Ability Stealer

Andrew glanced at Qein as they continued down the dirt road toward the bustling city ahead. He finally broke the silence. "Did you understand anything that guy on the jeep was saying?"

Qein tilted his head, furrowing his brow in mock concentration. Then, he let loose a string of exaggerated gibberish, complete with rolled R's and abrupt guttural noises. "That's what it sounded like to me. Probably another language."

Andrew snorted, shaking his head. "You're not wrong. But then again, how do they even know our language?"

Qein's expression turned contemplative. "Good question." He tilted his head slightly, studying Andrew with a faint smirk. "Got any theories, genius?"

Andrew tapped his temple. "The system. It probably translates or does something weird to our brains."

Qein's expression twisted with unmistakable disdain. "The system. Of course. That cursed thing seems to have its fingers in everything. Next, you'll tell me it knows what I had for breakfast three years ago."

"Probably does," Andrew said lightly, grinning as Qein grimaced.

"It's unnatural," Qein muttered. "A meddler. If it could be destroyed—"

"Yeah, yeah, your vendetta against the system is noted." Andrew cut him off before he could build any momentum. Reaching into his pack, he pulled out a long-sleeve shirt. "Here. Put this on."

Qein stared at the shirt for a moment, raising an eyebrow. "Why?"

"You kind of stand out," Andrew said, gesturing toward Qein's bare torso. "Not to mention, it's a bit chilly in the mornings."

Qein sighed but took the shirt. "Fine. But if it's ugly, I'm giving it back."

"Noted." Andrew smirked as Qein slipped it on. The fabric stretched snugly over Qein's defined muscles, clinging to his frame. It wasn't a perfect fit—Andrew wasn't scrawny by any means, but Qein's physique was a cut above, his body defined and athletic in a way that seemed almost unfair.

"It's tight," Qein muttered, adjusting the sleeves.

Andrew shrugged. "It's the best I've got. You'll survive."

As Qein pulled the shirt into place, Andrew's gaze drifted to his arms and neck. "At least the tattoos don't go up to your face."

Qein paused, looking confused for a moment. Then he smoothed out the shirt and replied, "By the way, you keep calling them tattoos. They're Glarks."

Andrew blinked. "Glarks?"

"Yeah." Qein looked at Andrew as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "That's their name."

Andrew raised an eyebrow, biting his tongue before he could call the name ridiculous. "Okay, so... Glarks?"

"Exactly. We are born with it so it can't be tattoos." Qein looked pleased, as though Andrew had finally caught on.

Andrew scratched his head, thinking to himself. Glarks? Seriously? Who comes up with this stuff?

"Anyway," Andrew said, breaking the brief silence, "glad we cleared that up."

"You're welcome." Qein tugged at the shirt again, testing its flexibility. "It's still tight."

"Noted," Andrew said again, rolling his eyes as they continued walking.

Andrew blinked. "Glarks?" He kept the incredulous thought to himself, but the word struck him as absurd.

The group pressed onward. The closer they got to the city, the more vehicles buzzed past them—rusty jeeps, battered trucks, and other old-timey cars belching exhaust that clung to the already sour air. The dome encasing the city loomed larger, a translucent black bubble that shimmered faintly under the sunlight. It wasn't nearly as dark as the oppressive dome over Nerthudan, but it was still an ominous sight.

Qein stared at the dome with a mixture of awe and confusion. "Why are we walking toward the giant dome?" he asked, hesitating as they approached.

"It's a protection against rifts," Mella explained. "We can walk through it."

His skepticism deepened as they neared the edge of the city. "And once we're in, what's the plan? Stock up on supplies for the trek back to Nerthudan?" His tone hinted at his aversion to the idea of camping again.

Mella groaned, clearly sharing his sentiments. "I'd rather not think about days on the road."

Andrew sighed. "Not much of a choice, though. Problem is, I'm not sure how far my money will go. Food and transportation aren't cheap."

Mella dug into her pouch and counted her coins. "Nine silvers." She glanced expectantly at Andrew.

He sighed again, this time with a hint of frustration. "Four and a half."

"Buying all those clothes?" Mella teased with a raised brow.

"Yeah, well, priorities," he muttered.

Qein crossed his arms. "So how exactly are we going to make money?"

Andrew pointed to their armor. "Riftwork."

A slow grin spread across Mella's face, only to vanish as Qein countered, "Didn't you say you couldn't find rifts here? Isn't this Veilrend place supposed to be full of rifts? Wouldn't that mean there's not much riftwork available?"

Her grin faded entirely, replaced by a thoughtful frown.

"We'll look for a Rift Tower," Andrew said, glancing at Mella for confirmation. "They probably have better ways of detecting rifts. Right?"

She nodded hesitantly. "It makes sense. I think that's a thing."

The trio entered the city, weaving through crowds of people and dodging the constant flow of vehicles. The smell of smoke grew stronger, the thick air reeking of burning fuel and something acrid. Factories, hidden behind the towering skyline, belched plumes of smoke that added to the oppressive atmosphere.

Andrew stopped a passerby, a middle-aged man in a threadbare coat. "Excuse me, where's the Rift Tower?"

The man gave him a curious look. "Which one?"

Andrew blinked, taken aback. "Uh, the closest one?"

The man pointed down the street. "Behind a couple of buildings. The tall silver one. Can't miss it."

As they followed the direction, Andrew noticed the Rift Tower wasn't as prominent as Nerthudan's. The city's uniformly tall buildings made it harder to stand out.

When they reached the building, Qein stopped short. "I'll wait out here," he said, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of entering the crowded structure.

Andrew and Mella nodded, stepping into the Rift Tower. The interior buzzed with activity—people talking, laughing, and bustling from one desk to another. Many turned to glance at the newcomers, their expressions curious and wary.

Andrew ignored the stares and made his way to the reception desk, where a stern-looking woman sat. She raised an eyebrow as they approached.

Andrew and Mella presented their Rift Fighter IDs. "We've got a bit of a situation," Andrew began. "We came out of a rift and somehow ended up here."