Chapter 2: Chapter 2 — System Error

The first two sentences glowed a soft, cerulean blue, hovering in the air like a whisper from a god. But the final words burned a deep, malevolent red, each one pulsing with a sick heat before the message vanished altogether.

Liam stared at the empty air where the text had just been, numb.

Somewhere beyond the rockfall, Peter was speaking. Trying to get his attention. Liam barely heard him. His thoughts were a scrambled mess, scattered like broken glass across stone.

“Well? Did it work? …Well?” Peter repeated himself, hopeful.

Liam didn’t answer.

He had been so sure. Finally, he would have been like everyone else. No—better. He wouldn’t have needed to enter a church or beg a priest for a glimpse at his own potential. He wouldn’t have had to wait for divine permission just to understand himself. No more blank stares when others talked about stats and levels and blessings.

He would have had a class. Power. A path forward.

He could have clawed his way out from under Horace’s thumb. Out of the debt, the pit fights, the empty rooms, the endless hunger. He could have started to matter.

But the chance was gone.

It was just another cruel joke. Another reminder.

Nothing had changed. He was still him. Still nothing.

Finally, he responded to Peter’s question. A single word, but one that resounded in the darkness with a deafening finality. “No.”

Peter’s voice grew louder, confused now. “What do you mean it didn’t work? You didn’t see anything? The system said it should have worked…”

Liam took a shaky breath. The burn in his chest hadn’t reached his eyes, but it was close.

In truth, something had happened. The system had reacted. The prompt had appeared. But then came the error. As if something inside him didn’t fit. As if he’d failed some unseen check before the process even began.

He should have expected it.

He had always been different. His mother used to call him special. But that word had long since curdled in his mind, soured by laughter and sneers and sidelong looks.

“I… yeah. It probably would’ve worked,” he muttered, releasing a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “But it didn’t.”

Peter was quiet for a second.

Liam rubbed at his eyes with the back of his wrist. The tears hadn’t fallen. Not yet. He set his jaw.

Peter had done his part. Whatever he was, whatever strange power let him conjure glowing words in the air, he hadn’t lied. The failure wasn’t his fault.

And Liam couldn’t just leave him trapped behind a wall of stone.

“…Alright,” he said, voice low. “I’ll get you out.”

“Oh, thank god. Seriously, thanks,” Peter said, relief flooding his voice.

Liam looked down at the steamgraft. The boiler was still warm, though cooling. Best to get it back up before it became dead weight. He bent to reconnect the small engine, locking it into place with a practiced motion. The burner caught the coal as he fed it once more, and the soft chuff of pressure returned.

Once full mobility returned to his right arm, he moved to the rockfall.

The collapse wasn’t as bad as it had looked. From his side, at least. The rocks were mostly loose, and with the steamgraft giving him strength and leverage, the work progressed quickly. Stone scraped against stone as he heaved boulders aside, dust swirling in the narrow corridor. He ignored the scrape of gravel against his knuckles, the plasm still working to keep him numb.

After a few minutes, he pried loose a larger stone and peered through the gap.

Light spilled into the tunnel.

He blinked, then squinted. Peter stood on the other side, illuminated by his own glow.

He looked… strange. And beautiful.

A boy around Liam’s age. Maybe a little older. His skin was tanned, his arms muscled and lean. Dark hair framed a face that seemed sculpted rather than born. His jaw was sharp, his cheekbones clean, his lips generous. His eyes, partially squinted from the light, seemed to smile even before his mouth did.

But the light was the strangest part. It poured off him in soft pulses, and something beneath his skin shimmered—markings, like painted circuitry or shifting tattoos, crawling in lazy loops across his arms and neck in greens, blues, and golds. They moved slowly, like living veins of colored fire, mesmerizing and faintly unreal.

Liam yanked the goggles off all the way. Even in the gloom, Peter’s radiance was bright.

Godborn.

He’d seen one once before, from a distance. Never up close. Never like this.

A quiet, bitter thought pushed its way to the front of his mind.

Of course he’s a godborn.

Liam glanced down at himself. All elbows and knees, his limbs too long, his build stretched and unfinished. His face was angular, narrow, framed by lank black hair with a widow’s peak he hated. His skin was pale, his eyes cold blue and deep-set beneath a heavy brow.

Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

Side by side, they could have been drawn from different worlds.

And maybe they were.

The envy came quickly, but Liam swallowed it. He turned back to the rocks and kept digging.

Peter started talking—relieved chatter, mostly. Liam heard the first few words, then let the rest fade into background noise. He focused on the work. Moving stone. Making space.

By the time the hole was wide enough for a person to squeeze through, his fingers were raw. The skin at his nailbeds tore as he cleared the last few rocks. Blood welled beneath his fingernails, but he didn’t pay it much attention. After all, he had other things on his mind.

Peter crawled through the opening, careful not to jostle the remaining stones. They held.

Once through, he grinned and gave a little stretch. Then, with a small “oh,” he reached back through the hole and pulled out a lute.

It was beautiful.

Ornate wood, warm and deep-toned, carved with strange patterns that shimmered faintly under Peter’s glow. He gave it a quick strum, nodded at the sound, then turned to Liam.

“So. New world, new life, new me,” he said.

He let out a short, breathy giggle. It sounded almost like laughter. Almost.

Liam didn’t respond.

Peter’s grin faltered, just slightly, before he smoothed it over. “What’s this place like?”

The words hung in the air, awkward and strange.

Liam frowned.

“…What do you mean?” he asked. “But more importantly—”

His gaze dropped to the lute.

Peter blinked. “Yeah, it’s real wood. Why wouldn’t it be?”

Liam stared at the lute like it had grown a pair of eyes. “You’re walking around with something that rare?”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “Uh, I mean… I guess? I didn’t exactly buy it here. It came with me.”

“With you,” Liam repeated flatly.

Peter tilted his head, still smiling, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. “I’ll explain later. Maybe. Long story.”

Liam didn’t respond. He was still looking at the lute. His expression shifted between suspicion and something unreadable.

Before Peter could say more, something skittered.

Then a hiss.

Liam’s eyes snapped toward the darkness at the edge of the cave. Peter opened his mouth to ask what was wrong.

He didn’t get the chance.

The rat lunged from the gloom, massive and fast, its weight slamming into Peter’s side. He went down hard, the impact driving the air from his lungs. His shoulder struck stone. The rat’s claws scrabbled for purchase, its yellowed teeth closing around his forearm.

Peter screamed.

Liam moved on instinct. He half-fumbled his grip as he drew the steamgraft arm back, then shoved it forward with a grunt. The claws punched out, metal shrieking against bone. He overshot the angle and stumbled forward—but the blades connected.

The rat jerked once.

Peter flailed beneath it, kicking wildly, his breath ragged. “What the hell is that thing?!”

The rat gave a final twitch and slumped. Liam yanked his claws free. Blood sprayed. He stepped back, breathing hard, eyes darting for more movement.

Peter lay still for a second, then slowly sat up.

He stared at his own arm. “I thought it bit me. I swear it—”

He stopped.

There was no wound. Not even a bruise. The sleeve wasn’t even torn, the skin beneath untouched.

He flexed his fingers, dazed.

Liam crouched beside him, eyes narrowing. “You’re not hurt?”

Peter shook his head. “No. I mean... I felt it hit me, though. It clamped down.”

“You’ve got a class,” Liam muttered, wiping his claws clean on the rat’s matted fur. “Makes sense.”

Peter stared. “Wait, what does that mean?”

Liam stood and nudged the rat with his boot. “When you get a class, it changes your soul. Gives it shape. Projects it around you like a shell. A barrier.”

“An aura?” Peter asked.

“Exactly. It protects you until it breaks. Once that’s gone, then you’re vulnerable.”

Peter looked down at himself, lips slightly parted. “That’s... not how anything works.”

Liam shrugged. “It is here.”

Peter gave a small, forced laugh, then winced as the adrenaline finally left his body. His hands trembled again.

He sat down hard, bracing against the stone wall. His breath came fast and shallow. “This is insane. What the hell kind of world is this?”

Liam didn’t answer. He was already at the corpse, kneeling beside it. The knife came out again.

Peter wiped at his face, which was now flushed with sweat. He felt sick. Not because of the gore, though that didn’t help, but because of the fear. He had nearly died. It wasn’t like in a dream. It wasn’t cinematic. The thing had been real, heavy, violent. It had slammed into him like a car, and he couldn’t even remember if he’d screamed or not.

His heart still hadn’t slowed.

Liam worked quietly, muttering to himself as he pried teeth loose and cut around the core. Peter hugged his lute close and tried to breathe.

He didn’t want to throw up in front of this guy.

“Is that normal?” he asked finally. “The size of that thing?”

Liam glanced over. “For a dire rat? Yeah.”

“That was the size of a labrador!”

“Could be worse. The last one I killed was bigger.”

Peter let out a low whistle, though it came out shakier than he liked. “And you live here?”

Liam didn’t look up. “Barely.”

Peter sat in silence as Liam wiped his blade clean. He didn’t know what to say to that.

Eventually, Liam stood and adjusted his pack. He looked down at Peter, frowning.

“We should move.”

Peter blinked. “Move where?”

“Out. Tunnel leads to the surface. We’ve got a day’s walk to the city.”

Peter hesitated, then got to his feet. His knees still felt rubbery, but he managed to keep from staggering.

“Do things like that attack often?” he asked.

“Not always.” Liam paused, then added, “But sometimes.”

Peter adjusted the strap on his lute and gave Liam a sidelong glance. “So, what’s the city like?”

Liam gave him a look that could only be described as guarded. “Depends which part you’re in. You’ll see.”

They walked in silence for a time, the only sounds the soft hiss of Liam’s boiler and the distant dripping of water echoing down the cave walls. Peter followed a few steps behind, watching the way Liam moved—precise, quiet, always looking ahead. It reminded him of how some animals crept through brush in nature documentaries. Tense. Ready to bolt or fight at the slightest sound.

He found it hard to look at Liam for long. There was something… off.

It wasn’t that he looked dangerous. If anything, he looked out of place. His clothing was cheap, patched, worn to the threads. His face wasn’t angry or cruel.

But something about him made Peter’s skin crawl if he stared too long.

Like he was a gap in the world, a missing page in a book. Something the universe had forgotten how to hold.

Liam noticed the silence and glanced back once.

“What?”

Peter looked away quickly. “Nothing.”

Liam said nothing in return.

Behind the quiet, Peter could still feel his pulse pounding in his neck.