The Chosen One [Honkai: Star Rail]

Time didn't exist here. Not like it should.

Anthony had no sun to track, no watch, no phone-nothing but the endless bleed of red light, hanging above him like a permanent, rotting sky.

"System… hey, System," Anthony called out, voice hoarse from hours of walking—maybe more. "Show me what time it is. Give me something."

Silence.

No voice. No screen. Not even the smug little pop-up that usually loved reminding him how likely he was to die.

His jaw clenched. The quiet scraped against his nerves worse than any monster.

"If I'd known I was getting dragged into something that worked like a video game, I would've actually played more of them," he muttered, frustration gnawing at his chest as he kicked a patch of sand. The gritty red grains scattered uselessly, spiraling out across the cracked ground.

His boots crunched over the rock, the sound loud in the dead air.

"Well… I know it's been… at least what? A day? I'm certain of that… Maybe more?" Anthony murmured under his breath, one hand drifting to the hilt of his sword, the other brushing sweat from his brow.

His throat was still raw. His body was still stiff. But it was manageable now. It was a routine, almost.

"Tch… need to find another Pyre Dog," Anthony muttered, voice low, scraping with exhaustion as his eyes scanned the cracked horizon. "Need something to eat… again."

His hand drifted to the hilt of the battered sword resting at his hip, fingers flexing unconsciously.

The wasteland sprawled around him, endless red stone and scorched sand, floating platforms casting warped shadows over the ground. Same as always.

But his eyes… they were sharper, weren't they?

He squinted at the rocks in the distance, narrowing his gaze. Details popped that he wouldn't have caught before—the faint shimmer of heat rippling off the sand, distant claw marks etched into stone, the subtle change in the terrain ahead.

It wasn't massive. Barely noticeable, really. But it was there.

Anthony exhaled through his nose, jaw flexing.

Maybe I'm just getting used to it… He tried to brush it off, pin it on adrenaline, on survival instinct sharpening after the constant grind of walking, bleeding, fighting.

But the thought lingered. Heavy. More than it should've.

His eyes drifted toward the horizon again, and every distant detail—the shimmer of heat rising off rock, the faint scratch marks etched into stone—popped a little too clearly. His senses weren't just adapting. They were… changing.

Anthony clicked his tongue, wiping sweat from his brow as his stomach gave a low, hollow twist of hunger.

Well… He grimaced, running his tongue across dry teeth. I did eat an alien dog.

That was a sentence he never pictured thinking. Yet here he was.

His grip tightened unconsciously on the hilt of the battered sword at his hip.

He trusted the system as much as you could trust a floating text box with a passive-aggressive death wish. But options? Those were in short supply.

Drink Pyre Dog blood? Eat their flesh? Kill or starve? The system wasn't subtle about survival.

And as much as it made his stomach churn, he'd chosen the only thing left.

Trust the system. Or die in the dirt.

"God, Rose would lose her mind if she saw me now…" he muttered under his breath, wiping his hand across his mouth, still faintly tasting ash and copper from his last encounter.

The thought of home twisted in his chest—his mom's cooking, his dad's lectures, his sister's annoying laugh—all drifting further away with every step.

He needed to see them again.

And to do that, he needed to adapt. Focus. Survive.

Anthony's eyes narrowed as he spotted the flicker of movement again—slight, low to the ground, hugging the shadows between two crooked rock spires. He approached slowly, sword angled down but ready.

The low growl confirmed it.

His third Pyre Dog.

It was smaller than the hulking brute he fought before—but still larger than the first. Leaner, too. Sharper around the limbs. Its molten eyes locked with his, glowing faintly as it crawled into view, tail low, shoulders taut.

It's waiting.

Anthony paused, watching it back.

The other two lunged immediately—instinct-driven, all teeth and fire. This one wasn't charging. Not yet. It was gauging him. Measuring him.

Smarter. Great. He thought as he took another step closer. The dog tensed, growling low.

Anthony lifted the sword and stepped in fast, slashing diagonally—clean, deliberate.

But the Pyre Dog dodged.

It didn't leap toward the blade like the others—it waited for it to pass, then snapped forward, fangs targeting Anthony's exposed side.

Instead of retreating, Anthony twisted with his sword—pivoting on his heel and slamming his the handle of the sword down onto the beast's back as it grazed past him. The Pyre Dog snarled, stumbling from the sudden counter.

"Not this time," Anthony spat, eyes locked.

The dog wheeled around quicker than expected and lunged again, low.

Anthony feinted a retreat—then kicked sand up toward its face with a sharp stomp.

The embers lining its snout flared as it recoiled, blinded just long enough.

Anthony surged forward, grabbing a jutting rock outcrop to vault himself off—using the height and angle to swing downward, burying his sword into the Pyre Dog's shoulder.

The creature howled, flames licking up its back as it thrashed against the blow. The blade didn't go deep enough. Anthony landed hard, nearly losing his grip.

The Pyre Dog whipped back around, limping but furious, its fangs bared, embers glowing brighter now.

Anthony didn't wait.

He charged this time, low and controlled—ducking under its jaws and ramming his shoulder into its side with all the weight he could muster.

The dog stumbled again—right where he wanted it.

One quick step.One tight breath.One swing.

The blade slammed into its neck, deep and final.

The Pyre Dog gave a sharp, gurgling cry before collapsing, fire dying into ash beneath it.

Anthony staggered back, panting, sweat dripping from his brow, the heat of the effort still burning in his arms.

The screen flickered to life:

[ You have slain a {Pyre Dog}. Experience gained. ]

[ The {Chosen One} has leveled up to Level 2. ]

[ Status Box unlocked. Combat Skill Tree (Warrior) unlocked. ]

The golden screen flared open in front of him, steady, wordless.

He scanned it without flinching now.

[ STATUS – {Chosen One} ]

Name: Anthony Cloyne

Level: 2Class: Warrior

Health: 87 / 100

Stamina: 63 / 100

Strength: 11

Agility: 9

Endurance: 10

Vitality: 10Perception: 8

Skill Points Available: 1

Another screen bloomed, this time colder in tone, mechanical:

____________________________

[ Select Warrior Technique ]

[ Cruor: Cleave ]A horizontal sword arc meant to sever or sweep. Wide-range, high-speed motion. Effective against multiple or evasive foes.

[ Arx: Divide ]A vertical strike from shoulder to hip, designed to break through armor, flesh, or guard. Increases impact power with momentum.

[ Velo: Recast ]Reactive footwork technique. Allows an evasive shift followed by a precision counter. Timed execution boosts damage return.

____________________________

Anthony's gaze lingered on each one.

Not flashy. Not glowing spells or magic waves.

Just steel. Timing. Body control.

Real.

Useful.

His thumb hovered over [ Velo: Recast ], the third option. The last fight had proven one thing: brute force didn't matter if you couldn't read your opponent.

Counter it. Control it. Then end it.

He selected the skill.

[ Skill acquired: Velo: Recast ][ Passive boost: Reflex timing increased. Short-distance evasion unlocked. ]

Anthony felt it in his knees. In his feet. A weight shift that hadn't been there before—like muscle memory he hadn't earned yet, quietly sliding into place.

No celebration. No fireworks. Just another brick in the wall between him and death.

He closed the window, turned toward the jagged horizon again, and exhaled.

There'd be more Pyre Dogs. More blood. More of this hell.

But now, he could respond.

He looked back as second screen that had appeared with the skills disappeared and only screen that remained was his Status Box. A skill point. Anthony began to think on where to put it but his stomach growled again.

"Right..." he muttered, eyes drifting to the still-smoking Pyre Dog at his feet. The kill was fresh. The meat still viable.

Whatever decision he had to make—about strength or agility or anything else—it would mean nothing if he passed out from hunger first.