Primordial Awakening: I Breathe Skill Points!-Chapter 68: The Gate 7 Assembly (2)
As he focused on that vibration, counting its intervals with meticulous precision, his blood went cold.
The deep pulse from the ruins was beating at exactly 48 pulses per minute.
The exact same rate as the egg in his storage ring.
They were synchronized.
Whatever the egg was, whatever it contained or represented, it was responding to something in those ruins. Or something in the ruins was calling to it. The distinction might not matter, but the implication was clear: he was carrying something connected to the very place they were about to enter. The synchronization was too perfect to be coincidence, too precise to be natural resonance. Something about that matching rhythm felt intentional, as though the egg and whatever lay in the ruins were communicating in a language older than words.
’Everything Marcus told him about the egg and the ruins seems correct,’ Zeph thought, a mixture of validation and dread settling in his chest. ’Which means everything else he warned about is probably accurate too.’
The implications of that realization extended far beyond simple confirmation. If Marcus had been right about the connection between the egg and the ruins, then his warnings about the dangers inside, about the things that waited in the darkness, about the ancient defenses that had killed dozens of experienced awakened—all of that was likely true as well. The weight of that knowledge pressed down on Zeph’s shoulders like physical burden.
The crowd settled into position around the raised platform, one thousand awakened packed into a space that felt both vast and claustrophobic. The density of power was overwhelming—levels ranging from the low 30s to the high 60s, skills and abilities representing every combat style and specialization imaginable. Warriors stood shoulder to shoulder with mages, rogues mixed with healers, rangers checked their equipment beside summoners. It was a cross-section of every fighting discipline humanity had developed since the awakening, all compressed into this single assembly.
If this went wrong, if someone panicked or started a fight, the resulting chaos could kill hundreds before anyone could restore order. Zeph could feel the tension in the air, thick enough to taste. A thousand awakened meant a thousand different agendas, a thousand different levels of desperation, a thousand potential triggers for violence.
Five figures stepped onto the platform, each one radiating the kind of presence that came from both high levels and command experience. They moved with the confident grace of people who had survived situations that killed others, who had earned their positions through skill and survival.
The central figure was a woman who commanded attention without needing to demand it. Level 67, A-rank classification displayed above her head, with short-cropped dark hair and a scar running from her left temple to her jaw. She wore practical military-style armor that had clearly seen extensive use, and her eyes swept across the assembled awakened with the assessing gaze of someone who had commanded troops in life-or-death situations. There was no warmth in those eyes, but there was competence, and in situations like this, competence mattered more than kindness.
"I am Commander Elara Voss," she announced, her voice carrying easily across the assembly without apparent amplification—some skill or stat configuration that let her project her words with perfect clarity. "I will be leading this expedition into the Ruins. What I say in this briefing may determine whether you survive the next week. I suggest you listen carefully."
The assembly fell into complete silence. Even the wind seemed to pause, as if nature itself recognized the gravity of the moment. Zeph noticed several people unconsciously holding their breath, their full attention focused on the commander.
"To my left," Commander Voss continued, gesturing to a smaller figure who looked profoundly out of place among the combat-focused awakened, "is Dr. Yiren Maki, our lead researcher. She will be providing analysis and guidance regarding the ruins’ structure and potential artifacts."
Dr. Maki was Level 45, B-rank, with an excited energy that seemed almost inappropriate given the circumstances. She practically vibrated with enthusiasm, her eyes gleaming as she surveyed the assembled expedition members like a child about to enter a candy store. Her equipment was more academic than martial—scanning devices and recording implements rather than weapons and armor. Zeph couldn’t help but wonder how long someone like her would survive in the ruins. Enthusiasm was no substitute for combat experience.
"The three individuals behind me," Voss said, indicating the remaining figures on the platform, "are senior team leaders who will be coordinating different sections of the expedition."
Zeph’s attention focused on these three, recognizing immediately that they would be important to his survival in the coming days. These were the people who would be making tactical decisions, coordinating responses to threats, potentially determining who lived and who died through their choices.
The first was impossible to miss—a massive man who had to be pushing seven feet tall and three hundred pounds of pure muscle. Level 52, B-rank, carrying a shield that looked like it could stop a charging bull and probably had. His name tag read "Tank," which was either incredibly straightforward or possibly ironic, though his appearance suggested the former. Everything about his stance and equipment screamed defensive specialist, the kind of awakened who existed to stand between threats and squishier teammates.
The second was a contrast to Tank’s overwhelming physical presence—a lean figure of indeterminate gender with Level 48 displayed above their head. They moved with the fluid grace of someone whose fighting style prioritized speed and precision over raw power. His name tag read "Whisper," and their eyes scanned the crowd with open suspicion, as if expecting betrayal from every direction. A rogue or assassin type, Zeph guessed. Someone who understood that the greatest threats often came from unexpected directions.
The third was a woman in her mid-thirties with kind eyes and healing-focused equipment visible in her gear configuration. Aria Chen, Level 41, C-rank, radiated a pragmatic competence that suggested someone who had kept people alive through situations where survival seemed impossible. Her hands bore the slight tremor of someone who had performed emergency healing under combat conditions, who had made impossible triage decisions and lived with the consequences.
"These leaders will be available for consultation and coordination," Voss continued. "However, understand this clearly: we are not babysitters. You are all awakened. You are all responsible for your own survival. We will provide structure and intelligence, but we cannot save everyone."
The blunt honesty was almost refreshing after so many official briefings that danced around casualty projections with euphemisms and optimistic language. At least Voss had the decency to tell them the truth, even if it was a truth nobody wanted to hear.
"Now, let’s discuss what you’re actually walking into," Voss said, her expression hardening further, the scar on her face seeming to deepen in the harsh light. "The Ruins have claimed thirty-seven awakened lives in preliminary surveys. The estimated casualty rate for this expedition is sixty to seventy percent."
A ripple of unease moved through the assembly like a physical wave. Zeph noticed several people exchanging glances. Sixty to seventy percent meant that out of one thousand participants, somewhere between six and seven hundred would die. Those weren’t odds—that was a massacre with volunteers.
’They’re lying,’ Zeph thought immediately, his experience with official briefings letting him read between the lines. ’They expect worse. Probably eighty percent or higher. They’re lowballing the estimate to prevent mass desertion.’
The math was simple: if they announced an eighty percent casualty rate, half the expedition would walk away immediately, and they needed the numbers. Bodies to explore dangerous areas, to trigger traps, to provide data through their deaths. It was cold calculation dressed up as opportunity.
"Estimated duration is five to seven days," Voss continued, her tone remaining clinical and detached. "You have all been provided with emergency rations sufficient for ten days. Resupply is not guaranteed. Water purification tablets are mandatory—do not drink anything in the ruins without treatment."
Dr. Maki stepped forward, unable to contain her enthusiasm despite the grim statistics that had just been shared. "The Ruins represent an unprecedented archaeological find! Preliminary analysis suggests they predate modern civilization by at least three thousand years. The artifacts recovered so far indicate a technological and magical sophistication we barely understand. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to—"
"Thank you, Doctor," Voss interrupted, her tone suggesting this wasn’t the first time she’d needed to rein in the researcher’s enthusiasm. "Compensation for survivors is fifty thousand credits each, paid immediately upon return. This is non-negotiable and guaranteed by Sanctuary Authority."
Fifty thousand credits. A fortune for most awakened. Enough to fund serious equipment upgrades, pay off debts, or simply live comfortably for several months. The kind of money that made desperate people take desperate risks. The kind of money that explained why a thousand awakened had shown up despite the death rates. Desperation and opportunity were powerful motivators.
"Loot distribution follows standard Authority protocols," Voss explained. "All artifacts and valuable materials are shared assets. Sanctuary Authority receives sixty percent of total recovered value. The remaining forty percent is split among surviving participants based on contribution metrics tracked by your beacon devices."
This prompted muttered complaints from several participants, though no one was foolish enough to voice their objections loudly. Sixty percent was highway robbery, but it was also non-negotiable—the Authority controlled the ruins, controlled the expedition, controlled everything that mattered. They made the rules because they had the power to enforce them.
"Emergency extraction," Voss said, and her tone made it clear this was the critical part, the information that might actually keep people alive. "The ruins contain spatial anomalies that interfere with most communication and teleportation methods. Your tracking beacons will provide location data, but extraction is not guaranteed. If you get separated, if you get trapped, if you trigger a defensive mechanism—you may be on your own. Plan accordingly." 𝙛𝓻𝒆𝓮𝒘𝙚𝙗𝒏𝙤𝙫𝓮𝒍.𝓬𝒐𝙢
The weight of that statement settled over the assembly like a physical force. No guaranteed rescue. No reliable communication. One thousand awakened walking into a death trap with the understanding that the people sending them in might not be able to pull them out. They would be truly alone in there, cut off from support, from backup, from everything except their own skills and the questionable cooperation of strangers.
"You have one hour to make final preparations," Voss announced. "We depart at 0800 hours precisely. Anyone not ready at that time will be left behind. Are there any questions?"
Silence. Either no one had questions, or everyone was too intimidated by Voss’s presence to voice them. Perhaps both. The information had been delivered with such finality that questions seemed pointless.
"Then dismissed. Prepare yourselves."
The assembly began to disperse, breaking into clusters as people sought out allies, finalized equipment checks, or simply tried to calm their nerves before walking into almost certain death. Some gathered in tight groups, clearly pre-existing teams. Others stood alone, isolated by choice or circumstance. The social dynamics of the expedition were already beginning to form.
Zeph stood still for a moment, processing everything he’d heard. The casualty rates, the lack of guaranteed extraction, the presence of Dr. Maki whose enthusiasm seemed destined to get her killed—all of it painted a picture of an expedition balanced on a knife’s edge between valuable discovery and total disaster.
The egg in his storage ring pulsed in perfect synchronization with that deep vibration from the ruins’ direction.
48 beats per minute. A heartbeat. A countdown. A connection to something ancient and powerful and utterly unknown.
And in one hour, he would walk directly toward it.
