Cain exhaled long and slow as he opened his eyes.
No alarms, no blood, it was just dew clinging to the outer mesh of his tent with a rare quiet hanging in the air.
He stretched once, muscles groaning in protest, then rolled his neck with a faint snap.
His hand slid to the node on his armor, and with a tap, he continuously pulsed a stream of magicules into the suit's core.
The material shimmered faintly, seams tightening, tears and fractures started sealing with gentle pops and crackles as auto-repair subroutines reactivated.
"What time is it?"
[06:11 AM]
Still early in the morning, Cain browsed his terminal for the latest news while waiting the damage begin to repair itself — he wasn't aiming to have it fully repaired, but stable enough to function.
[Armor Integrity: 87%]
"That should be enough. Suit's still better off than I am."
He didn't wield the forces of heaven and earth like a cultivator. His recovery came the old-fashioned way — through sleep, through rest, like any other human.
In combat, recovery during the Magician phase was almost nonexistent — a luxury reserved for the rich who could afford to down high-grade potions every time they spent.
For everyone else, it was a slow crawl.
'Magician phase, Mage phase, Psyker phase, Archmagus phase... and the legendary Thaumaturge phase. I'm still too far behind, just two out of thirty.'
There are five phases and thirty recognized tiers — a progression system etched into history by those men who dared to define power.
The forefathers pressed ever forward, unwavering in their pursuit to forge our foundation — countless perished seeking the true science that lay beyond the veil of progress.
Lost in thought, Cain sat on a flat rock just outside his tent, the morning chill brushing his fingers as he scrolled through his map interface.
The terrain was fractured, rivers split in unnatural forks, and ruins choked the ridgelines like scattered bones.
Still, the route toward the city of Sliabh'Verdan was clear enough — it long and arduous but not impossible to scale within just a day.
'Around five hundred kilometers... But going solo might make me a target.'
Glancing up along the outer perimeter of the camp, he saw several youths gathering, most of them a little above his age — lean, tense, and dressed in gear far too clean for where they were.
Cain checked the Syndicate's group listings — the verified groups he'd nearly ignored altogether.
Names flooded in, company logos with sleek emblems and corporate ties.
Cain wasn't surprised. These were the types you saw on recruitment posters and terminal ads.
But Cain had seen the truth behind the badges.
No one was going to save you for free when things went south.
Afterward, they'd loot your corpse clean and call it an accident — no one would really give a damn.
'I hope Uncle J's up, I need to know who won't run at the first sign of trouble.'
Seconds later, the reply came with a soft chime.
Lightspeed transmission — it was one of the few still running strong since the mythically peaceful days of the digital age.
Julius didn't waste words — he sent him a compressed file pertaining to the syndicate's list.
Names, ID chains, affiliations — all stored in the government registry, fully accessible to anyone with enough capital.
People nowadays could exchange their own privacy for coupons, minor perks, or even government packages.
Nothing illegal — just buried beneath layers of friendly UI and fine-print warnings no one ever reads.
Cain scanned the bulletin one last time before stepping toward the arcanist listed under the ID tag.
"Beany, huh?"
It wasn't a name that inspired confidence, and neither did the first impression.
With a swift glance through the crowd, Cain spotted her immediately. She stood awkwardly by the registration post, arms wrapped around her staff, fingers twitching at the hem of her sleeve.
Round glasses slipped down her nose, and her cloak was too clean for someone who had supposedly spent time out in the wilds.
The bodice and shorts beneath hinted at something far more curated than combat-tested.
But Cain had read deeper.
'Half-demon. Stealth type mana manipulator. She's clean because she can maintain herself. Probably a solo runner too, most likely. Skilled, but too awkward to get into a conversation.'
'It says here that she's been listed for three days with no takers. Likely ignored by veterans and avoided by rookies too unsure to gamble.'
Cain didn't need someone flashy, he needed someone who be relied on to safe his skin.
'Vanishing stacked with enchantment, huh?'
His uncle and Grandpa Arthur always said.
"You only live once. Might as well cheat death with company."
He walked up to her with steady steps, quietly observing her posture — tense shoulders, eyes flicking nervously from place to place.
'Definitely not used to teamwork. We'll see...'
As someone approached, she opened her mouth to speak — but Cain beat her to it.
With a flick, his vocal modulation kicked in, and he spoke in the smooth, confident tone of a seasoned media reporter.
His voice carried warmth, clarity, and just enough charisma to make anyone pause and listen.
"We're forming a balanced forward party. Specializing in high-tier hunting and delicate extraction. Enchantment and Stealth specialized already in."
He even made her nod along, lips twitching upward.
It didn't draw eyes at first — this camp was saturated with sellers and story-spinners.
The first to step forward was a man built like a mobile tank, his armor layered thick and matte with blast shielding — a riot trooper design.
His eyes glowed with static-filtered vision, a walking bulwark.
"H-Hey there, nice to meet you all... I'm Pumbo. Uh, half boar beastman, half human... I guess."
Next came a leaner man with red-gilded armor, sharp-chinned with the kind of posture trained into you at a strict military household similar to Cain's.
"Name's Ricky, and this year, I'm headed to Royal Light. Count on it."
Then Cain looked at the quiet figure approached in a polished suit laced with high-precision neural tracers.
"Tol."
He carried a blade on his back like it was weightless.
Finally, a tigress hybrid strolled past the group and gave Cain a firm nod.
"Fara, just point me in the right direction, I'll beat the hell out of whatever's there."
She wore the expression of someone who didn't care about scars.
Cain glanced sideways at Beany, who was tapping rapidly on her terminal.
The projection flickered in and out, catching his attention.
Cain leaned in for a peek, just enough to catch the edge of the live node array.
'A live Syndicate feed, it seems it could track shardling activities in near real-time.'
He could already tell it was at least ten times more accurate than his own preloaded mapset.
'That kind of live access wasn't cheap at all.'
Cain didn't have to ask to know — she'd dropped a fortune on it.
These types of feeds usually lasted seven days before auto-locking and reverting to the basic format like the one he had.
By the look of her progress and hesitation on route decisions, Cain figured she was maybe three or four days in — while burning premium time without pulling proper value.
It made sense why she accepted a teammate so easily.
Last time, he'd scored big — but he wasn't the type to let a win go to his head.
Whether someone was half-demon, half-beast, or even a half-wit didn't matter to Cain.
The only thing that mattered was having the same goal — a shared understanding that making money came first.
That was enough.
"I'll take command, twenty percent share."
"Deal."
Cain raised an eyebrow. That quick acceptance usually meant guilt, fear, or desperation.
Still, calling it out would do nothing but rattle her. No one survived out here by being truly dumb. She knew all along what she was buying into.
Cain took the lead, laying out the share system without revealing the map, he only hinted at a high-value opportunity.
"Five percent. Take it or leave it. We've got intel on shardling spawn locations, and it's clean. If you're out, no hard feelings we're all friends here but don't come knocking later."