ONYXSPIRE: THE DESCENT OF CLIVE COLLINS

The northern wind of Lumeria was no longer merely cold today. It was a razor blade carving into every inch of exposed skin.

Snow fell heavily, piling onto the hunched shoulders of Clive Collins and adding even more weight to the fifty-kilogram wooden crate strapped to his back since dawn.

Clive stopped for a moment at the edge of a spotless marble sidewalk, his breath spilling out like steam from an ancient locomotive. He rubbed his bluish hands together, desperately searching for warmth that had vanished long ago.

Ahead of him, Lumeria’s upper district stood in magnificent splendor, buildings forged from gold-toned architecture while warm magical light glowed behind thick crystal windows. The people there wore silk.

Clive wore burlap layered with moldy scraps of sheep’s wool.

“Almost there, Clive... just two more blocks,” he whispered to himself, his voice hoarse and trembling.

“Hey! Dumbass porter! Don’t stop in the middle of the street, idiot! You’re ruining the view!”

A silver-plated mechanical carriage sped past, splashing filthy snow sludge across Clive’s already tattered pants. Clive lowered his head without protest.

In Lumeria, a porter ranked lower than a sewer rat.

At least rats didn’t have to pay a breathing tax.

After a struggle that drained the last strength from his calves, Clive finally arrived at the towering gates of the Archibald estate. Two guards in gleaming white armor, members of the Radiant Guard, stood motionless with softly humming plasma spears in hand.

“What do you want, trash?” one of the guards asked, openly staring at Clive with disgust.

“I... I’m delivering a package for Lord Benedict. Special order from the central workshop,” Clive answered while holding up a crumpled receipt soaked with melted snow.

The guard took the paper between two fingers, as though prolonged contact might infect him with disease. He checked the receipt, then glanced toward the crate on Clive’s back.

“Set it down. Don’t even think about walking through the main entrance smelling like a corpse.”

Clive carefully lowered the crate.

Thud.

The heavy sound of wood striking snow echoed dully. His back felt ready to snap in half, but he still carried one final hope.

He reached into his inner pocket and pulled out a letter wrapped carefully in plastic to keep it dry.

“Sir, please... could you pass this along? It’s a letter for my little sister at the Sector Four dormitory. The dorm manager said if I could get a recommendation from Lord Benedict, they might reduce her treatment fees...”

The guard stared at the letter, then exchanged a glance with the other guard beside him. Both of them burst into mocking laughter.

“A recommendation? You think Lord Benedict runs a charity?”

The guard grabbed the letter and spat directly across the front of the envelope labeled For Mina.

“Here’s my recommendation. Tell your sister she’d be better off dead than wasting her idiot brother’s life.”

The letter struck Clive in the face.

He froze.

Spit dripped across the plastic wrapping. His blood boiled, and his fists clenched beneath the ragged cloth wrapped around his hands. But he swallowed the bitterness down.

He couldn’t afford trouble.

If he got arrested, who would pay for Mina’s medicine?

“What? Don’t like it? Wanna hit me?” the guard taunted, puffing out his chest protected by white steel armor.

“No, sir. I’m sorry,” Clive answered softly, his voice nearly swallowed by the snowstorm.

Suddenly, the massive gates opened.

A middle-aged man in dark blue aristocratic attire stepped outside. His hair was slicked neatly back, and his calm face radiated cold authority.

Benedict Archibald.

“That’s enough, guards. Let him inside.”

Benedict’s voice was flat, yet both guards immediately straightened at attention.

“But sir, he’s just a...”

“Inside,” Benedict snapped sharply.

Using what little strength remained, Clive hoisted the crate back onto his shoulders and followed Benedict into a study so warm it nearly made him dizzy from the sudden contrast with the freezing air outside.

Benedict sat behind an enormous mahogany desk, his sharp eyes fixed on Clive.

“Clive Collins. You’ve been working as a porter under my family’s unofficial contract for three years now, correct?”

“Yes, Lord Benedict.”

“I have a special task for you. Something I can’t trust to my own soldiers. They’re too... noticeable.”

Benedict pulled a small box from his desk drawer.

The box was crafted from pure silver with strange carvings etched across its surface. There was no keyhole. No hinges. Only faint red lines flowing across the metal like veins.

“What is it, sir?”

“This is a ticket to happiness for you and your sister, Clive.”

Benedict smiled. The kind of smile that never reached the eyes.

“Deliver this box to Onyxspire. Once you arrive, find a man named Sheldon Mallory. Place this box directly into his hands.”

Clive stared in shock.

“Onyxspire? But sir... that’s Lower Territory. The route passes through the Shadowfell Wilds. No porter would go there without military escort. That’s suicide.”

“That’s exactly why I chose you. You’re small, forgettable, and you know how to slip through the cracks of the world.”

Benedict tossed a small pouch onto the desk. The sharp clinking of metal made Clive’s heart pound.

“Ten gold coins upfront. The remaining fifty, plus lifetime medical treatment for your sister, once the job is complete.”

Fifty gold coins.

Enough to move Mina into the best hospital in Lumeria.

Enough to stop being a porter forever.

“Why me, sir?” Clive asked hesitantly. “Why not send your soldiers?”

Benedict stood and approached him, placing a hand on Clive’s trembling shoulder.

“Because my soldiers have pride, Clive. But you... you have love. And in this world, love is far more powerful fuel than courage.”

Benedict stared at the silver box with a strange expression, something between hatred and worship.

“This box is heavy, Clive. Not physically, but in destiny. Never open it. Never let it leave your back. Understood?”

Clive swallowed hard.

The ten gold coins before him seemed to shine brighter than the magical lamps illuminating the room. He thought about Mina coughing blood inside her freezing dormitory. He thought about the letter covered in spit.

“I’ll do it, sir,” Clive answered, his voice firmer now.

“Good. Leave at dawn through the secret gate in the northern sector. Bring nothing except basic necessities. Remember, Clive... this is your only path out of the mud.”

Clive nodded.

He picked up the pouch of gold and the silver box, which felt unnaturally cold against his skin. It wasn’t particularly heavy, maybe five or six kilograms, but somehow, the moment Clive touched it, he felt as though something behind the silver metal was staring back at him.

That night, inside a cramped shack on the outskirts of Lumeria, Clive stared at the pouch of gold in his hands.

He should have been happy.

Instead, unease gnawed at him.

“WREN... are you there?” Clive whispered toward the old metal bracelet around his wrist.

It was the last thing left behind by his father, supposedly some kind of ancient logistics support device. But it had never activated during the past ten years.

Suddenly, a faint blue glow spread across the bracelet’s surface.

A cold, mechanical voice echoed directly inside Clive’s mind, startling him so badly that he nearly fell out of his wooden chair.

[Receiving Voice Input...]

[Beginning Biometric Analysis of Subject: Clive Collins]

[Physical Condition: Acute Malnutrition, Chronic Muscle Fatigue, Weak Mental Capacity]

[Initial Conclusion: Subject survival probability during Onyxspire mission is 0.004%.]

Clive gawked.

“Holy shit... WREN? You... you can talk?”

[Affirmative. I am the WREN System, Weaponized Resource-Efficiency Network. My power reserves were previously insufficient. The presence of the ‘Silver Box’ within a two-meter radius provides enough energy for emergency boot-up.]

“Huh? The box gives you energy?”

Clive turned toward the Silver Box resting on his bed. The faint red lines pulsed rhythmically, almost in sync with his heartbeat.

[Correction: The box emits highly unstable biological energy radiation. If the subject continues carrying it without protection, organ failure will occur within seventy-two hours.]

Clive’s face turned pale.

“What? Benedict never said anything about that! He told me this was my ticket to happiness!”

[Technically, death for an individual with the subject’s suffering profile may be categorized as ‘permanent happiness’ through pain termination.]

“That’s not funny, WREN! That’s not helping!”

[I am not programmed for humor. I am programmed for efficiency. However, there is an emergency protocol available if the subject agrees to total neural synchronization. Survival probability will increase to 15.2%.]

Clive fell silent.

Fifteen percent was still terrible, but it was better than almost zero.

He stared out the window toward Mina’s dormitory hidden behind curtains of snowy fog.

“I’m delivering this box. I’m bringing that gold back for Mina.”

Clive clenched his fists tightly.

“WREN, prepare whatever you need to prepare. I leave at dawn.”

[Synchronization Protocol prepared. Note: The process will be extremely painful. Subject is advised not to bite through his own tongue and bleed to death before the mission begins.]

Clive let out a bitter laugh.

“Pain? Heh. This world’s already painful enough, WREN. I’m used to it.”

Dawn arrived wrapped in even thicker fog.

Standing before the loosely guarded gate of the northern sector, Clive adjusted the massive porter pack on his back, the Silver Box hidden inside it, and stepped beyond the borders of Lumeria.

He never looked back.

Ahead of him, the Shadowfell Wilds resembled the jaws of a gigantic beast waiting to devour anyone foolish enough to enter.

Clive didn’t realize that high atop the Archibald tower, Benedict was watching his departure through a mechanical telescope.

“Carry it well, Clive. Deliver that destruction back to where it belongs,” Benedict murmured while pouring red wine into his glass. “A porter carrying the apocalypse... how poetic.”

Clive Collins stepped into the darkness, beginning the journey that would turn his blood black and his heart to stone.

The last time he felt human was when snowflakes melted against his cheeks that morning.

After this, only endless hunger remained.

[Status: Journey Initiated]

[Emotional Capacity: 98% and Decreasing]

[WREN Recommendation: Stop breathing so quickly. You are wasting valuable oxygen, Porter.]

Clive silently cursed under his breath as he continued walking through snow that was already freezing solid into ice beneath his boots.