The world didn't begin with a vibrant sight for him; it began with the taste of copper and the abrasive grind of black sand against a cheek.
A man woke on the jagged black sands of the Orenthel coastline, his fingers digging into the wet grit. Every movement felt "heavy," as if the air itself was thick as honey. His vision flickered—colors desaturating for a heartbeat before snapping back into a vivid, artificial blue. To him, it felt like his body was struggling to catch up with his mind. He didn't know how long he had been lying there, only that the "lag" in his limbs was so severe he could barely crawl away from the freezing tide.
He was exhausted. Not just in muscle, but in spirit. He looked toward the towering, brass-ribbed walls of Orenthel in the distance. Usually, he knew exactly what to do.
He dragged himself toward the Great Southern Gate, his coat tattered and his breath coming in ragged gasps. The gate was the only entrance to the last sanctuary of humanity. Beyond Orenthel's walls, the world was a graveyard of "Omens"
At the processing desk sat a man who looked like he wanted to be anywhere else. Aim, a twenty-four-year-old residency officer, leaned his head on his hand, eyes glazed with boredom. He had been a top-tier cadet at the Palace, a man meant for high-stakes politics, but he had requested this civilian post to escape the suffocating "perfection" of the upper classes. Now, he just processed refugees from the dead lands.
The man reached the desk. He looked frail, his pale white hair matted with salt. Aim expected the usual—a sob story or a hidden bribe.
Instead, the stranger gripped the edge of the desk so hard his knuckles turned white. He didn't offer gold. He didn't offer a lie. He looked directly into Aim's eyes with a terrifying, piercing intensity.
"Just let me pass."
He said with the tiredness of sleep deprived man in the eye.
Aim blinked. This refugees wasn't desperate? Aim felt a spark of genuine curiosity.
"You're a bold one, Mister," Aim muttered, reaching for a temporary permit stamp. "But you're a quiet weirdo. That's better than the loud ones."
The man just nod at him.. a mere nod of appreciation..
"Woah, Buddy.. everything is so easy for you eh?" Aim replied
"And what is your name, Mister?"
The man paused a moment before replying
"Const.. and you are officer 'Aim' right.? I saw it on your tag"
"Maybe we will cross path in future, officer Aim"
"Confident huh? I like that, Mister Const. Anyway—hope you have a great new life at Orenthel"
Aim cross arm, leant back against his chair and nod at Const, Const nod back at him too before walking away into street of Southern District
"That refugee.." He mutted to himself
The streets of Orenthel were a marvel of steamwork engineering, lit by gas lamps that never flickered and paved with cobblestones that never cracked. To the thousands of refugees pouring in from the borders, it was a miracle.
Const sat on a crate in the lower district, watching a group of children play. Even their laughter felt rhythmic, timed to the ticking of the great clock tower in the city center. He rubbed his temples; the headache was fading, but the "lag" still haunted his movements. He spent his time weaving small threads of water magic between his fingers—not to cast a spell, but to calm his mind. It was a habit he'd had since he was a child, a way to check if the reality around him was still holding its shape and controllable.
"Still here, I see," a voice called out.
Aim was walking his patrol, accompanied by a woman in the silver-and-grey uniform of the Royal Magician Organization (RMO). She was everything Aim wasn't—sharp, ambitious, and a actually love her job.
"I gave him a two month permit, Isolde. Don't glare at him like that, he wasn't an illegal hey~" Aim said, while his eye flicked from Isolde to Const
"I'm not," Isolde replied, her hand resting on the hilt of her ceremonial rapier. "I'm observing" She lean back against the brick wall of nearby store
"Anyway have you heard lastest new from 'The North'?"
"Offering information out of no where again, Isolde.. Just admit that you like talking to me" He snap his finger with amusement grin on face
"Hell no!" She let out a big sigh afterward
"You wanna listen or not?"
"Of course, Sol"
"Ahem—The borderline situation were really bad, five resident area of outlander around border were lost to 'Omens' this morning."
She paused with a big-tired sigh before continue
"The RMO is the only reason Orenthel isn't a pile of glitching stone like the rest of the world. We can't afford 'weirdos' wandering the streets without a purpose."
"Glory to RMO or whatever indeed.." Aim replied teasingly before getting light swat on head by Isolde
"Ouch!" Aim exclaimed
"Speak after me 'Miss Isolde and RMO officer are literal saint come from sky that saved me and Orenthel' Repeat it three time!"
Const cracked a soft-quiet laugh that shift the two officer's attention toward him
"Sorry for interrupting, but you two reminded me of my old friend a lot."
The two officer let's out a sigh afterward.
"Alright, so what's your plan next anyway. Mister Const" Aim asked with curiosity—usually due to poverty most refugee decided to go riot or steal and get abort within a month, he want to know if this guy was difference
"My plan? Go on academic debate and rise as new star." He exclaimed very straight forward.
The two officer was shocked to hear his statement—a new refugee like him going to become a new star in short time? In a debate against professor from top university of Orenthel?
"Not sane."
"Indeed."