Ability Stealer

Andrew jolted awake, heart hammering in his chest. His eyes flew open, and he blinked rapidly, disoriented by the searing brightness of the desert sun.

The air around him shimmered with oppressive heat, and he squinted at the endless dunes stretching into the horizon. This wasn't the room. This was the desert realm. Again.

"No, no, no," he muttered, turning in place. His boots sank into the sand, the fine grains clinging to his legs.

A deep, bone-chilling laugh echoed from nowhere and everywhere all at once. Andrew spun, searching for the source, and there he was—Croen, towering and shadowed, his form shifting grotesquely until he seemed larger than life. His once-defined features melted into darkness, leaving only piercing red eyes glowing like twin suns. The sky above them blackened, swirling as if responding to Croen's fury.

"Did you really think we would let you go, Andrew?!" Croen roared, his voice like rolling thunder. His enormous foot lifted high, blocking out the little light left.

Andrew stumbled back, fear seizing his chest. He raised his hands instinctively as if that alone could stop the inevitable. The foot crashed down.

Andrew screamed.

His eyes snapped open, and he shot upright, drenched in sweat. The room was pitch-black, save for the faint outline of the window where a sliver of moonlight slipped through the curtains. Andrew's chest heaved as his trembling hands gripped the damp bedsheet beneath him.

"It's not real. It wasn't real," he whispered, voice barely audible over the sound of his own racing heart.

He swung his legs off the bed and sat on the edge, elbows resting on his knees as he tried to steady his breathing. His shirt clung uncomfortably to his back, soaked through.

He raked his fingers through his hair and tried to focus on the coolness of the floor beneath his feet.

"Safe. I'm safe here," he muttered. The words felt hollow. The memory of Croen's rage was too vivid, and Andrew couldn't shake the lingering doubt. Was the door locked?

He stood abruptly, pulling up the system menu with a flick of his hand. Gear options glimmered in front of him, and with a tap, the space in front of him filled with a small pile of equipment.

His fingers closed around the hilt of the sword, but the moment he lifted it, his brow furrowed. It was heavier—substantially so. He couldn't see any obvious change, but the weight was undeniably different.

But the change in weight wasn't going to be a bother for him.

"Doesn't matter," he muttered, brushing the unease aside.

Sword in hand, he moved carefully toward the door, stepping over the slumbering form of Mella. She lay curled under her sheet, her breathing soft and even. For a brief moment, he envied her ability to find peace.

At the door, Andrew hesitated before gripping the handle. Slowly, he turned it, only to feel resistance. It was locked.

Relief swept through him, though he couldn't recall locking it. He pushed that thought aside, choosing instead to be grateful.

Illusions, his mind whispered traitorously. You wouldn't even know if this was real.

He clenched his jaw. "Stop," he muttered, cutting the thought off before it could spiral. Shaking his head, he returned to the bed, but even after lying down again, sleep refused to come.

The hours crawled by until faint sunlight crept through the window, painting the walls in muted hues of gold. Andrew turned his head to see Mella still fast asleep, her expression soft and unguarded in the morning light. He noted the peaceful rise and fall of her chest but quickly averted his gaze, feeling strangely self-conscious.

Instead, his attention shifted to the sword resting against the wall. With the light filtering in, he could see the polished surface gleaming faintly. He retrieved it, running his fingers over the intricate details he hadn't noticed before. At the base of the hilt was a small, engraved symbol—two stars etched in precise, geometric lines.

"Two stars?" he murmured, tilting the weapon to inspect it more closely. The realization dawned slowly, and he couldn't help but wonder if it was tied to his evolution. Perhaps it was a part of him.

As he spun the blade experimentally, Mella stirred. Her eyes fluttered open, and she squinted at the light pouring in. She groaned softly, stretching her arms above her head before her gaze landed on him.

"Why is your armor—and your sword—just lying out?" she asked, her voice thick with sleep.

Andrew shrugged, setting the sword down. "I thought someone might have gotten in last night. Just being cautious."

She yawned and rubbed her eyes. "How'd you sleep?"

He hesitated before offering a faint smile. "Not great. You?"

"Unfortunately, almost immediately," she admitted, looking slightly sheepish. "I thought I wouldn't sleep a wink, but…" She shrugged.

Andrew nodded, choosing not to dwell on the envy creeping into his chest. "So, we're supposed to do two rifts a day, right? How do we know if the tower's keeping track?"

Mella stretched again, leaning against the wall with a drowsy sigh. "They'll know through your ID card. It tracks everything. If you miss for a week, they'll come knocking."

"Of course," Andrew muttered, smirking faintly. "Why am I even surprised? They can already harvest so much from just a fingerprint."

Mella chuckled softly, but her amusement faded quickly. "I'm starving," she admitted. "But I don't even want to step outside today."

Andrew glanced at her, recognizing the nervous edge in her voice. "I get it," he said gently. "If I didn't need to eat, I would hold up here for a very long time."

Her lips quirked into a faint smile, though doubt lingered in her eyes. "I'm not sure if to believe you."

"You should." Andrew stood, brushing off his pants. "Come on. Let's get something to eat. I got nothing in the house since I'm new here."

Mella hesitated but eventually rose to her feet, wrapping the sheet around her like a shawl. "Fine," she muttered.