As the morning bell rang out, Cyrus Station awoke under the rising sun.

The first rays of dawn had just pierced the eastern ridge when the bronze bell in the main building was struck precisely on time. Its resonant peals echoed through the courtyard, rousing the entire station. Whinnies came from the stables, smoke rose from the kitchen chimneys, and the sound of footsteps echoed on the cobblestones as the patrol guards changed shifts.

Astra opened his eyes to the sound of the bell.

This was their third day at the station. His body was still weary – the training intensity of the past two days far exceeded expectations – but his mind was unusually clear. The unfamiliar ceiling, the unfamiliar room, everything was unfamiliar. Only the steady sound of breathing from the next room was a familiar anchor in this foreign world.

He sat up and stretched his shoulders. His muscles ached, but it was bearable. Instructor Poffler's training was merciless: basic fitness, weapon handling, tactical movements. Astra's body seemed to have its own memory, picking up many moves quickly, but the instructor said his 'instincts' relied too much on conditioned reflexes, lacking systematic foundation.

"You can use a sword, but you don't understand swordsmanship," Poffler had said after yesterday's training, wiping her electrified short spikes. "You can dodge, but you don't understand footwork. Your body remembers combat, but your brain has forgotten why it fights. The two must be reunited."

A knock sounded at the door.

"Awake?" Brulee's voice came from outside. "Wash up, eat. Meet at the training ground in half an hour. Alvin will give you a common knowledge lesson today."

Astra acknowledged. He put on the cotton training clothes provided by the station – the silver-white garments were carefully stored deep in the wardrobe – washed briefly, and left his room. Across the hall, Sylas's door opened at the same time.

She looked equally tired, but her eyes were bright. Her pale golden hair was simply tied back, wearing the same training clothes, sleeves rolled up to reveal slender wrists already bearing faint calluses.

"Sleep well last night?" she asked softly.

Astra shook his head. He had dreamed of fragments again: a broken corridor, a collapsing tower, and a woman's shouts growing clearer, yet he still couldn't make out the words. And those eyes – amber, watching him in the dream, full of sorrow.

They were Sylas's eyes, but not quite. More mature, more weathered, as if carrying a weight he couldn't comprehend.

"I dreamed too," Sylas whispered, walking down the stairs with him. "So many eyes... watching us in the darkness. A woman's laughter, sweet, but chilling."

Mahera.

The name popped into Astra's mind unbidden. He stopped walking.

"What's wrong?" Sylas asked.

"...Nothing." Astra shook his head and continued down. He wasn't sure where the name came from, but instinct told him not to say it aloud.

The dining hall was on the first floor, a spacious room with over a dozen long tables. It was half full: caravan guards, adventurers, station staff. The air was noisy with chatter, filled with the smell of food mixed with sweat, leather, and a faint aroma of ale.

Brulee and Mikarl waved from a table by the window. A simple breakfast was laid out: rye bread, bacon, baked beans, and a large pot of warm milk.

"Sit," Brulee said, pushing two wooden bowls forward. "Eat plenty. Tough training today."

Astra and Sylas sat down. Mikarl was gently polishing his twin short swords as if they were treasures. Noticing Astra's gaze, he smiled.

"Heirlooms," he said. "The hilt insignia is supposedly from an ancient knightly order, but even Grandpa isn't sure which one. They handle well."

"You're not on patrol today?" Astra asked.

"Afternoon shift," Mikarl put away his swords and picked up bread. "You have class with Alvin this morning. I need to record it. Rules – all trainees' lessons are archived."

"Archived?"

"Yes. Grandpa says knowledge is the most important weapon. Especially..." Mikarl paused, lowering his voice, "Especially knowledge about the true nature of this world."

Brulee took over: "Alvin is the station's steward, Grandpa's adopted son. He manages accounts, archives, and... teaching necessary common sense to newcomers. He knows a lot, but he's... a bit odd. Don't mind him."

Breakfast continued quietly. Astra observed the surroundings: the adventurers were mostly tanned, weathered, armed, discussing missions, rewards, and recent monster sightings. Merchants, well-dressed, exchanged price and route information in low voices. Some scholar-like individuals sat alone in corners, maps or books spread before them.

A microcosm of the world, he thought. And he and Sylas had just stepped into it.

Half an hour later, they arrived at a small room on the second floor of the main building.

The room wasn't large, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on three walls, packed with leather-bound books, scrolls, and tied parchment. The only window faced east, morning light slanting in, illuminating dancing dust motes. In the center was a large oak desk, behind which sat a young man.

Alvin looked up.

He was in his early twenties, tall and slender, with brown curly hair neatly combed back, wearing a silver-rimmed monocle. Dressed in a dark brown steward's uniform, stiffly starched collar, cuffs without a wrinkle. He was recording something in a heavy ledger with a quill, pausing as he heard footsteps.

"Sit down," he said, his voice even, emotionless.

Astra and Sylas sat on the two chairs before the desk. Brulee and Mikarl leaned against the wall, not interrupting.

Alvin closed the ledger, retrieving an older leather-bound book from under the desk. The cover had no text, only a complex geometric pattern embroidered in silver thread – a variant of the Aethermark.

"Starting today, two hours each morning, two each afternoon, plus one hour of self-study in the evening, I will explain the basic common knowledge of Tilmia," Alvin began, his pace measured, each word clear. "Content divided into: geography, history, politics, races, extraordinary power systems. You may ask questions, but please wait until I finish a section."

He opened the book. The first page was a hand-drawn map of the continent.

"Tilmia, the world we inhabit." Alvin's finger traced the parchment. "Main continent is an irregular ellipse, approximately twelve thousand miles east-west, eight thousand north-south. Currently, there are eleven major human polities, and several non-human race settlements."

His finger stopped southeast.

"The Kingdom of Luminara, where we are. Land area ranks sixth among the eleven, mostly plains and hills. Borders perpetual tundra to the north, eastern coast, the Darkwoods to the south and west. The capital, 'Luminarch,' is in the center, the political, economic, cultural hub."

Astra stared at the map. Luminara was shaped like a maple leaf. A small area in the southeast corner was marked: edge of the Darkwoods, a dot labeled "Cyrus's Adventurer Station."

"The eleven nations have their characteristics," Alvin continued. "'Winteion' in the north is perpetually snow-covered, the western 'Empire of Broom' is commercially developed, the southern 'Neopolytan Federation' is known for seafaring. Each nation inherits an 'Essence' power left by the ancient gods, and has a corresponding 'God's Torch' beacon."

"Essence?" Sylas asked softly.

"The eleven fundamental elements used by the ancient gods to create the world," Alvin adjusted his monocle. "Lumino, Umbro, Geo, Hydro, Pyro, Aero, Cryo, Voltano, Botano, Auram, Phanto. The first nine are common, the last two... exist only in the eastern Huaxi Dynasty and the Oborozuki Divine Kingdom."

He turned the page. Illustrations of eleven emblems, each with the element name and a brief description.

"Luminara inherits the 'Lumino' Essence. The Church of Purelight holds the authority over the faith interpretation and usage norms of light element. The Knights of the Holyradiance are its secular armed force. Theoretically, anyone with elemental affinity talent can learn to wield the corresponding element, but aptitude determines the ceiling."

Astra read the description under the 'Light' emblem: Symbolizes order, healing, protection, but can devolve into bias, exclusion, and absolute purification.

"Is that what the Conclave of Lumina believes in? 'Absolute purification'?" he asked.

Alvin glanced at him, a faint, unreadable emotion flashing behind his monocle.

"The Conclave is an extremist faction within the Church of Purelight, established less than fifty years ago, but growing rapidly. They proclaim the need to 'purify all existence tainted by Chaos,' including non-human races, magical mutants, and... any human not meeting their 'pure light' standard."

He paused.

"Those white-clad men you encountered yesterday are just the Conclave's outermost 'Lightcleansers'. Above them are 'Inquisitors,' 'Enforcers,' 'Doctrine Interpreters,' led by the self-styled 'Martyr' leader, Lucian. Intelligence suggests Lucian himself is a powerful dual-elementalist of Lumino and Pyro, his strength unfathomable."

Astra fell silent. He remembered the golden light on the lead white-clad man's sword, its fervent, oppressive, aggressive nature, so different from the warm light shield that had manifested in his own palm.

"On to history." Alvin turned the page. "Tilmia is currently in the 'Fourth Era,' calculated from the fall of the sky-city Aetherium, now in its 307th year."

A simplified timeline was on the parchment:

First Era: Creation Age (Ancient Gods active, miracles frequent);

Second Era: Rise of Nations (Humans build civilizations, gradually drift from gods);

Third Era: Sky-City Age (Aetherium floats, center of knowledge and technology);

Fourth Era: Present Age (Aetherium falls, Chaos erosion intensifies).

"Regarding the fall of the sky-city, mainstream history records it as an 'accident causing the city core to go out of control'," Alvin's voice lowered. "But secret archives preserved by the Cyrus family suggest it was a conspiracy. Traitors inside colluded with external forces, breached the barrier, causing a large-scale Chaos invasion. At the last moment, the city lord activated the self-destruct sequence, perishing with most invaders, but a few survivors – like you – escaped via emergency teleport arrays."

He looked at Astra and Sylas.

"As for the 'Spark' project, the archives only state: 'When the eleven beacons are rekindled, the wheel of fate shall turn once more.' More... perhaps lies in your returning memories, or other relics."

The room fell quiet. Only the sounds of horses from outside and distant bells remained.

After a long while, Sylas asked, "What is Chaos?"

Alvin was silent for a few seconds. He stood, walked to the bookshelf, pulled out a scroll tied with a black ribbon, untied it, and spread it on the desk.

The paper bore a disturbing illustration.

Twisted, indescribable forms, as if multiple plants, animals, even objects were forcibly fused. Rotten dark purple dominated their appearance. Eyes – if they could be called that – were pure darkness, no pupils, only endless void.

"Chaos, or 'Abyssal Erosion'," Alvin's voice turned cold. "A power seeping from the world's fissures, distorting reality. Eroded beings gradually lose sanity, mutate, eventually becoming monsters knowing only destruction and consumption. Those you killed upon waking are the lowest form of Chaos beasts."

Astra recalled the three corpses, the muddy yellow in the eyes of the beast by the stream.

"The source of Chaos is the 'Abyss,' a dimension overlapping ours but with completely different rules. Legends speak of an entity named Hela deep within the Abyss, the Lord of Myriad Shadows. But information is scarce. She is said to have three powerful servants: the Fenrir Wolf, the Jormungandr Serpent, and two attendants known as 'Ganglati' and 'Ganglot'."

"And the Tieflings..." Sylas whispered, "Are they eroded by Chaos?"

"No." Alvin shook his head. "Tieflings are descendants of ancient humans interbred with some elemental beings. They have innate elemental affinity. Their skin color and horns are bloodline's traits, unrelated to Chaos erosion. But the Conclave deliberately blurs the concept, equating 'abnormality' with 'pollution' to push their purification agenda."

He put away the parchment and sat back down.

"Final part: Races. Major sapient races in Tilmia include humans, elves, dwarves, therians, and various demi-humans (like Tieflings, beast-kin, etc.). Luminara is predominantly human, other races mostly reside in border areas or specific regions. Inter-racial relations are complex, cooperation and conflict, but recently, due to increased Chaos threat, generally leaning towards unity."

Alvin closed the book.

"That's all for today. Tomorrow: political structures – the relationship between Kingdom, Council, Knightly Orders, Church. Now, you may go to the training ground."

He paused, adjusted his monocle, his gaze lingering on Astra for a moment.

"Also, last night, strangers were spotted lurking outside the station perimeter. The patrol didn't catch them, but witnesses described a man, clad entirely in black, presence faint, standing under your window for about a minute before vanishing into the shadows."

Astra felt a chill down his spine.

"Who was he?"

"Unknown. But that ability to completely erase presence and traces..." Alvin's voice was very soft, "...reminds me of unpleasant rumors. About an assassin known as the 'Fang of the Abyss,' Wolfeis."

The training ground was west of the station, an open area enclosed by a wooden fence. The ground was hard-packed. Weapon racks, archery targets, and training dummies stood in corners. Instructor Poffler stood in the center, arms crossed, watching them approach.

"You're thirty seconds late," she said, her tanned face expressionless. "Twenty laps around the field. Warm-up."

No room for argument. Astra and Sylas started running. Twenty laps was about four kilometers. Still challenging after two days of training, but Poffler demanded 'full speed.' By the fifth lap, Sylas's breathing grew ragged; Astra's legs ached.

"You two, slowing down!" Poffler's voice was like a whip. "On the battlefield, a second slow means death!"

Sylas nearly collapsed after the final lap, supported by Astra. Poffler walked over, tossed them two water skins.

"Three minutes rest. Then, coordination training today."

She pointed to the training dummies.

"Astra, main attack. Sylas, support. Use the basics you've explored out. Try to coordinate in combat. I'll attack at thirty percent. Goal: protect the dummy from destruction. Begin."

Poffler took two training batons from the rack, adopting a stance. Astra and Sylas exchanged a glance, positioned themselves before the dummy.

The fight erupted instantly.

Poffler moved with ghostly speed. She wasn't just attacking; it was a dance – deadly and graceful. The batons whistled through the air, thrusting at the dummy from impossible angles.

Astra blocked instinctively. Training sword clashed with baton, numbing his arm. He tried to counter, but Poffler easily evaded, her second strike already aimed at his flank.

Then, Sylas moved.

She didn't attack, but raised her hand. A faint golden glow gathered in her palm, quickly spreading to form an arc-shaped light shield beside Astra.

Clang!

The baton struck the shield and was deflected. Poffler raised an eyebrow, a flicker of approval in her eyes.

"Good. But the shield's range is too small."

She shifted, suddenly appearing on the dummy's other side. Astra couldn't react in time, but Sylas's light shield moved synchronously, blocking again.

Once, twice, thrice.

Poffler's assault was a storm, but each strike was precisely intercepted by the light shield. Astra gradually found his rhythm: he stopped trying to defend completely, focusing instead on the gaps in Poffler's attacks, using his wooden sword to counter, forcing her to reposition.

Their coordination grew more seamless. No words needed, not even eye contact. The moment Astra moved left, Sylas's light shield would materialize on the right. As Astra feinted, Sylas's shield would contract, luring Poffler in, then expand instantly, pushing her back.

"Hold."

Poffler leaped back, sheathing her batons. Fine sweat beaded her forehead, her breathing slightly quickened.

"Good," she said, her tone carrying a hint of warmth for the first time in three days. "Your sync rate is abnormally high. Almost like... sharing the same mind."

She walked up to Astra, staring into his eyes.

"Tell me, what are you thinking right now?"

Astra was taken aback. "Thinking... how to block the next move."

"And you?" Poffler looked at Sylas.

Sylas said softly, "I was thinking brother's left shoulder would move first, so I prepared the light shield there."

Poffler was silent for a few seconds.

"Twin Stellar Guardians..." she muttered to herself, shaking her head. "Continue training. This afternoon, Mikarl will teach you basic swordsmanship, Brulee archery and reconnaissance. Tonight, Old Cyrus wants to see you."

The subsequent training was even more grueling. Poffler held back less, her batons striking like vipers. Bruises soon appeared on Astra and Sylas, but their coordination improved rapidly through the pain. By the midday break, they could protect the dummy from destruction for a full five minutes under Poffler's fifty percent strength.

Lunch was by the training field. Brulee brought bread and meat stew. The four sat on the ground. Mikarl had a new cut on his arm – a skirmish with bandits during the morning patrol.

"Things are unsettled lately," he said, chewing bread. "Cha beast activity in the Darkwoods has increased, more bandits too. Some say they've seen strange flashes deep in the forest, and... Tiefling hunters brought news that Conclave people are digging for something in the woods."

"Digging for what?" Astra asked.

"Not sure. But nothing good, surely," Brulee cut in. "The Conclave has been active lately. Not just on the borders; rumors in the capital say they're getting close to some nobles, pushing for a harsher 'Purification Act'."

Poffler snorted coldly.

"Those fanatics. They have no idea what the real enemy is." She put down her bowl, looking at Astra. "What Old Cyrus wants to discuss tonight probably relates to this. Be prepared."

Afternoon training was led by Mikarl and Brulee.

Mikarl's sword style was completely different from Poffler's. He didn't prioritize speed or unpredictability, but emphasized rhythm, distance, and timing. He taught Astra basic stances, footwork, striking techniques, correcting his form repeatedly.

"Your instincts are strong, but you rely on them too much," Mikarl said, tapping Astra's shoulder with a wooden sword. "See, you fell for my feint completely. In real combat, enemies won't attack as you expect."

Meanwhile, Brulee taught Sylas archery.

"A bow isn't just a weapon; it's an extension of your eyes," Brulee adjusted Sylas's posture. "Steady breath, level sight, forget you're shooting the moment you release. Let the body remember the feeling, not the mind the steps."

Sylas's first arrow missed, the second grazed the target, the third hit the outermost ring. Brulee raised an eyebrow, surprised.

"Did you learn before?"

"Don't remember," Sylas said softly. "But... drawing the bow felt familiar."

As the sun set, training ended. The four dragged their tired bodies back to the main building, had a simple dinner in the mess hall, and were then led by him to Old Cyrus's study.

The old man sat in a rocking chair before the fireplace. The crackling fire lit his wrinkled face. He gestured to two chairs opposite him as they entered.

"Sit. Alvin, close the door."

Alvin complied, then stood silently by the door like a statue.

"Three days," Old Cyrus began slowly. "How do you feel?"

"Tired," Astra answered truthfully.

The old man smiled. "Good. Real combat is ten times worse. But you're improving fast, faster than I imagined. Poffler says your coordination is nearing that of elite regular army squads."

He paused, smile fading.

"But time is short. The Conclave has noticed you. Last night's peeper is just the beginning. They will eventually trace you here, uncover your identities. When that happens, even Cyrus Station may not fully protect you."

Astra clenched his fist. "What should we do?"

"Two things." The old man raised two fingers. "First, get strong. Strong enough to protect yourselves, strong enough to face future challenges. Second, start investigating. Recover your memories, find out what the 'Spark' truly is, and... why it's so important."

He took a folded parchment from his robe, spreading it on his lap.

It was a quest commission. Rough paper, fresh ink, stamped with the Adventurer's Guild bronze seal in the lower right corner.

"Bronze-rank trial quest," Old Cyrus said. "Location: Ancient ruins in the Herphy Mountains outside Mellon Town. Objective: Retrieve three 'Lightpurge Crystals' from the mountain ruins. Modest reward, but an opportunity – for you to truly experience this world, combat, and possibly... clues."

"Clues?"

"Deep in the Herphy Mountains lies a ruined ancient altar, said to be a relic from the Sky-City era. Though long picked clean, perhaps... your presence might trigger something." Old Cyrus looked at Astra. "Memory recovery needs stimulation. Combat, familiar scenes, specific items – all can be keys."

Sylas asked softly, "Will it be dangerous?"

"Of course," Old Cyrus admitted frankly. "The Herphy Mountains have beasts, monsters, potential bandits, even... other ill-intentioned adventurers. But Brulee and Mikarl will go with you. They know the area, have ample experience."

He looked at Brulee and Mikarl. They nodded.

"We'll take this quest," Brulee said. "Perfect, I need to renew my adventurer rank anyway."

"Quest duration estimated five to seven days." Old Cyrus rolled the parchment, handing it to Astra. "Prepare tomorrow, depart early the day after. Before that..."

He stood, walked to the desk, opened a hidden drawer, and took out two items.

They were leather wrist guards, finely made, lined with soft wool on the inside. But on the outside of each guard was inlaid a thumb-sized crystal – pale blue for Astra, pale gold for Sylas.

"'Resonance Crystals', replicas of Sky-City technology," the old man said. "Wear them. Within a certain distance, you can vaguely sense each other's location and emotional state. In battle, it might improve your synchronization."

Astra and Sylas took the guards, fastening them on their left wrists. As the crystals touched their skin, a faint warm current flowed. Astra closed his eyes, sensing another warm presence nearby – Sylas. He could feel her calmness, her fatigue, a hint of underlying unease.

"Thank you," Sylas whispered.

Old Cyrus waved a hand. "Off you go, rest early. No early training tomorrow. Prepare your gear properly. Alvin will provide maps, rations, and necessary medicine."

The four left the study. In the corridor, Brulee said quietly, "Grandpa has high hopes for you. He's never valued anyone so much."

"Feeling the pressure?" Mikarl asked with a smile.

"Yes," Astra admitted frankly.

"Pressure is good," Brulee patted his shoulder. "But don't be crushed. Remember, we're a team. Relying on and protecting each other – that's how adventurers survive."

They parted ways at the staircase. Astra and Sylas returned to their rooms, only relaxing after closing the doors.

"Brother," Sylas whispered, raising her wrist, looking at the pale golden crystal. "I... am a little afraid."

Astra walked to the window, lifting the curtain slightly. The night was deep. Lanterns lit the courtyard; patrol guards passed at the edge of the light. In the distance, the Darkwoods' outline loomed under the moonlight like a crouching beast.

"I'm afraid too," he said, not turning around. "But fear is useless. We must move forward, find answers. About who we are, about what we must do."

He let the curtain fall, turned.

"Sleep early. Tomorrow... we have much to prepare."

Sylas nodded and returned to her room. The soft sound of her door closing echoed.

Astra sat on the bed, looking at the faintly glowing pale blue crystal on his wrist. It pulsed weakly in the darkness, like a distant star.

Resonance Crystals. Sky-City technology. Memory fragments. Spark project... Fragments swirled in his mind, trying to form a complete picture, but too many key pieces were missing.

He lay down, closed his eyes. Before sleep took him, one last clear thought emerged:

Herphy Mountains. Ancient ruins.

There, perhaps, the key truly lay.

The night deepened.

In the attic atop the main station building, Alvin was still awake.

He sat at his desk, dozens of parchments spread before him, covered in dense symbols, numbers, and calculations. The chain of his monocle dangled by his cheek, his eyes behind the lens bloodshot.

He was calculating.

Using the secret methods passed down for three hundred years by the Cyrus family, he calculated stellar trajectories, elemental fluctuations, and the faint, almost undetectable 'anomalous signals' unconsciously emitted by Astra and Sylas.

The quill moved swiftly across the paper. Numbers jumped, symbols connected, a complex model gradually taking shape. Then, at a certain moment, all lines converged on a single point.

Alvin stopped writing.

He stared at the convergence point, his face gradually paling. His fingers trembled unconsciously, knocking over the inkwell. Dark ink spilled across the parchment, ruining the precise calculations, but he didn't notice.

"Impossible..." he muttered. "This frequency... this coordinate..."

He sprang up, rushed to the window, and pushed it open. Night wind gusted in, scattering the papers on his desk. He looked up at the stars, his gaze fixing on a point in the northeastern sky.

There, where nothing should be, a star was flickering.

No, not a star. Something closer, more unstable. Flash, extinguish, flash again. With each pulse, the detection crystal on Alvin's wrist emitted a faint hum.

"A beacon..." his voice was hoarse. "A beacon activated? No, not fully, it's... been touched. Touched by a power of the same origin."

He remembered Old Cyrus's words: The Spark is key to reigniting destiny. When the eleven beacons are rekindled, the wheel of fate will turn again.

So, is this the beginning?

Alvin closed the window, returned to his desk. He pulled out a clean piece of parchment and began writing a report. Concise, but each word carried immense weight:

"Observed unidentified beacon fluctuations. Coordinates: Northeast, approx. 400 miles, edge of the Perpetual Tundra. Fluctuation signature highly correlates with Subject A's (Astra) elemental frequency. Hypothesis: Subject A's memory recovery may have begun subconsciously resonating with ancient facilities. Recommend expediting investigation. Alert for potential attracted hostile forces."

He put down the pen, rolled the parchment, slipped it into a copper tube, sealed it with wax, and stamped it with the Cyrus family crest.

Then he went to the wall, activated a hidden mechanism. The wall slid open silently, revealing a narrow staircase leading down. He descended, passed a short corridor, and entered a small room of about three square meters.

In the center was a stone platform engraved with a complex magic circle. Alvin placed the copper tube in the center, bit his finger, and let a drop of blood fall.

As the blood touched the circle, light flared. The copper tube dissolved into countless points of light, vanishing into the air.

The message was sent. This was an emergency channel known only to the core members of the Cyrus family, connecting directly to a secret intelligence network node established by Old Cyrus in his youth.

Having done this, Alvin leaned against the wall, breathing heavily. His monocle dangled from its chain.

He remembered his childhood, Old Cyrus holding him, pointing at the stars, telling stories.

"Every star could be a beacon to another world," the old man's voice echoed in memory. "And our Cyrus family are the Watchers. We watch the stars, the beacons, the... light of hope that must eventually return."

The light of hope.

Alvin looked out the window. The flickering 'star' had vanished behind clouds.

"Hope..." he whispered, putting his glasses back on. "Or... an omen of calamity?"

No one answered.

Only the night wind howled, whistling through the station's towers like a mournful cry. And far to the northeast, on the edge of the Perpetual Tundra, deep within an ancient altar buried in snow and ice for centuries, a crystal embedded in the stone wall pulsed with a weak yet steady rhythm, resonating with that distant call.

Like a heartbeat.

Like a prelude to awakening.