As dawn approached, the sun timidly emerged over the horizon, casting a gentle, almost hesitant glow upon the mist-covered earth. The tenacious fog, thick and clinging, wrapped around the skeletal trees like a heavy, sodden blanket. Slowly, reluctantly, it began to withdraw under the relentless warmth of the nascent sun, exposing the iron framework of the outpost in an overshadowing brightness.

  Asdras's smirk widened as he traced a finger over the edge of the tower. His touch caught drifts of snow and moisture, the cold seeping into his skin. "I love this view," he murmured to himself, his voice a low rasp lost in the vastness.

  The outpost’s chief, a man etched with the weariness of countless sleepless nights, yawned beside the ladder leading to the rooftop. His voice, hoarse and gravelly like stones grinding together, commanded the group. "You three, inside the Jumper." He grasped the handle firmly, his knuckles white with tension. "Signal me when ready."

  The trio clutched their belongings, a mixture of anticipation and apprehension on their faces, as they stepped onto the marking area. The platform itself was a marvel of mechanical design.

  A maze of thin iron cables, almost spiderweb-like in their delicacy, stretched across the rooftop. These cables interconnected with a soft, pulsating blue glow that seemed to throb like a living thing. The structure was elliptical, its edges blurring into the fog, with symbols intricately etched at its core.

  The columns around the corners were a twisted form of artistry. They featured interlocking gears, polished to a mirror sheen, that spun with silent precision. Glistening strands of energy, like captured lightning, weaved between the gears, shaping a faint greenish halo around the entire structure.

  Asdras stretched his arm a bit, feeling his hair vibrating, almost standing on end, as the cold breeze seemed to coalesce around them. The air itself felt charged, expectant. Brian let out a whoop of laughter. "I love this!"

  Javier, however, mumbled, his face downcast, rubbing his eyes as if trying to ward off a persistent headache. "No, not this again..." he muttered, his voice a low groan. "Like the merchants say, 'Every silver lining has its cloud, and every blessing its hefty tax...'"

  Asdras caught the outpost chief’s burning look, a glare that could melt steel. It was a look that screamed, 'Hurry up, or I swear by the forgotten gods, I will do something we will both regret.' Asdras coughed, a small, almost shy sound, and quickly averted his gaze.

  The chief adjusted the handler to a precise forty-eight-degree angle. The Jumper’s engine roared to life, a guttural growl that seemed to vibrate the very air around them. A faint but distinct vibration coursed through the platform, tingling their senses with a subtle electric sensation.

  "Everyone, prepare yourselves!" The chief's voice, though strained, cut through the growing hum of the engine.

  Asdras meticulously inspected his backpack, his fingers tracing the outline of his lute nestled inside. He then checked the sword strapped to his back, ensuring it was secure. A quick, reassuring nod to himself, and he turned to see Brian and Javier mirroring his actions. With their assured hand signal, the chief pushed the handler.

  A vibrant, greenish orb formed around them, pulsing with contained energy. It was a beautiful, mesmerizing sight, yet also deeply unsettling. The orb burst into a brilliant purple blaze, a violent explosion of color that momentarily blinded them. Then, with a grace that defied its raw power, it ascended into the air.

  The world seemed to stop. The outpost, the fog, the very ground beneath them fell away in an instant. With a final, earsplitting burst of energy, the orb shot toward the horizon at breathtaking speed. It was a sensation unlike any other, a feeling of utter displacement, as if they were being ripped from the fabric of reality itself.

  The Jumper was not merely a mode of transportation; it was a testament to a desperate age, a product of ingenuity born from necessity. It represented a decade of painstaking research, a fusion of arcane affinities and intricate mechanical design. The scholars and engineers who had conceived it had risked everything, pushing the boundaries of known science and magic to create something truly extraordinary and terrifying.

  Spirit stones, pulsing with raw, untamed energy, served as the Jumper's primary fuel source. These stones were notoriously unstable, prone to catastrophic failure, but they also possessed a power unlike any other. The engine harnessed not only the energy of the stones but also the inherent energies of its users, channeling their life force to augment its propulsion.

  This made it incredibly fast, capable of traversing vast distances in a fraction of the time it would take by conventional means. Twenty to thirty kilometers was the theoretical limit, a boundary dictated by the volatile nature of the spirit stones and the strain on the passengers' bodies. Beyond that, the risk of failure increased exponentially.

  The orb itself was a marvel of spatial and atmospheric manipulation. The spatial component, a complex weave of arcane energies, created the spherical structure and maintained its stability, a fragile bubble of order in the chaos of their journey. The wind component, equally intricate, served a dual purpose. It propelled the orb forward, harnessing the very air around them, and also counterbalanced its movement, adhering to the fundamental principles of inertia.

  During formation, a burst of energized plasma, searingly hot and intensely bright, was used to cleanse the interior thoroughly. This was not merely a matter of hygiene; it was a crucial safety measure, designed to eliminate any microscopic impurities that could destabilize the orb's delicate balance.

  As the Jumper sped on, its inner winds, a carefully calibrated vortex, silenced the roar of its passage. The world outside, the screams of the wind, the very fabric of reality, faded to mere whispers. Yet, within this strange transport, passengers could speak clearly to one another, their voices strangely amplified in the confined space.

  However, physical movements were severely restricted, a limitation dictated by the very forces that kept them aloft. The wind component, while providing propulsion, also generated tremendous force, making even minor gestures nearly impossible. It was like being encased in invisible, unyielding bonds.

  More importantly, the inventors, haunted by the specter of failure, had cautioned passengers to remain as still as possible. Any sudden movement, any internal stress, could trigger a surge of energy within the orb, a chaotic cascade that could lead to a catastrophic rupture.

  Asdras fixed his gaze on the sky, his eyes narrowed against the blurred rush of colors. The world outside was a distorted mosaic, a kaleidoscope of clouds, fleeting glimpses of towering mountains, and the occasional, unsettling sight of creatures flying by.

  Time seemed to stretch and compress, a burning candlestick melting down. Seconds felt like hours, yet the journey, in its entirety, was remarkably swift. Gradually, almost imperceptibly, their view transformed. The blurred landscape began to resolve itself, coalescing into something more recognizable. Bit by bit, a city sprawled below, a tapestry of stone and shadow, revealing itself from beneath the veil of speed.

  The orb spun on an unseen axis, its descent so smooth, so controlled, that it was almost unnoticeable to those within. As it neared the ground, the vibrant colors faded, the raw energy dissipating. A gentle counterforce, a cushion of manipulated air, eased its passengers down in a smooth, vertical glide.

  As Asdras took notice of the city’s entrance. Cracks spiderwebbed across the ancient stone walls, fissures born of time, neglect, and perhaps something darker. Patches of snow clung to the shadowed corners. Rusted iron beams, reinforcements added long ago, jutted out at odd angles to defend against the weather and beasts.

  Yet, amidst the decay, there were signs of life. Faded banners, bearing the city's crest, hung limply from the walls, their colors bleached by the sun and the strange, pervasive fog that seemed to cling to everything. Small, makeshift stalls huddled near the gate, their owners hawking wares with a mixture of desperation and weary resignation. The air was thick with the smells of woodsmoke, stale bread, and something indefinably off, a hint of decay that clung to the back of the throat.

  Perhaps it was these sad colors, these exhausted light drained by the lifeless walls, that gave Asdras a feeling of indifference, an almost mechanical detachment. But within that detachment, a spark of understanding ignited. He recognized the striving, the desperate hope that clung to the edges of this grim reality. This was a city of dreams, broken and tarnished, but dreams nonetheless.

  People came to Baurous from the distant communities, drawn by the promise of something more. For these weary travelers, seeking a place to call home, a respite for their aching feet, the city held a magnetic, almost mythical, allure.

  Baurous was the only city of any significant size across the region. It was not a grand metropolis but a place of moderate size, with twisting roads weaving through its streets like the threads of a tangled tapestry.

  The reasons people came were as varied as the individuals themselves. Economic opportunities, however meager, were a powerful draw. One could often hear the whispers of dreams, shaped in the clinking of coins or the fragrant steam rising from a food stall. Be it a humble baker dreaming of opening his own shop or a young woman hoping to learn a trade, the chances of finding something to do, of earning a living, were higher here than in the desolate villages they had left behind.

  And that led to the chance to learn, to improve one's lot in life. One could become an apprentice to a master craftsman, learning the secrets of a trade passed down through generations. One could strive to become a successful merchant, navigating the treacherous currents of commerce. Or one could even try to live the life of a soldier, seeking glory and fortune in the city's guard or in one of the mercenary companies that frequented its taverns.

  But the general saying, the whispered hope that echoed through the taverns and the crowded marketplaces, was, "If you are lucky, maybe you will awaken a power." This was the wish of thousands, the inspiration for countless tales spun in the smoky common rooms of inns and the songs sung by wandering bards.

  The Awakened were the stuff of myths and legends, individuals whose hands controlled a tangible, terrifying power. They were the masters of Ars, the wielders of forces that defied the understanding of ordinary folk. But above the magical properties that it had, the abstract concept of power in their mind lent to only one thought: the chance of turning their lives around, not just for themselves, but for generations to come.

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  Dangerous as it was told, mystical, and even fearful, in the mind of the common people, awakening was their only chance of becoming something more. It was a belief that spanned across generations, creating a social hierarchy where even a respectable, unawakened individual, entitled dreamers – be it a doctor, merchant, or craftsman – was, at best, a model for the young adults whose chances of awakening were, statistically, negligible. The Awakened ruled, and those who dreamed to awake served.

  This disparity had led to the formation of distinct communities within the city, enclaves of people from diverse backgrounds united by the shared trait of being dreamers. They had their own customs, their own signs and mannerisms, and their own ways of navigating the complex social landscape of the cities.

  These microenvironments, while offering a sense of belonging, also fostered mistrust, particularly around certain topics that revolved around the unknown. One prime example was the magical fog, a mysterious substance developed, ostensibly, to protect the city and villages from plagues and the creatures that preyed on their crops. An untraced saying, a persistent whisper of paranoia, circulated among them: that the fog was a tool of control, a means of poisoning their minds and their future, making them pliable to the whims of the Awakened elite.

  And that simmering tension, that undercurrent of fear and resentment, had manifested in the scene at the city’s entrance. Two stark-naked individuals stood defiantly, their bodies pale and shivering in the cold, holding signs protesting against the fog. Their belief was that the body must be pure, untainted by any external influence, and to prove their conviction, they had stripped themselves bare.

  Asdras could see the people murmuring amongst themselves, their faces a mixture of amusement, disgust, and a hint of unease. And while he contemplated the scene with a morbid curiosity and detached observation, he felt Brian elbowing him sharply in the ribs, attracting his attention to Javier.

  'Hell it…' Asdras thought, a sense of foreboding settling in his stomach.

  He saw Javier kneeling on the ground. At first, it was a subtle gesture, almost unnoticeable in the chaos of the crowd. But then, with a dramatic flourish, Javier began alternating between kissing the earth and declaiming verses poetically, his voice rising above the din.

  The crowd, faced with the difficult choice of which spectacle to observe, found themselves drawn to Javier's performance. Protests, after all, were a relatively common occurrence in Baurous. But a man proclaiming his undying love for the city in such an extravagant and theatrical manner was something new, something different. And that difference, that novelty, sent a shiver of unease through Asdras.

  "The rock, the steam, the scent of toil, and food! How many moons? It's been a while since I smelled the sweat of many men and women. Bless the heavens, bless the heavens!"

  Asdras and Brian exchanged a look. They knew, without needing to speak, that it was time to disappear. They quietly slipped away, merging with the gathering men and women, shielding their faces with their backpacks, hoping to avoid any unwanted attention.

  Brian muttered under his breath, his voice tight with frustration, "I tell you, bro, it was best not to rescue that man!"

  Asdras sighed, a weary sound, and hushed him, urging him to hurry. They moved with a practiced ease, slipping through the gaps in the crowd.

  However, in a twist of fate that felt almost like a cruel joke orchestrated by the very forces they were trying to escape, Javier rose to his feet. Under the watchful gaze of the crowd, he took a deep breath, his chest expanding dramatically. He scanned the faces around him, his eyes narrowed, his gaze as analytical as a merchant assessing the value of a potential customer.

  Then, with a sudden, exuberant grin that seemed to split his face in two, he sprinted toward his target, his voice booming across the square. "Wait for me, my two youngin' nobles!"

  As the crowd parted before them, creating a clear path, a perverse sort of runway, Asdras and Brian raced toward the inner layers of the city, their legs pumping, their hearts pounding in their chests. Javier followed closely behind, his expression a bewildering mixture of relief, gratitude, and a touch of manic glee.

  As they gained distance from the crowd, a new threat emerged. A group of mischievous kids, their faces alight with youthful malice, appeared, carrying rotten vegetables, ammunition for their twisted game. To these children, the protesters were a familiar target, a source of amusement, and a test of their throwing skills. But the newcomers, running with such desperate urgency, presented a tempting, new challenge.

  With the agility of a seasoned shooter, one of the kids, his arm a blur, hurled a tomato toward Javier. The tomato's trajectory was wild and unpredictable. It narrowly missed Javier, a near miss that should have been a cause for relief. But instead, it struck Brian square in the face, a direct hit that splattered rotten pulp and juice across his features.

  Brian's reaction was immediate, instinctive. His body contorted with a nearly acrobatic impulse, a desperate attempt to avoid the projectile that had already found its mark. "Dammit, I'm gonna kill you!" he roared.

  The kids, initially possessed by the thrill of the moment and the excitement of their game, suddenly gained a newfound enlightenment. Instead of fleeing, as any normal person would have done, they exchanged sly smiles. They began a pursuit, rotten vegetables clutched in their hands like weapons.

  Asdras, seeing them grab more ammunition, shouted urgently, "Oh, shit, run!" His voice was a panicked yelp.

  The trio sped through the maze of the city's narrow streets, their frantic progress punctuated by apologies to pedestrians and occasional collisions with merchants's wares. They were a whirlwind of chaos, leaving a trail of overturned baskets and angry rebukes in their wake. They stole glances over their shoulders, gauging the kids's approach, their pursuers gaining ground with each passing moment.

  Amid the chaos, Asdras panted and grumbled at Javier, "Sir, I'll kill you!" His words were a breathless threat. He deftly evaded an onion aimed at his shoulder, a near miss that sent a pungent odor wafting through the air.

  Javier quickly dove to dodge another tomato, a feat of agility that seemed almost impossible for a man of his build. "Saar, it isn't my fault!"

  Brian, about to offer his own reply, felt a sudden, sickening impact on his back. Finally, with a burst of desperate energy, they managed to break free from the tumultuous crowd by darting into a narrow alley, a sliver of shadow between two towering buildings. With one final, lung-bursting effort, they hid behind barrels and wooden boxes in the shadowy intersection between two massive houses, hoping, praying, that they had evaded their relentless pursuers.

  In the dimly lit alley, the air thick with the stench of trash and something indefinably worse, Brian's frustration boiled over. He clutched Javier's clothing, his grip surprisingly strong. "If you're feelin' sorry, you could at least try lookin' like it."

  Brian took a step back, his movements stiff and awkward, and gingerly touched the slimy texture of the rotten tomato on his face. A shudder ran through as maniacal laughter bubbled up within him. "I swear, Javier, it feels like it's either you or me in this world."

  Javier huffed, a sound of mock indignation, and raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, his palms open, his expression carefully neutral. "Okay, okay," he conceded, his voice smooth and placating. A mischievous grin, however, still played on his lips.

  He took a deep breath, his smile unwavering, a spark of genuine amusement flickering in his eyes. "But before we go on with our lives," he continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "let me give each of you a little 'gift' for saving my valuable and charming life."

  Asdras and Brian exchanged a quick, paranoid glance. They had been through enough already, and Javier's 'gifts' had a tendency to be… unpredictable. "If it's the same thing you took before the Jumper," they replied in unison, their voices flat, their expressions wary, "we don't want it."

  Before Javier protested, a sudden gust of wind above them caught their attention. Their gaze went above to see a small orb, the shape of a Jumper, inside, something it carries. It stopped at the level of a near door; after that, the Jumper gradually faded, releasing two pieces of paper that floated gently towards the trio. Asdras extends his arm to catch one of the pieces of paper as Brian grabs the other.

  Asdras quickly unfurled the paper; his eye caught what it was, and he read its contents to Brian with enthusiasm: "Oh, it's the newspaper about the registration for the military."

  "For those who wish to register at the military or any special unit, it's essential to arrive at the office building on the west side of Baurous by midday next week. No further registrations will be accepted if you arrive later." Asdras read.

  Brian's relief was palpable as he waved his arms in the air. He repeated to himself, "Thank the heavens! Thank the heavens! I've got some time to wash up and grab what I need. Maybe even find a decent bathhouse that won't charge me extra for 'cleaning up this mess'!"

  Asdras patted Brian on the shoulder and asked about the contents of his newspaper.

  Brian sounded pleasantly surprised as he replied, "Oh, it's about the academy." He continued, "It says here that registration's happening next week, and it's going to be by the lake, near the Garden Chief restaurant."

  Asdras felt Javier waving to them, "Let me thank both of you, my good saviors."

  Javier reached into his inner pocket, retrieving a small bottle and a letter. He handed the bottle to Brian and the letter to Asdras.

  Brian peered at the bottle, noticing two pills inside as the sunlight glinted off it. He couldn't help but wonder, "What on earth is this?"

  Javier chuckled warmly and explained, "Take these before awakening. Don't tell anyone; it will help you."

  Brian raised an eyebrow skeptically. "You reckon I'm supposed to just take your word for it?"

  Javier shrugged and replied, "It's your loss if you don't, my good sir."

  Asdras was about to open the letter when he inquired about its contents.

  Javier quickly intervened, shaking his head. "Don't go cracking that thing open! Take it to the Merchant Guild branch, and they'll reward you handsomely." His tone shifted, becoming more serious, more urgent. "When you go awakening," he cautioned the boys, "don't blabber about what you saw to everyone. They could use that against you." It was a warning, a piece of advice born from experience.

  Asdras nodded thoughtfully. "That sounds reasonable." He understood the unspoken dangers of this new world.

  Brian, however, was more focused on his immediate needs. "Geez, I reckon I'm in desperate need of a shower," he exclaimed, his voice laced with a mixture of disgust and urgency. "Let's find an inn."

  The boys bid Javier a final farewell, waving at him as they turned the corner, disappearing into the labyrinthine streets of Baurous.

  Javier waved back, a genuine gleam of gratitude in his eyes. "I'll make sure everyone who visits my shop knows your lovely faces," he called out after them. "In a golden frame, your faces will highlight the charm of my benefactors."

  Javier reached into his pocket and retrieved a cinnamon bar. He unwrapped it and began to chew thoughtfully, sighing as he gazed up at the sky, his expression a mixture of contentment and something darker, something more calculating.

  His face tensed, his jaw clenching, and he narrowed his eyes as he recalled something, a memory that sent a shiver of unease through him. "I hope that man isn't foolish enough to clash with The Crazier," he muttered to himself, his voice barely a whisper. "These lands are too small for two beings of their level to fight each other. At least that hunter is missing. Well, whatever," he added, dismissing the thought with a forced shrug.

  "I'm just a rotund fella with good charm! Every blessing is a curse, as Mama always told me." He chuckled, a dry, humorless sound, and continued to chew on his cinnamon bar, his eyes fixed on the sky, lost in thought.