Evan Quillian dragged his feet up the worn stone steps of Eldren Academy's oldest dormitory, his boots scuffing against the chipped edges.
The late summer air was heavy, and his shirt clung to his back, soaked from sweat after a grueling double shift. He'd spent seven hours scrubbing pots at the tavern, then another five hauling crates at the depot, each box heavier than the last.
His muscles throbbed, his legs felt like they were made of clay, and his eyelids sagged as if tethered to weights.
The weathered sign above the dorm entrance read "Cinder Hall," though the letters were faded, making it look more like "Cin Ha." It was a fitting reflection of Evan's life: fraying at the edges, barely holding together, sustained by sheer grit.
Inside, the hallway smelled of stale bread and cheap incense. Dim crystal lanterns flickered overhead, casting uneven light as Evan trudged to room 47, his home for the past two years.
The door groaned as he pushed it open, revealing a cramped space that could scarcely fit two narrow beds, a pair of creaky desks, and a cabinet that looked like it had survived a siege.
His roommates, was away for the weekend, leaving Evan alone with the flaking plaster walls and the faint hum of the old heating pipes.
He dropped his satchel on the floor, too tired to unstrap it. His pocket talisman vibrated, likely another bill he couldn't settle or a notice about overdue archive fees. He ignored it and collapsed onto his bed, the frame creaking under his weight. He didn't bother removing his boots.
His stomach rumbled, but the thought of cooking—or even trekking to the communal pantry—was too daunting. He'd scavenged a dry biscuit from the tavern's back room hours ago, and that would have to suffice.
At twenty, Evan felt far older than his years. Orphaned at twelve when a caravan accident claimed his parents, he'd drifted through wardhouses until he aged out.
No kin, no reserves, just a partial stipend to Eldren Academy and a relentless string of part-time jobs to cover the rest. Fees, lodging, food, study tomes—every cost was a struggle.
He worked as a pot-scrubber, a courier, a depot laborer, anything that paid in Auric, or AR, the gleaming coin of the realm.
Sleep was a rare indulgence, and his studies hovered just above failure. If he lost his stipend, it was over—no certification, no prospects, just a lifetime of scraping by.
His parents had been scribes, humble but hopeful, always speaking of the Academy as a gateway to better days. Now, Evan was mired in debt and exhaustion, with nothing to show but roughened hands and a stoop in his posture.
He stared at the ceiling, where a damp stain spread like a chart of some bleak land. His life wasn't meant to be this way.
He'd grown up on tales of merit, of toil yielding reward, but all he had was a purse that never held more than a few AR and a body that felt like it was unraveling.
He closed his eyes, urging sleep to come, but his mind churned with figures: 300 AR for lodging, 50 AR for heat and light, 200 AR for the tome he still hadn't bought.
He was 120 AR short for next week's dues, and his next payout was six days off. Maybe he could take an extra shift, but his body was already protesting with every move. He was so weary, so worn, that even hope felt like a burden he couldn't bear.
A sharp hum pierced the quiet, like a talisman buzzing but louder, almost electric. Evan's eyes snapped open. The sound wasn't from his pocket or the desk—it was inside his mind.
He sat up, heart racing, and blinked hard, expecting the sensation to fade. Instead, a translucent panel shimmered into existence before him, hovering like a mirage.
It was rectangular, about the size of a writing slate, with glowing azure text that pulsed faintly. Evan froze, his breath catching. He wasn't dreaming—he was too drained to dream. He rubbed his eyes, but the panel remained, its words sharp and undeniable.
[Welcome, Evan Quillian. You have been selected as a host for the System of Sacrifice. Do you wish to proceed? Y/N]
Evan stared, his throat dry. System of Sacrifice? Was this some kind of jest?
He glanced around the empty room, half-expecting Marcus to burst in with a scrying orb, laughing. But the dorm was still, save for the pipes' faint clank.
He reached out, his fingers passing through the panel like it was woven from light. His pulse quickened. Maybe he was hallucinating.
Lack of sleep could do that, couldn't it? Or perhaps the tavern's dubious stew had finally poisoned him.
[Time remaining to accept: 59 seconds.]
The text shifted, a countdown ticking down. Evan's chest tightened. He didn't know what this was, but it felt real—too real. He thought of his life: the endless shifts, the gnawing hunger, the fear of slipping into oblivion.
If this was a delusion, it was a cruel one, dangling hope before him. But if it wasn't… He swallowed hard, his thoughts racing. What did he have to lose? His life was already a grind, a slow drain of spirit and strength.
If this "System" was a trick, he'd endure. If it was something more, maybe it could shift his fate.
[Time remaining to accept: 30 seconds.]
"Alright," he muttered, his voice hoarse. "What's your game?"
[To proceed, you must bind to the System of Sacrifice. The System will provide opportunities for rewards: wealth, skills, enhancements. Binding is permanent. Rewards require sacrifice. Do you accept? Y/N]
Evan's stomach knotted. Permanent? Sacrifices? That sounded like a pact scribed by someone with ill intent. But "rewards" lingered in his mind. Wealth could mean no more unpaid dues, no more missed meals.
Skills could mean better work, a path out of this pit. Enhancements—whatever they were—sounded like something from a bard's tale, but even that stirred his curiosity.
He thought of his parents, their faith in him, their dreams for his future. He thought of the wardhouses, the cold apathy of a world that didn't care if he sank or swam. This System, whatever it was, offered a chance. A perilous one, perhaps, but a chance.
[Time remaining to accept: 10 seconds.]
Evan clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. "Fine," he said, louder now. "I accept."
[Binding initiated. Host: Evan Quillian. System of Sacrifice activated. Stand by for further instructions.]
The panel vanished with a soft chime, leaving Evan staring at empty air. His heart pounded, and for a moment, he felt only the weight of his choice. Had he just bartered his soul?
Or was this a rare stroke of fortune, a way to claw his way up? He waited, expecting something—pain, a flash, a voice from the ether—but the room remained silent.
His head buzzed faintly, like an echo of the System's presence, but that was all. He exhaled shakily and lay back on the bed, his mind whirling. Sleep came eventually, heavy and dreamless, but it felt more like collapse than rest.
Morning light filtered through the dorm's clouded window, pricking at Evan's eyes. He groaned, rolling over to check his talisman: 7:43. He'd slept perhaps four hours, and his body felt like it had been trampled by a draft beast.
He caught his reflection in the chipped mirror above his desk—dark circles framed his eyes, making him look like a scavenger beast that had lost a scrap.
His stomach growled, reminding him of the biscuit long gone. He was about to drag himself back to bed when the System's panel flickered back, startling him upright.
[Host binding complete. System of Sacrifice fully integrated. Awaiting further activity.]
Evan blinked, his foggy mind struggling to keep up. "What, no fanfare?" he muttered, scrubbing his face. "You're not much for small talk, are you?"
[Focus, host. Instructions will follow as needed.]
Evan snorted. "Helpful as a locked gate. You sound like my old wardkeeper."
[Irrelevant. Prepare for opportunities.]
"Opportunities," Evan echoed, shaking his head. "Sure. I'll just sit here and wait for my fortune to roll in."
Talking to thin air felt absurd, but the System's presence was unmistakable, a faint hum in his mind that hadn't been there before. He pulled on a less-worn tunic and was tying his boots when the door swung open, nearly smacking him in the face.
"Oi, Evan, you look like you got dragged through a slag heap!"
Marcus Greene, his roommate and sole true friend at Eldren, strode in, all long limbs and boundless cheer. Marcus was Evan's mirror opposite: always bright, effortlessly likable, and somehow never short of AR despite being a struggling craft apprentice.
His braids were tied back, and he wore a patchwork tunic that looked like it had been dyed by a mad alchemist. He tossed his satchel onto his bed and grinned, blind to Evan's exhaustion.
"Thanks for the flattery," Evan said, mustering a half-smile. "You're looking… vibrant."
"Vibrant's my charm, mate," Marcus said, striking a pose. "But seriously, those eye shadows could hold my sketchbooks. What'd you do, wrestle a crate beast all night?"
"Tavern and depot," Evan said, standing to stretch. His spine cracked like dry twigs. "You know, the high life."
Marcus shook his head. "You'll keel over one day, and I'm not hauling your corpse. Come on, breakfast's on me. New stall by the commons—flatcakes so big you'll need a cart to carry 'em."
Evan hesitated. Breakfast sounded like a gift from the stars, but his purse held only eight AR, and the System's vague talk of "opportunities" lingered in his mind. Still, Marcus's offer was too tempting, and his stomach was practically waging war. Besides, a break from the System's cryptic hum might steady him.
[Social interactions may enhance future opportunities. Proceed.]
Evan glanced at the air where the System's text hovered. "What, you're my guide now?"
[Focus, host.]
Marcus squinted. "You chatting with me or the spirits in the walls?"
Evan laughed, the sound rough but genuine. "Just… no sleep. Breakfast sounds good. But if those flatcakes aren't as big as you claim, I'm holding you to account."
"That's the spirit!" Marcus clapped him on the shoulder, nearly toppling him. "Grab your ratty cloak, and let's move. You can regale me with tales of pot-scrubbing glory on the way."
Evan snatched his threadbare cloak and followed Marcus out, the System's panel fading but not forgotten. The hum in his mind persisted, a reminder of the pact he'd made. He didn't know what the System of Sacrifice would demand, or what "sacrifices" it meant, but he was bound to it now.
For the first time in years, a spark of possibility flickered in his chest, faint but unyielding. As he and Marcus stepped into the morning light, the dorm door clicking shut behind them, Evan steeled himself for whatever lay ahead.