Thirstfall - Memory of a Returnee-Chapter 18: The Price of Entry
I leave the dark "Dead End" and breathe in the stale air of the slums. But it tastes okay for the first time since I got here.
I hold the hilt of Eventide firmly before tucking it in my sash. I have a weapon. I have money. It feels like a fresh start.
But as I look up toward the upper districts, where the Guild spires pierce the artificial gloom, the fire in my chest reminds me: this isn’t a fresh start. It’s a second lap in a race I already lost.
The Deepwarden. They are still up there, fat and happy, drinking wine made from the blood of my peers.
A thought crosses my mind, sharp and sudden.
The Sanctuary of Aion.
In my previous life, I found the Codex there. I used it. Does that mean the pedestal is empty now? Or does the regression reset everything, including the book?
If the Codex is there... could I take it again? Two of them?
I shake my head.
Stop. You are Rank F. A stiff breeze could kill you. Going back to the Sanctuary now is suicide. Focus on the foundation first.
I push the thought out of my mind and head to a mid-range outfitter close to the district border. Not a thrift store that smells like dead people, but also not a store where you pay for the label.
I pick out a set of [Standard Ranger Gear]. Matte black leather, reinforced stitching, no flashy metals. It’s the kind of gear mercenaries wear when they want to blend into the shadows, not stand out in a parade.
I check the tags with my HUD.
[Item: Night-Leather Tunic]
[Rank: Shallow (E)]
[Description: Matte black treated leather. Offers decent thermal insulation and flexibility.]
--
[Item: Strider Reinforced Boots]
[Rank: Shell (F)]
[Description: General-purpose combat boots with hardened soles. Reliable on stone, mud, or city pavement.]
--
[Item: Voyager Utility Belt]
[Rank: Shell (F)]
[Description: Standard issue storage without guild markings.]
"Two hundred Scales for the lot," the clerk says, bored. "Clearance sale on last season’s cut."
"Deal."
I don’t bother to haggle. The price is fair enough, and my time is worth more than his soul.
[Scales: 2,901 -> 2,701]
I change in the back room. The leather feels stiff but sturdy.
I toss the bloody rags into the incinerator. Every bargain shop has one for the trash nobody wants to claim. Watching them burn feels like shedding a skin.
I fasten the utility belt and slide Eventide into the main loop.
It looks ridiculous.
I’m wearing crisp, professional gear, looking like a competent mercenary... except for the jagged, broken hilt dangling at my hip like a broken toy I refuse to throw away.
I catch my reflection in a polished shield on the wall.
"Nothing says ’professional’ like a new suit and an invisible sword," I mutter, adjusting my collar with a smirk. "At least I look like a well-dressed lunatic with these dark circles."
As I walk out, heads turn. I see the confusion in their eyes.
Is he a veteran? Or is he broke? Why carry a broken hilt?
Let them wonder.
I head toward the center of the district. The massive, glowing archway dominates the plaza ahead: the Oathmark Gate.
The only way out of this starter dump. The only way to the Capital—and of course... the Academy.
I feel a pang of bitterness.
In the first timeline, I stared at that gate for two years. That’s how long it took to scrape together the Academy’s entrance fee. Two years of eating rat skewers and sleeping in mud.
And the irony? By the time I finally paid up, I didn’t need them. The slums had already turned me into a weapon. Their "elite training" was a joke compared to the daily struggle of keeping a pulse in this place.
But now...
I look at my trembling hand.
Rank F.
Fragile.
Weak.
Now, it’s different.
I have the money. I have the knowledge. And most importantly, I’m not two years late. I’m one day early.
"Time to go to school," I whisper, walking toward the blue light of the portal.
The Oathmark Gate looms over the plaza, an obsidian arch pulsing with spatial runes. I walk straight to the holographic control panel. In Thirstfall, capitalism is automated.
My fingers type in the registry sequence from memory.
[Destination: Azure Prime - Central Plaza]
Coordinates are everything in Thirstfall. One wrong digit and you end up at a dormant Oathmark in the middle of the Void, paying a ton of Scales for the privilege of dying alone.
[Fee: 46 Scales]
The System deducts the amount directly from my inventory.
[Scales: 2,701 -> 2,655]
Blue light envelops me. There is no ceremony, no nausea. Just a flicker of static, a shift of pressure in my ears, and the slums vanish.
When I open my eyes, the air is different. It doesn’t taste like rust. It tastes like sea salt and flowers.
I step out of the portal onto gleaming white marble.
I look up.
For the first time since my return, the view is clear.
The sky of Thirstfall stretches above, infinite and heavy. It isn’t air or space. It is a ceiling of blue water.
Massive, slow-moving waves roll miles above our heads, filtering the light into caustic patterns that dance across the glass towers of the city.
An ocean hangs above us, vast and impossibly real.
It is a constant, oppressive reminder: we are not on the surface. We are at the bottom. The entire world is an aquarium, and we are the bottom feeders living in a bubble of air.
I tear my eyes away from the crushing beauty of the oceanic sky and look at the plaza.
[Welcome to Azure Prime]
Everything here shines. Fountains of drinkable water shoot into the air purely for aesthetics, an arrogant waste that would make a man from the slums weep with rage.
I walk toward the golden gates of the Academy, ignoring the luxury. Luxury here is just wallpaper for the slaughterhouse.
The registration line is a parade of peacocks. Young nobles in armor engraved with family crests laugh loudly, secure in futures bought with old money.
My eyes filter the crowd, instantly spotting the hierarchy of Azure Prime. There are three Houses you don’t cross here. I see the crests of the Brines, the vassal nobility acting as lapdogs; the silent, dangerous heirs of House Benthic, the royal assassins; and of course, the omnipresent Deepwarden, the number one Guild that thinks it owns the ocean.
"Hey, look at that."
The voice is drawling, arrogant.
I turn my head slightly. A blonde boy, surrounded by a retinue of sycophants, points at me. But he isn’t just any noble. He stands at the apex.
Veric...
I remember him. The "Prodigy" of House Azurea, the Royal Nobility. He wears a full set of Tidebreaker series armor—Rank B plating worth a fortune.
"Generic Ranger gear," Veric mocks, loud enough for the line to hear. "No crest. And... by the Gods, is that a bladeless sword hilt on his waist?"
His group explodes in laughter.
"Hey, pleb!" Veric shouts. "Did the money run out before you bought the steel? Or do you plan to beat the monsters with the handle until they die of boredom?"
I don’t stop. I just keep walking, which makes his smile falter.
Indifference is poison to the ego.
I reach the registration counter.
In front of me, a small girl with patched clothes, fumbling with coins in her thick, oversized leather gloves, is trembling.
She dumps a cloth bag onto the marble counter. The sound is ugly—a dry clatter of dull, chipped Scales, some fading to gray, others barely glowing. They look more like dead fingernails than currency.
The clerk, a man with the Deepwarden emblem, watches the digital display counting the coins automatically.
"Two thousand, four hundred fifty," he says, his voice monotone.
The girl pales.
"Please," she whispers. "I counted... the exchange rate in the slums must have fluctuated..."
"The rate is fixed, Miss Rhayne," the clerk says, bored. "It’s 2,500 Scales. You’re fifty short. No exceptions."
"I can bring the rest tomorrow! Please..."
"Next!" the clerk shouts, looking over her head.
Behind me, Veric laughs again.
"Move out of the way, rat," he says. "If you can’t afford the entry, how will you pay the tuition? Go back to the sewer."
Rhayne starts frantically gathering the coins, tears in her eyes.
It’s pathetic. It’s cruel. But that’s not why my stomach turns.
It turns because I know that look. Shoulders hunched, eyes staring at the floor, waiting for the next blow.
I wore that same expression for ten years. I felt that same hollow hunger gnawing at my ribs while the "elites" laughed.
Watching her is like looking into a mirror I thought I had broken.
I can’t just walk away. Not this time.
I step forward.
I don’t say a word. I just summon my inventory.
I unclench my hand and let the payment fall onto the counter.
Clink. Clink. Clink.
Twenty-five Shards of pure blue fall, spinning and glowing with an inner light that makes Rhayne’s dirty coins look like gravel.
[Scales: 2,655 -> 155]
Silence falls over the line. The clerk’s eyes widen. Veric shuts his mouth. Pure Shards are veteran currency.
"One registration," I say, my voice cutting the silence.
The clerk stammers, scooping up the Shards quickly. "Y-Yes, sir. Of course. How can I call y...?"
Before he can finish, I pull one more Shard from my inventory.
With a casual flick, I toss it onto the girl’s pile of miserable coins.
[Scales: 155 -> 55]
"Cover her difference," I say, not looking at Rhayne. "And the processing fee."
The clerk blinks, stunned. "But sir..."
"My name is Dryden... Dryden Sands. I’ll fill out the papers later."
Then I turn to the girl. She is looking at me in shock.
"And keep the change," I tell her, adjusting my belt where the ’broken handle’ rests. "Buy some lunch. You won’t last a day in training on an empty stomach."
I turn to leave, keeping my gaze fixed ahead so I don’t have to see the hope in her eyes.
Why help a nobody? I ask myself, feeling the weight of the spent Shards.
Not for loyalty. Not for a debt.
But because ten years ago, I stood exactly where she is, waiting for a savior that never came.
I didn’t do it for her. I did it to shut up the ghost of the boy I used to be.
I pass by Veric.
He doesn’t scream. He doesn’t block my path.
His eyes have drifted away from my face. He is staring fixedly at the pile of pure blue Shards on the counter.
The flush of humiliation on his cheeks fades, replaced by a cold, calculating stillness. I see his pupils dilate slightly as he tracks the wealth.
I know that look. I’ve seen it on scavengers a thousand times.
He isn’t looking at me like a rival anymore.
He’s looking at me like a loot box.
It doesn’t matter... I’m in.
And I just painted a target on my back.
Exactly as I planned.
