Select Level-up Reward:

(+1) to AGL. (+1) to CON. (+1) to MAG. (+1) to STR. (+0.5) to ALL.

Mark couldn’t believe his eyes. Not only could he hold onto the bonus for his Blessing’s best-case scenario, but the option itself was a net positive, no matter how he looked at it.

‘Two points for the price of one.’

Without even hesitating, his finger reached towards the floating plus sign. But before he could even get to it, the letters flashed and vanished.

+0.5 to ALL Attribute Ranks selected.

Mark Chambers

Level 1 (Human)

Attribute Ranks:

AGL: 1.5

CON: 1.5

MAG: 1.5

STR: 1.5

Abilities: (0/4)

- None

Divine Blessing:

- [Aernor’s Blood]

The same surge of power rushed through Mark again, flooding every fiber of his being. However, while he didn’t feel anywhere near as strong as before, he was at least glad that his veins didn’t start glowing again. Still, the difference struck him as odd.

Was there something more to Aernor’s blessing? Or was it because the upgrade didn’t count as a full Rank?

Whatever the case, being able to nab twice as much value out of a level still felt like the right choice. Even if Mark had to do it again just to get the full bonus. He had no idea what awaited him once he managed to get out of this place.

And if the Ashen King was any indication, it wasn’t going to be something pretty.

Mark sighed, jamming the torch in a crack before moving his attention towards the old campsite. “Sorry,” he said, glancing at the two withered bodies, “but this is going to do a hell of a lot more for me than you.”

Grimacing, he grabbed the two by their tunics and gently dragged them to the side. It didn’t take long for Mark to search through the three backpacks and, not surprisingly, he had found several useful things, coupled with a few that left him baffled as to their purpose.

Among other items, his unfortunate benefactors had packed rations, three sleeping bags, water canteens, a large coil of rope and a hook, what looked like flint and tinder, and an axe and a short sword. Mark had also found a compass, a few thin blankets, some of which were strangely cool to the touch, and what could only be described as some sort of gas masks.

In the end, Mark decided that he was going to take almost one of every item he had found, for one simple reason: no one in their right mind would ever bother to drag useless things to this hellhole. Or, at least, he wanted to believe that it was just bad luck that did those two in, and not their lack of preparation.

As such, after filling up the canteens, he tied the packs to one another and made his way through the gap, dragging them behind him. The moment Mark stepped foot inside the ruins, a wave of warm air slammed into him.

By the looks of it, the desert heat wasn’t going to die out anytime soon. Which meant that Mark was stuck here until nightfall.

After eating some of his newly acquired rations, just enough to save off his hunger, he grabbed one of the bags and got to packing. Once he was finished, Mark stashed everything else in the gap and covered it with one of the biggest pieces of wood. He then took one of the cool blankets and laid it out next to the wall. Exhausted, Mark laid himself down and, the moment his lids met, he immediately drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

Mark awakened to the sound of distant shrieks as a wave of adrenaline instantly erased any sign of his drowsiness. He couldn’t tell how much time had passed, but the sun had begun to set outside, and his fire was nearly out.

Quietly, he got up and tiptoed his way to the arched entrance, scanning the black dunes still illuminated by the fading light. He shuddered at the thought of having to venture into the desert at night, but it wasn’t as if he had any other option. Returning to his camp, Mark grabbed some of the wood that he hadn’t packed away and threw it over the fire. Given how long it had lasted, if push came to shove and he had to come back, there was at least a decent chance that he would find the fire still burning.

Taking one last look at the titan’s shattered statue, he slung his backpack over his shoulders and left, melding into the growing darkness of the desert.

He kept the cliff-face to his left, heading north along its edge. But while the bulwark’s evening shadow had long since claimed this strip of sand, the day’s lingering heat hadn’t yet died down completely. Mark wiped his brow and sighed, gazing out over the dunes.

The lightless veil held strong, not giving way even in the face of the thousand stars that came alive over the clear, night sky.

Aernor had told him that he needed to save this world. But what could Mark do when he couldn’t even find his way out of this barren hell? He had no direction, no clear path to follow. And as the minutes turned to hours, the desert’s chilling winds sought to rob him of even the last of his warmth.

In spite of that, Mark pressed on, donning one of the coats that he had scavenged. He couldn’t afford to stop. Not when he had no idea of how long it would even take him to find his way back to civilization.

Two nights he had walked, taking shelter from the daytime’s inferno within shallow caves and makeshift tents. But towards the end of the second night, Mark knew that something was wrong.

He was slowing down.

He had gotten enough rest during the day. He had eaten enough. And he had even managed to make do with the water from a single one of his three canteens. But even so, he constantly felt out of breath.

Slumping down, Mark took off his backpack and rummaged through it. He took out a bit of dried meat and ate a bite, washing it down with a gulp of water as his eyes fell on the two vials in his pack. He had no idea what they were, but he couldn’t bring himself to throw them out. But judging by the faintly alcoholic smell, he had assumed them to be filled with some sort of disinfectant.

As for his current condition, the only remotely plausible explanation was the Lashback’s venom. Could there still be trace amounts left in his system? Though even that didn’t seem very likely, given how violently his hand had reacted from just a simple scratch.

Mark then took out one of the strange masks.

On the outside, they didn’t seem like much, with strips of cloth joining together various pieces of leather. Turning it around, however, revealed complex patterns carved into the back of the hardened leather segments, with at least a dozen small gems studded into place. But since the masks had several slits deliberately built into them, Mark was sure they hadn’t been made to keep the desert’s sand at bay.

He shrugged and held one over his mouth, more out of frustration than anything else. Strangely enough, he actually felt as though he could breathe in a bit easier, so he tied the mask’s straps behind his head before laying on his back. High above, the creeping light of dawn chased away the night sky’s final few stars, heralding the start of another hellish day.

“Might as well get cracking on that shelter,” he groaned, trying to convince himself to get up. And that was when he saw it.

High above, at the bulwark’s very edge, was a bright, orange light.

Pulse racing, Mark shot up and ran next to the cliff, his head craned. He squinted at the swaying drop of light, certain of one thing. He had to find a way up there.

“Shit,” he muttered as he gazed at the few, scattered footholds denting the cliff’s face. Without proper gear or training, the only thing waiting for him at the end of this climb would be death. Not to mention the fact that daylight was fast approaching.

So, as much as Mark worried that whoever was at the top would be long gone by the time he found his way up, he had to bunker down. But as he decided to get to work on his shelter, the morning sun crested over the blackened dunes, bathing the bulwark in its warm light. However, the same light had also revealed something else sticking out of the stone surface: reflecting the bright, morning rays was a row of old, metal handles that appeared to lead all the way to the top.

Within minutes, he was staring at the weathered handles, his gear neatly tucked away inside his backpack. He had also tied some of the rope around his waist, with one end fastened to a metal hook. Mark’s confidence in his knots wasn’t great, but his improvised carabiner did at least ease his worries a bit.

As for the metal rings, they seemed sturdy enough. As did the spikes to which they were attached. Still, Mark hesitated as he grabbed and tugged on one of the handles to try and test it out. Seeing that it hadn’t budged, he took another glance at the rusty trail leading up the bulwark and sighed.

“Well, here we go…”

His progress was slow, but steady. Sweat rolled down his face as the sun blazed down upon him, turning both the bulwark and the metal rings into sweltering conduits. But in spite of how uncomfortably warm they had become, Mark always took the time to attach his hook to every other handle.

He kept going, pulling himself up without ever daring to look down as a primal fear spurred him on. It didn’t matter how much his body ached, or how blistered his palms had gotten. Mark just knew that he’d be done for if he ever dared to stop.

A welcomed chill ran down his spine as a gust of wind brushed against his back. His relief, however, was short lived. The moment he turned his head around, Mark froze. In the distance, he saw a giant, obsidian wave heading his way.

Another sandstorm had started.

Immediately, his mind and body went into overdrive. Mark rushed up the trail, clinging to each handle as the ledge came into view. But as he reached the third ring from the top, he felt his foot slip out.

Clenching his teeth, Mark shoved his other foot inside the ring and pushed himself up, grabbing the stone ledge above. And as he heaved himself beyond the precipice, he crawled away from the edge, collapsing on his back as he tried to catch his breath.

But just as Mark tried to stand up, a hooded figure crept over him, aiming the tip of a sword at his neck.

“Who are you? And what have you done with the others?”