Feeling the disorienting effects of his first warp, Nightborne stumbled through the streets, trying to keep his balance. The world around him shifted in waves, like his vision was drunk and the ground pulsing beneath his feet. Everything about warping felt wrong—like he'd been ripped from the inside out and barely sewn back together.
Sluggishly, he made his way toward the nearest Warp Support Agency. It took longer than it should have. His legs didn't feel like his own. Eventually, he reached it.
The building looked like a police station, except the color scheme was oddly cheerful—bright blues and yellows, overly optimistic. He stepped inside and was immediately approached by a staff member.
Nightborne muttered under his breath, "Why did it have to be him…"
The man approaching him was an elderly worker who looked like he should've retired decades ago. Nightborne always had the impression this guy was senile—probably couldn't even tell the time of day.
Still, he didn't complain. He let out a sigh and followed the old man down a hallway into his office. No point in making things harder.
The old man began explaining in a dry, disinterested tone that practically screamed "I don't give a fuck." Most of the precautions he listed were basic common sense. Don't eat strange creatures. Don't touch glowing plants. Don't insult people who can shoot fireballs out of their hands. Stuff like that.
But then, in a tone that suddenly turned serious, the old man looked him dead in the eye and said,
"Most importantly… don't die."
No follow-up. No explanation. Just that.
With a raspy chuckle, the old man guided him to a nearby room—his return point, assuming he lived long enough to need it. The room was small and sterile: a simple bed, a nightstand with a dusty lamp, a bottle of lukewarm water, and a note that read, "Good luck. You'll need it."
Nightborne rolled his eyes. "Probably written by that senile old freak," he muttered.
But none of it mattered anymore. He was about to leave this world. The feeling hit again—his head growing heavy, his eyelids drooping like they were made of lead. He was warping.
---
When he opened his eyes, he found himself in complete darkness. The only light came from a faintly glowing rock at the end of a narrow hallway. Everything else was pitch black.
He didn't like it.
Instinct screamed that nothing good was behind that glowing door, so instead of heading toward it, he slumped into a nearby corner, his body still trying to adjust. The feeling of teleportation was like being strapped to a rocket and launched into hell. His head spun.
"Holy fuck, my head hurts…" he muttered, pressing his palms into his temples. "I hope I don't pass out. But I don't have time to be laying around like this. I need to find water, or I'm dead."
But that door. That glowing door—it felt wrong. And walking through it now, while barely able to stand? That was suicide. He stayed low, taking in the space.
His eyes adjusted. He was used to darkness—life had trained him well for that. Slowly, he realized the room wasn't empty. Along the ground were multiple doors, lying flat like trapdoors, all locked.
"Why did I have to be warped into a fucking horror movie basement?" he whispered. "Most people get sent to towns or forests. I get the dungeon from a serial killer's wet dream. Lovely stuff, isn't it?"
He stood up shakily and shouted into the shadows,
"HEY, fate—you're a fucking bitch, you know that?!"
His voice echoed. No answer. Just silence.
After a few deep breaths, he approached the nearest floor door, checked the handle—locked. Another one—locked. But the third… clicked.
It opened.
Beneath it, a rusted ladder led downward. He descended cautiously, rung by rung, until he reached another door. This one wasn't locked. A moment of hesitation, then he pushed it open.
Light spilled in—cold, bluish light that didn't feel natural.
He stepped outside.
The door led to the edge of an island. The sky above was a swirling canvas of dark purple and ash gray clouds, lit only by strange constellations he didn't recognize. The air smelled like salt and ozone. Before him stretched a vast, black ocean—its surface like oil, rippling slowly with impossible stillness, as if time itself was hesitating.
The island was small. Jagged rocks. Sparse dead trees. No signs of life.
Nightborne stood in the doorway, staring into the abyss.
"…What the hell kind of world is this?"
The wind howled, carrying with it a whisper—one he couldn't understand. Not yet.
But he'd find out soon enough.