Chapter 7: It's Only Natural

  Noah had always been good at adapting.

  He'd always be the quickest to pick up a sport or social situations. That’s why, when the system’s envoy appeared before him, explaining the rules of this so-called “integration,” he paid just enough attention to get by. He nodded at the right times, responded when necessary, and skimmed through the options with ease. Unlike so many others, who were overwhelmed by panic and flooded with questions, he approached the entire thing with a level of calm that bordered on casual.

  The selection process had been simple. He had been given a choice of Fabula Cores, each representing a foundation upon which his myth would be built. While others hesitated, agonizing over their choices and aproaching the desicion from every direction, Noah instinctively knew which to take. He picked the strongest-sounding one—something about wind, speed, and unparalleled movement. He barely glanced at the description before confirming.

  It just felt right.

  The moment he made his selection, a rush of energy filled him, a sensation unlike anything he had ever known. His muscles felt lighter andhis reflexes sharper. A grin stretched across his face. " He'd thought this would be fun.

  Then, in the blink of an eye, the world shifted.

  When he opened his eyes, he was no longer in the sterile white room with the envoy. Instead, he found himself standing in a vast, open square at the heart of a city that gleamed with an unnatural brightness. Towering white structures surrounded him, and in the distance, four massive towers stood at the cardinal points, each one radiating an aura of authority.

  Most people wouldn’t arrive for at least another hour. He could tell. He had gotten here early, before the crowds.

  Noah stretched, rolling his shoulders as he took in his surroundings. Looking around he said,

  "Guess I got a head start."

  He didn’t question it.

  The Southern Tower caught his eye immediately. It stood taller than the rest, its stained-glass windows reflecting the sunlight in a way that made the entire structure shimmer with an almost hypnotic glow. The moment he laid eyes on it, a strange pull settled in his chest—subtle, like a whisper at the back of his mind, nudging him toward it.

  It felt… right, so he didn’t hesitate. After all only the best for the best right?

  The instant he approached, the grand doors swung open on their own. The gesture felt deliberate, as if the tower itself was inviting him inside.

  The interior was breathtaking. The walls were lined with intricate carvings, golden inlays twisting through the marble like veins of light. Chandeliers hovered overhead, suspended by unseen forces, their soft glow illuminating the spacious hall.

  Waiting for him were several armed figures, their expressions calm, their movements deliberate. They welcomed him not with scrutiny or suspicion, but with the warmth of someone greeting an old friend.

  "You made the right choice coming here so quickly," one of them said, smiling.

  Noah didn’t need to be convinced. He always made the right choice.

  They led him deeper inside, past endless corridors, past doorways leading to places he could only imagine. Eventually, they arrived at a vast banquet hall.

  And that’s when Noah realized—this was not like the experience others would have.

  The room was filled with food. Tables stretched as far as the eye could see, overflowing with roasted meats, fresh fruits, and golden goblets brimming with fragrant drinks. The scent alone was intoxicating. "Sit," one of the robed figures gestured. "Eat. Drink. You must be hungry after your arrival."

  Noah sat without hesitation, taking a plate and digging in. The food was beyond anything he had ever tasted. It was rich, spiced perfectly.

  As he ate, they spoke.

  "You are among the fortunate few," they explained. "The Southern Tower grants its chosen ones access to the System Terminal, something the others do not have."

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  Noah barely registered what that meant, but he nodded along anyway.

  "We have privileges others can only dream of. Food, equipment, training—everything we need at our fingertips."

  Noah took another bite of meat, savoring it's flavor.

  This was just how things were supposed to be.

  The next two weeks passed in a blur.

  Noah barely needed to lift a finger to secure everything he could want. The Southern Tower provided everything. Weapons, armor, training manuals—he never had to fight for scraps like the others outside its walls.

  He trained, of course. It was expected. But it wasn’t difficult.

  The tower had mechanized instructors, guiding him through techniques with precision. But Noah found himself coasting. Movements came naturally. Reflexes responded before his mind could process commands. He didn’t need to struggle the way others did.

  It was almost too easy.

  He sparred when required, dodging strikes with effortless grace, landing blows without much thought. His instructors praised his form, his natural agility, the way he seemed to predict movements before they even happened.

  Noah smirked. Of course they did.

  He knew he was talented. It wasn’t arrogance—it was just fact.

  Why exhaust himself when his natural gifts carried him forward?

  Outside the tower, he could see the other participants struggling. The weak scrounged for food. The desperate fought for gear. The unlucky died.

  But he never worried. He had food every night. A warm bed. A plan. This was how it was meant to be.

  He never once considered that others might not have the same luxuries. Never questioned why the tower provided so much. Never wondered what price came with such generosity.

  Because as far as he was concerned—

  This was normal.

  This was fair.

  This was his place. And he was exactly where he belonged.

  Noah’s days in the Southern Tower followed a routine, one that felt more like a reward than training.

  Each morning, he woke in a private chamber, far removed from the chaos of the common initiates. His room was well-furnished, far better than the cramped shelters he had seen scattered across the city. The bed was soft, the air warm, the ceiling embedded with glowing runes that mimicked the morning sun.

  His schedule was simple. After a morning meal—always a lavish spread—he attended training sessions. The instructors, clad in robes embroidered with golden sigils, guided him through techniques meant to refine his skills. Yet Noah never struggled like the others. His movements were fluid, his reflexes already honed, his mind naturally attuned to combat.

  He progressed faster than his peers, skipping the tedious early lessons. Instead of learning to fight with crude weapons and basic footwork, he was handed advanced techniques, exclusive knowledge that others would take months to reach.

  "Your potential is extraordinary," one of his instructors told him. "It would be a waste to slow your progress."

  Noah agreed.

  The Southern Tower had a way of making things easy for him.

  When he needed gear, it was provided. When he required knowledge, scrolls and books were given freely. When he wanted to test his limits, he was granted access to controlled sparring matches against opponents carefully chosen to challenge him—but never overwhelm him.

  He was told this was normal.

  That this was how all initiates trained. That everyone had access to these resources. And he believed it.

  He never questioned why the common initiates outside the tower seemed to be fighting for scraps. Why so many of them huddled together in the slums of the city, their bodies bruised, their expressions hardened.

  To him, they simply weren’t trying hard enough.

  If they wanted food, they should have found a way to get it. If they wanted better weapons, they should have proved themselves worthy. He had done exactly that.

  Hadn’t he? Hadn’t he shown potential? Hadn’t the tower chosen him?

  So, when he walked through the city on occasion, catching glimpses of struggling initiates, he felt no pity.

  He had earned his position.

  Hadn’t he?

  As more time passed, Noah rarely pushed himself.

  Why should he? His talent carried him forward. Each day, he skimmed through training sessions, practicing techniques just enough to keep up appearances. He could tell that some of his instructors wanted more from him—pushing him to train harder, to refine his skills with greater discipline.

  But he didn’t see the point.

  He had no real challenges. No threats. Everything was coming easily.

  And if something ever did challenge him?

  Well, he was sure he’d rise to the occasion.

  It wasn’t arrogance.

  It was just fact.

  One evening, Noah sat at the grand dining table, surrounded by other promising initiates. The feast before them was luxurious as always—tender meats, exotic fruits, golden goblets filled with wine that never seemed to run dry. The warmth of the Southern Tower made the cold of the city beyond its walls feel like another world.

  The robed figures overseeing them spoke in hushed, measured tones. They never ordered. They never commanded.

  Instead, they simply suggested.

  "You should not concern yourself with the struggles of those outside the tower," one of them said, pouring him another glass. "They have their path, as you have yours."

  Noah nodded.

  "You are among the fortunate," another added. "And fortune favors those who do not squander their gifts."

  Noah took a slow sip of his drink, letting the words settle.

  It made sense.

  He had earned this.

  Hadn’t he?

  He leaned back in his chair, watching the flickering candlelight dance across the table. His fingers drummed against the polished wood.

  For a fleeting moment, something nagged at him—some distant part of himself that wondered if this was too easy.

  But the warmth of the room, the luxury, the certainty of his position drowned out the doubt before it could take root.

  Instead, he smiled.

  Tomorrow would be just like today.

  And that suited him just fine