It started with a walk.
I just wanted to get away from the noise. The stares. The voices I couldn't understand. I wasn't looking for danger.
But Astera isn't safe when you wander.
The winding staircases, the hidden paths, the platforms that curve like roots — they don't match the map I thought I knew.
---
I ended up in a place I didn't recognize.
Past the main hall. Below the forge.
I followed a dim corridor where the light flickered and the air turned stale. The scent of dust, rusted iron, and old stone grew thicker with each step.
A cracked, faded sign above an iron gate read:
> PRISON QUARTERS – RESTRICTED ACCESS
I should have turned around.
Instead, I stepped through the half-open gate.
---
It was colder down here.
The cells were lined with black bars. Old, unused, covered in grime. Some held bones. Others were scratched with carvings and strange symbols.
Then I saw him.
At the very end of the corridor.
A man hunched over, scribbling with a sharpened shard of bone. Whispering to himself.
His hair was long. Face sunken. Eyes wide and twitching.
I stopped, unsure if he even noticed me.
Then he muttered.
> "Balance fracture drift... wing from bone… melt the skull, hush the flame…"
I stepped closer.
> "Equal… equal structure… equal head, equal fire… Equal Dragon…"
He looked up suddenly, locking eyes with me.
And whispered:
> "Weapon whispers to you."
---
I blinked.
> "What did you say?"
He smiled.
A crooked, too-wide smile.
> "You hear it. Don't you? In the dark. In the blood. In the burn behind your eyes."
He stood, voice more clear, if unhinged.
> "It whispered to me too, before it tore the sky."
> "You… you speak English?"
He laughed, like it was obvious.
> "Used to. Still do. Words get slippery. But yes. You. Riftwalker. Marked."
He pointed at my arm — my bandaged forearm — where the marks from that thing still glowed faintly.
> "You're its next. It doesn't want to destroy you. It wants to fit you."
---
My heart raced.
> "Why? Why me?"
> "Because you're not part of the cycle. You're the infection. The seed. The unbalancer."
He stepped closer to the bars.
> "They don't want you to remember. But you will. You already saw its face, didn't you? The face built from kings. From corpses."
He pressed both hands to the bars.
> "You saw it. And it saw you."
---
CLANG.
I jumped.
A door behind me had swung open hard — metallic boots echoed down the hallway.
A guard appeared, armored in thick Astera plating, halberd strapped to his back. His face twisted in surprise — then frustration.
> "ᚩᚴ ᛋᛏᚨᛁ!? ᛏᚻᛁᛋ ᛗᚨᚾ ᛁᛋ ᚲᚱᚨᚣᛋᛁ!"
He looked at the prisoner, then at me, eyes narrowing. His tone was harsh, but not panicked.
He pointed at the madman, spat something sharp in the local tongue again:
> "ᛞᛟᚾ'ᛏ ᛚᛁᛋᛏᛖᚾ ᛏᛟ ᚻᛁᛗ. ᚺᛖ'ᛋ ᚨ ᚠᚨᛁᛚᚨᛉᚣᛋᛏᛁᚲ."
The old man laughed like it was a joke.
The guard turned back to me, scowled, and waved a hand in dismissal.
> "ᚲᛖᛖᛈ ᚷᛟᛁᚾᚷ. ᚾᛖᚢᛖᚱ ᚲᛟᛗᛖ ᛒᚨᚲ."
He stepped aside — not threatening me, but ordering me to leave.
---
> He thinks I don't understand.
And he's right.
But… I understand enough.
The prisoner pressed his face to the bars again.
> "They don't kill me because they're afraid of what's in my head. But you?"
His voice dropped.
> "You'll wake it soon."
---
I didn't respond.
I just turned and walked away.
The guard watched me all the way up the stairs.
He never drew his weapon.
But I knew—
> I wouldn't be welcome down here again.
And still…
> The Equal Dragon Weapon whispered behind my thoughts.
---
I didn't sleep that night.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the cell.
The prisoner's eyes — that wild grin.
His voice whispering behind my thoughts:
"You're not part of the cycle."
And deeper still, like a pulse through the bones of my skull —
The Equal Dragon Weapon.
It wasn't speaking in words.
It was breathing through my blood.
---
Just after dawn, someone knocked on the door of the small quarters they'd given me.
A hunter stood outside — not a Palico this time. Armor. Scar across his cheek. Silent and serious.
He didn't speak much, only one word:
> "ᚲᛟᛗᛗᚨᚾᛞᛖᚱ."
Commander.
---
The walk through Astera felt different this time.
Eyes followed me.
Quiet ones.
Smiths stopped hammering. Palicos tilted their heads.
Hunters nodded stiffly — or not at all.
Like word had already spread.
> "The weird one."
"The outsider."
"The guy who doesn't speak the Hunt's tongue."
I kept my head down.
---
The Commander's chamber was large and open, high above the docks.
Wood beams lined with flags. A wide map table in the center.
Light poured in from the side, but it didn't feel warm.
He stood with arms crossed, watching me enter.
Old. Stern. Powerful in presence more than size.
Two hunters stood on either side of him, silent. One had a longsword, the other a gunlance.
A researcher sat nearby, scribbling notes. And a guard — black-armored — leaned against the far wall.
---
The Commander spoke.
Slow. Direct. Serious.
> "ᚲᛟᛗᛖ ᛋᛁᛏ."
"ᚺᛟᚹ ᛞᛁᛞ ᚤᚩᚢ ᚷᛖᛏ ᚺᛖᚱᛖ?"
"ᚹᚻᛖᚱᛖ ᛞᛁᛞ ᚤᚩᚢ ᚷᚩ?"
His tone wasn't angry. But it wasn't soft either.
They didn't know who I was.
They didn't know where I came from.
But I wasn't a native — that much was obvious.
> And they had questions.
---
I raised my hands slowly. Spoke carefully.
> "I'm not trying to cause trouble. I… don't understand your language."
The Commander frowned slightly. Turned to the researcher, who muttered something and flipped through a notebook full of glyphs and notes.
They didn't reply in my language.
None of them did.
They just exchanged confused glances.
> They didn't recognize English.
> They didn't know I was from another world.
And to them, I was just some stranger with strange clothes, no Guild crest, and no records.
---
The Commander tried again.
He tapped his chest.
> "ᛁᛋ… ᚲᛟᛗᛗᚨᚾᛞᛖᚱ."
Commander.
I nodded slowly, doing the same with my own chest.
> "Nurazam. Muhd Nurazam."
He squinted.
Didn't repeat it. Didn't write it down.
Just watched.
I could feel it — not hostility, but something more dangerous: calculated curiosity.
---
They didn't ask where I came from.
They didn't seem to think I was from another world.
They thought I was from somewhere far… maybe deep jungle, or a distant island with strange dialects.
To them, I wasn't a cosmic mystery.
Just an unknown variable.
---
The Commander spoke again, this time slower.
> "ᛁᚠ ᚤᚩᚢ ᛏᚱᚣ ᛏᛟ ᚷᛟ ᛞᚩᚹᚾ ᛏᚺᛖᚱᛖ ᚨᚷᚨᛁᚾ..."
"ᛞᛟ ᚾᛟᛏ."
He raised a hand and pointed at me — then at the floor beneath us.
> "ᛞᛟ ᚾᛟᛏ ᚷᛟ ᛞᚩᚹᚾ ᛏᚺᛖᚱᛖ ᚨᚷᚨᛁᚾ."
A warning.
I didn't need to understand the words to get the meaning:
> Don't go back to that place.
Don't go near that prisoner again.
Don't dig into things you're not meant to find.
---
I bowed my head slightly.
Didn't speak.
Just left.
They didn't stop me.
But the moment I turned my back, I could feel the weight of a dozen unspoken thoughts pressing between my shoulder blades.
---
They didn't know where I came from.
But now?
> They were watching me.