Chapter 1: The Worldheart System

The city had no intention of sleeping, even though the clock above the entrance of the shuttered clinic had long since passed eleven at night. Rain smeared the neon billboards into blurred streaks, washing down glass windowpanes and trembling in the puddles scattered across cracked pavement slabs.

Across the street, cars glided past, and laughing women stepped out of restaurants, shielding their animal ears and styled hair from the downpour. High above their heads, a massive revolving billboard for a private medical center promised the care every family deserved.

Serayne Veyra had stared at that slogan for so long she had memorized the sequence of images cycling beneath it. Yet only now, as a stray cold drop rolled from her hair onto her cheek, did the corner of her mouth twitch into something faintly resembling a smile.

Every family… as long as they can pay.

She sat beneath the side awning of an old rehabilitation clinic, stranded in a wheelchair with a crooked footrest and a loose wheel. A thin blanket was draped over her lap, though it had long stopped keeping out the damp cold.

Long black hair clung to her face, her lynx ears drooping under the weight of the rain, while a white rabbit tail was wedged awkwardly between her body and the seat. She simply didn't have the strength left to try shifting her position again.

A clear plastic folder filled with paperwork rested on her knees, its top edge tucked beneath the blanket - as if whoever had dumped her here cared more about keeping the documents dry than keeping the patient warm.

On the first page, just above the facility director’s signature, was a line confirming her release into family custody. Every so often, Serayne would glance down at it with the same numbed disbelief she had felt watching the car doors slam shut.

She was twenty years old, though her gaunt face and dark-circled blue eyes made her look like someone who hadn't known a full night’s sleep in years.

Five years ago, she had been a slender girl standing a hundred and sixty-eight centimeters tall, with two mothers, a modest apartment, and ordinary worries that now seemed like an impossible luxury.

Everything had ended in a fire.

They had lived in a building owned by the Halverin Consortium, where electrical faults had been reported for months, yet every inspection ended with the same assurance: there was no cause for concern.

When smoke filled the stairwell one night and blocked escape routes turned the upper floors into a death trap, none of the people who had signed off on those assurances were inside.

Serayne remembered the burning heat of her mother’s hands shielding her head, the sickening crack of collapsing beams, and a blinding surge of pain - after which everything below her waist ceased to belong to her in the way she had known her entire life.

She woke up in a hospital unable to move her legs. Over the next few days, she asked after both her mothers so persistently that the nurses began looking away before she could even open her mouth.

After that came the interrogations, the paperwork, and soft-spoken women offering condolences about an unfortunate accident. Eventually, Vaedra Halverin’s name vanished from the news, the case was settled quietly out of court, and Serayne was awarded a payout meant to cover her long-term care.

As expected, the money didn't last.

Yvera Fen had appeared at her bedside with tear-streaked cheeks and promises that family would never abandon her. Serayne, fifteen and terrified, believed her so readily that for years afterward, she hated herself far more than she hated her relative.

First came signing off on medical bills, then power of attorney documents no one bothered to explain properly. Within a few years, the care fund was nearly drained, and Yvera stopped answering her calls.

The facility sent payment reminders for a while, then cut back on her treatments, and finally informed her that she was being transferred to another care home where a spot had supposedly already been prepared.

Serayne was handed her paperwork, her clothes, and reassurances that the transition wouldn't take long. So when the car pulled up beside a darkened building, she still tried to tell herself someone had simply forgotten to turn on the lights.

The driver wheeled her under the overhang, told her to wait for staff, and drove off before Serayne noticed the notice posted on the door: the clinic had closed down months ago.

Hours had passed since then.

Her phone had died after one last futile attempt to reach Yvera. When she tried to push the wheelchair herself, a wheel wedged into a crack between the concrete pavers, leaving her with bruised, aching hands and too far from the street for her weak cries to carry over the rain.

Two passing women had glanced her way, but the sight of her hospital wristband and the clinic entrance was apparently enough for them to assume someone was already looking after her.

After a while, Serayne stopped calling out.

She just watched the blinking red beacon atop a distant skyscraper, wondering if someone from that height could even spot a girl left by the side entrance of an abandoned building - or if everything simply blurred into a pretty skyline that had no room for such ugly details.

At least it must be warm up there.

She brushed a hand through her wet hair, pushing it back from her forehead, but her arm soon slumped back onto her lap. The plastic folder crinkled beneath her fingers.

She lacked the strength to think about what she would do in the morning. Even the simplest plan required things she hadn't possessed in years: money, working legs, or a single person who cared whether she survived until tomorrow.

“Is the scrap pickup supposed to be around this side?” a voice suddenly called from around the corner, followed by the metallic clatter of a hand truck.

Serayne turned her head to see two women in work jackets. The taller one had fox ears and a red, bifurcated mark across her right cheek, while short horns peeked out from under the hood of the shorter one.

One swept a flashlight beam toward the locked entrance, while the other fixed her gaze on Serayne before slowly lowering the cargo hook in her hand.

“Shit… Who left you out here?”

Serayne parted her lips, but her first attempt to speak came out as nothing more than a ragged breath. The woman stepped closer, leaning down to read the facility’s name printed on the document peeking from the folder.

“They brought me here,” Serayne finally managed to whisper. “Someone… someone was supposed to come out.”

The two shared a look that told Serayne everything. The taller woman cursed under her breath and pulled out her phone, stepping back to shield the screen from the downpour.

Meanwhile, the other adjusted the blanket over Serayne’s lap with clumsy care, as if terrified of hurting her, then peered toward the street for somewhere dry to move her.

“Hang in there, we’ll call for help,” she said, but when an irritated voice on the other end demanded an address and claimed the call needed to be routed to a different department, her expression hardened.

Serayne closed her eyes. This sudden flicker of kindness hurt worse than the cold, dragging back the bitter realization that she still wanted to be saved - even after spending hours trying to convince herself she had stopped caring.

It was then that a voice spoke - one that came neither from the phone nor from the street.

[Interworld transfer initiated.]

Serayne’s eyes snapped open. The woman in front of her whipped her head around as though searching for a hidden loudspeaker, yet the dispassionate announcement rang out again, cutting clearly through the rain, the traffic, and the distant drone of music.

[By decree of the Interworld Accord, residents of Asterra between the ages of eighteen and fifty-five are subject to mandatory transmigration to Elyndra.]

[The objective of this transfer is to replenish the population of Elyndra and alleviate the demographic burden on Asterra.]

“What the fuck is this?!” the woman with the phone shouted. But Serayne never saw who she was yelling at. The pressure of the seat beneath her vanished, and the rain-slicked street dissolved into a brilliance unlike any city neon.

For a brief instant, she felt as though she were falling, yet there was no rush of wind, no familiar lurch in her stomach. Then her back met something soft, and the scent of rain and exhaust gave way to dry timber.

***

Serayne didn't move for a long time, convinced she had passed out. But when she finally opened her eyes, there was no dark overhang - only a wooden ceiling bathed in a warm, amber glow.

The cars were gone, along with the voices of the two strangers. The silence was so sudden and absolute that her lynx ears twitched on instinct, straining to catch any sound that might tell her where she was.

She was lying on a simple straw pallet, still dressed in the flimsy clothes she had been given before her discharge. But the wheelchair and the plastic folder were gone, as if they had never existed.

The room was small, roughly twenty square meters with subtly rounded contours. Dark green patterns traced along the timber walls, floor, and ceiling - patterns far too deliberate and symmetrical to be natural wood grain.

Beside the pallet stood a low table, beneath a lantern that cast a peculiar light; peering closely, Serayne saw tiny motes of yellow drifting within it, flitting like fireflies trapped behind glass.

Beyond that were a round window and a firmly shut door, but nothing else offered any explanation for how she had gone from sitting on a rain-drenched sidewalk to lying in a wooden cabin.

Elyndra… Was that what the voice said?

She tried to lift her head, but her weakened muscles protested after everything she had endured, and she sank back onto the pallet, staring up at the ceiling with a mix of exhaustion and distrust.

For a moment, she focused on her legs, willing her foot to move just as she had hundreds of times after waking in the hospital. But nothing answered. There was no sign that anything about her body had changed alongside her surroundings.

“At least it isn't raining,” she whispered. She closed her eyes, lacking the strength to ponder whether the impossible had truly occurred or if her broken mind had simply given up under the weight of reality.

She didn't have time to drift off, however, as the emotionless voice sounded once more - this time so close it felt as if someone were speaking right into her ear.

[Welcome to Elyndra.]

[The Worldheart System will now initiate the orientation procedure.]

Serayne’s eyelids fluttered open, searching for the source. The lantern still glowed steadily, the door remained shut, and the broadcast continued, indifferent to her silence and her mounting bewilderment.

[Elyndra is a world steeped in mana, inhabited by magical beasts and other perilous entities. Chaotic mana currents, ambient surges, and volatile weather present severe hazards to unprepared arrivals.]

[To increase your chances of survival, please review the following rules.]

[Rule One: A Hearthhold equipped with an active barrier serves as your primary safe haven. Expand it and raise its defense tier.]

[Rule Two: Resource gathering and further progression depend entirely on your own actions.]

Serayne’s fingers curled into the straw, crushing a few dry stalks. That last line sounded like a cruel joke to someone who, for five long years, had needed help just to get out of bed.

[Rule Three: The Worldheart Console located inside your Hearthhold provides survival support functions. Familiarize yourself with its capabilities.]

[Rule Four: A seven-day grace period is now in effect. Formidable beasts and magical creatures will not actively hunt arrivals protected by this ward. Utilize this time to prepare and gather supplies.]

[Rule Five: Supply crates spawn randomly throughout Elyndra. They may contain food, water, and essential equipment. Availability is not guaranteed.]

She swallowed, wincing at the dry scrape in her throat. The mere mention of water made her scan the room once more, though she had seen neither cup nor jug she could reach.

[Rule Six: Danger levels in Elyndra escalate significantly after dark. Return to your Hearthhold before night falls.]

[Rule Seven: Entry into an activated Hearthhold is restricted to its owner. Access by others requires an explicit invitation.]

Serayne stared at the barred door, trying to reconcile warnings of monsters, mana, and magical barriers with the modest wooden room around her. But before she could process even a fraction of it, the next words froze her in place.

[Rule Eight: Each arrival receives one basic spell, the opportunity to awaken a Talent, and one chosen E-rank tool.]

[Distances between Hearthholds range from ten meters to ten kilometers. Available resources are finite, and other arrivals may serve as allies or threats.]

[Orientation procedure concluded.]

The voice fell silent, but Serayne remained frozen, staring blankly ahead. Amid all the dire warnings, unfamiliar terms, and survival rules, two words clung stubbornly to her mind.

A spell… A Talent…

Slowly, she raised one hand, as if expecting to see some mark of change upon it, before looking down at her motionless legs. Her heart began to pound, overriding the crushing exhaustion that had weighed on her just moments ago.

If this was real - if she had genuinely been plucked from Asterra and dropped into a world where magic existed - then perhaps the rules that had bound her life to beds and wheelchairs for five years weren't so absolute here after all.

She didn't need an immediate miracle to fix everything.

She just needed something - anything - that would let her reach a cup of water, gather food, or move without waiting on the whims of someone else’s pity. And if that disembodied voice could mention spells and Talent awakenings with the same casual indifference the clinic staff used when announcing meal times, maybe her hope wasn't entirely futile.

If I can get something useful… Anything that lets me stand, or at least move on my own…

Her grip tightened on the straw bed. A sharp, taut focus ignited in her blue eyes, which had looked so hollow and spent only minutes before.

She was terrified of believing too soon - she remembered all too well how deeply past disappointments had stung - yet she could no longer just lie there and pretend she hadn't heard an opportunity she had been denied for five whole years.

Turning her head slowly toward the low table, she studied the emerald patterns swirling across its surface. Only now did she realize that what she had dismissed as an ordinary piece of furniture might be the most crucial object in the entire room.

The Worldheart Console…