stepped back, his edges fading.
"You defy the odds," the specter said. "Not with bluster, but with quiet perseverance. I have watched Chosen fall with all the advantages. But you..." He shook his head, almost in awe. "You are what we hoped for, though not in any shape we foresaw."
His final words were soft, yet unshakable.
"Never give up. Not now. Not ever."
And then he was gone.
The light faded. The sphere dimmed. The hall returned to silence.
He turned toward the third door. It stood waiting.
He didn't hesitate.
The door opened as he stepped close, revealing the passage behind it. It was narrow, lined with worn stone and occasional flashes of dormant runes. The air was heavier here, steeped with the scent of old magic and iron dust. As he stepped inside, the sound of his footsteps echoed unnaturally—each step like a hammer striking some distant memory.
The room beyond was larger than expected. Half-collapsed shelves leaned against cracked walls. Shattered crystals littered the floor like pieces of frozen starlight. A forge long dead occupied one corner, its chimney broken and overrun by tangled roots that had somehow wormed their way through stone.
Yet something still pulsed in the air. Dim. Faint. But alive.
Neil moved slowly, weaving through the wreckage. A collapsed rack revealed the remains of an armor set, its plating fused and warped by intense heat. He bent to examine a nearby satchel, half-buried under rubble. Inside, only dust and rusted tools. Nothing usable.
But the resonance Veylan had gifted him flared faintly.
He turned toward a low cabinet, still intact. Pulling it open released a hiss of stale air. Inside was a sword—or what remained of one. The blade had snapped in half, leaving him with something closer to a large knife or machete. He lifted it carefully. The edge was still sharp, catching what little light filtered through the room. The weight felt right in his hand.
Further in, he found a cloak bundled behind a crumbled support pillar. The fabric was worn and patched in places, but when he shook it out, it held together. Not perfect, but it would keep wind and rain off his back—at least the kind of wind and rain he remembered from Earth.
He gathered what he could. The broken sword went to his belt. The cloak settled across his shoulders. Nothing grand.
But enough.
Neil exited the supply room, his new possessions secured. As he stepped back into the hall, the silence welcomed him like an old friend. The sphere had gone dark, inert once more.
And the hall, though still broken, seemed somehow... quieter. Like something watching had finally blinked.
Neil stood there for a moment longer. Not in mourning, nor in awe.
But in resolve.
The path ahead was uncertain. But with his newfound strength, Neil was ready to face dangers he could scarcely imagine.