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Chapter Text

Death.

Is it slow or fast? Painful or numbing? Mankind have agonized over that mystery for as long as it was sapient, but the answer always alluded us...because only the dead know, but the dead don't talk. Which, if you think about it that way, means that I can't be dead either, right?

I mean, standing disembodied in a starlit void with what seems to be two colliding galaxies beneath your feet doesn't exactly match the Christian representation of Heaven (no pearly gates, no singing Angels, no fresh clouds) it was certainly awe-inspiring. As for why I jumped to this being the afterlife of some Divine being and not just a dream? Because I doubt someone with their brain splattering on the sidewalk can dream. The last thing I remember was walking down the street with my earpods in, reading the latest chapter of a new favourite web novel of mine, when BAM! Honking truck horn, dirty silver chunk of metal rushing towards me, and my own terrified face reflected in the scratched glass of the windshield. It was all over in a matter of seconds, my poor meatbag of a body being sent sailing through the air before coming down just as hard as the initial impact. My head exploded in more pain than my chest...and then everything went black. That's why I assumed my brains were spilling over the sidewalk.

Okay, I was dead, except I wasn't. I was able to accept myself as existing in some sort of "spirit form" right now pretty easily, but that still didn't explain where I was or why I was here. As the average young born at the tail end of the 2000's I had a pretty atheistic lifestyle. Sure my parents were relatively devour Christians but I never really got into the whole "religion" thing. Or rather, I found it hard to believe a God could exist with the world in such a state. Still, I went to Church a couple times a year, said my prayers when passing a graveyard and obediently took my Sacrament, but I didn't feel any closer to God. Deep down though, I guess I still possessed a certain level of fear regarding death, and hopes that a God really did exist to save me from Hell. With all that said and done, back to the main point-I had somewhat of a respect and understanding of the Abrahamic God, but felt that what I was seeing now didn't quite fit in it. At the very least, it didn't match the TV representation of Heaven, but was more like the cradle for the Big Bang.

"You wouldn't be much off the truth there."

I snapped back to attention in an instant, taking my eyes off the clashing galaxies to see...something. I couldn't describe it to you, and I'm not just trying to sound cliché. Its shape was constantly flowing and shifting, yet Its outline was somehow the same. Colours of all kinds and then some swirled chaotically without rhyme or reason. Even as I watched, several disappeared from their location and showed up mixing with another seconds later. No facial features were visible, yet I could distinctively feel I was being observed. The most bizarre thing however, and the only concrete characteristic I can give you, was Its shadow. Yes, this gigantic monolithic 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 did indeed possess a shadow. It stretched infinitely long, yet held the form of a normal human, however impossible that may be. As I peered into it, preferring to focus on the only mundane thing in this entire place, the shadow began to wiggle and bulge before exploding upwards and wrapping around the It. When the black receded, It had transformed into a simple black outline. Facial features were still absent, but at least my eyes no longer hurt just from peeping at It. It was only later that I figured the transformation was an act of mercy from the being, shifting into a familiar form I could actually comprehend.

It was only later that I figured the transformation was an act of mercy from the being, shifting into a familiar form I could actually comprehend.

"Thanks for that," I said, my voice echoing strangely in the non-space. It didn't sound like my voice. It was clearer, devoid of the slight nasal tone I’d always hated. It was just… thought, given sound. "The other look was a bit of a migraine trigger."

A sensation, not a sound, but the unmistakable feeling of amusement rippled from the outline. "𝐀𝐩𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐢𝐞𝐬. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦 𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐞𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐨𝐬𝐦𝐢𝐜 𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐚. 𝐋𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐬𝐨 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐜𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬."

"Decanted?" I latched onto the word. It was solid, specific, in a sea of the incomprehensible. I swear I had never even heard of it before, like it belonged in the vocabulary of some sort of sci-fi nerd. Yet only a second after It had spoken, I understood the meaning. "Like… poured out? From where?"

"𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐯𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐥," It said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the universe. A tendril of shadow, vaguely resembling an arm, gestured to the colliding galaxies beneath our feet. "𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐟𝐭."

"The… Earth? My body was a vessel?" My mind, or whatever passed for it here, reeled. This was getting even further from the Sunday school lessons.

"𝐀 𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲, 𝐛𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐭. 𝐄𝐱𝐜𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐲 𝐟𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐥𝐞. 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐨… 𝐬𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠." The being said it with no malice, no judgment. Just a statement of fact, like a mechanic noting a worn-out spark plug.

"Right. The splattering." I tried to cross my arms, a habit of defensiveness, and was mildly disturbed to find I had no arms to cross. I was just a point of awareness. "So, if I’m decanted, and you’re… not my Sunday school teacher… what happens now? Judgment? Reincarnation? Do I get a scorecard?"

The humanoid outline seemed to consider this. "𝐉𝐮𝐝𝐠𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐩𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐯𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧. 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 '𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐝' 𝐢𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐦 𝐭𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞𝐬, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐞𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐬, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐞𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐞. 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨 𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐣𝐮𝐝𝐠𝐞. 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐢𝐭."

"Fit for what?"

"𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭."

The void around us shimmered. The colliding galaxies below began to slow, their spiral arms freezing in a breath-taking sculpture of ultimate violence and beauty. Points of light—countless points of light—began to rise from the frozen scene. They weren't stars. They were… bubbles. Each one contained a flickering, cinematic scene.

I saw a knight kneeling in a rain-slicked courtyard. A star-ship pilot wrestling with a malfunctioning console. A young woman in a simple apron, pulling a loaf of bread from a clay oven. A dragon, coiled around a hoard of glittering treasure, its eye opening with intelligent malice. A thousand, a million lives, all happening at once.

"𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐞," the being said, Its voice now a whisper that contained the roar of an exploding sun. "𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭. 𝐀 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐜𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐜𝐲𝐜𝐥𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐮𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐜𝐞. 𝐀 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐱, 𝐬𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐥𝐠𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐦 𝐨𝐟 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞, 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐫, 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐮𝐫𝐞."

It was all dawning on me with horrifying, exhilarating clarity. This wasn't Heaven. This was a casting office.

"You're… you're not God."

"𝐈 𝐚𝐦 𝐚 𝐂𝐮𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫. 𝐀𝐧 𝐀𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐭. 𝐀 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐞𝐫. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐬 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐞 𝐈 𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐫. 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐜𝐮𝐥𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 '𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐤𝐚𝐢', 𝐝𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐧𝐨𝐭? 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝." 𝐈𝐭 𝐠𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐮𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲. "𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐭 𝐚 𝐰𝐞𝐛 𝐧𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐥. 𝐀𝐧 𝐚𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐜𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐦. 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐢𝐧𝐯𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭."

The being—the Curator—extended a shadow-hand. In its palm swirled a dozen of the reality-bubbles, merging and splitting, showing glimpses of epic battles, quiet moments of sorrow, and breathtaking landscapes.

"𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐯𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐥'𝐬 𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦 𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐝. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐞. 𝐀 𝐬𝐮𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐧, 𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐮𝐥𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐞𝐧𝐝—𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐨𝐧, 𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐟𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮… 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝. 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬, 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲, 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 spark… 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐮𝐞."

It offered its hand closer.

"𝐒𝐨. 𝐋𝐞𝐭 𝐮𝐬 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐮𝐬𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐞. 𝐃𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞? 𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐲? 𝐒𝐜𝐢-𝐅𝐢? 𝐀 𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐞-𝐨𝐟-𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐮𝐦𝐚? 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞," 𝐢𝐭 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐝, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐬𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐬𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐝, 𝐢𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬."

I looked from the being's hand to the infinite tapestry of worlds. My death wasn't an end. It was a cliff-hanger. And the next chapter was waiting to be written. But..."What's in it for you?" I asked firmly. From what the Curator had just said, souls that had completed their "story" were rare. Yet I was just an ordinary guy, living an ordinary life. People like me are literally the reason why the saying "a dime a dozen" exists. What could a God-like entity want me to do that, say, a politician or rebel or actor couldn't? People with experience, with rich lives, with a damned fucking better story than me. So again I asked.

"Why?"

I looked from the being's hand to the infinite tapestry of worlds. My death wasn't an end. It was a cliff-hanger. And the next chapter was waiting to be written.

But...

"What's in it for you?" I asked firmly.

The swirling galaxies beneath us seemed to pause in their silent, majestic dance. The Curator's shadow-outline remained perfectly still. The offer hung in the air, and I let it hang. From what the Curator had just said, souls that had completed their "story" were rare. Yet I was just an ordinary guy, living an ordinary life. People like me are literally the reason why the saying "a dime a dozen" exists. What could a God-like entity want me to do that, say, a politician or rebel or actor couldn't? People with experience, with rich lives, with a damned fucking better story than me.

So again I asked.

"Why?"

The silence stretched, not as an absence of sound, but as a presence. It was a heavy, listening silence. Then, a pulse of what I could only interpret as... respect... emanated from the Curator.

"A pertinent question. The first of many, I suspect. You are correct. A 'dime a dozen' is an apt, if crude, quantification for the common consciousness." The shadowy form gestured, and a million of the reality-bubbles around us shimmered with scenes of mundane lives, quiet deaths, and forgotten stories. "The multiverse is built upon them. They are the background characters, the set dressing, the necessary chorus."

Another gesture, and a handful of bubbles glowed with a fierce, brilliant light. I saw the politician mid-rally, moving thousands with his words. I saw the rebel taking a bullet for her cause. I saw the actor receiving a standing ovation. "These are the protagonists. The ones whose choices create seismic shifts in their narratives. They are valuable. Sought after."

The brilliant bubbles winked out, leaving me alone with the Curator's infinite, patient gaze.

"But you ask what I want. You speak of the richness of their stories. But you misunderstand the medium." The Curator's form flowed, condensing into something more focused, more intent. "I am not a collector of finished paintings. I am a connoisseur of blank canvases and the quality of the primer."

It drifted closer. "The politician? His canvas is already covered in the thick, stubborn paint of ambition and power. The rebel? Hers is stained with the indelible pigment of ideology. The actor? A layer of vanity and perception obscures the raw material. Their stories are rich, yes, but they are also... set. Their choices become predictable. Their paths narrow. They are masterworks in their own right, but they are finished."

The being's "hand" now hovered before me, not offering the bubbles of worlds, but instead, a single, faint image appeared within it: my reflection. Not the terrified face in the truck's windshield, but me, as I was moments before the impact. Head down, lost in a story, utterly ordinary.

"You. You are not a masterwork. You are potential. Your story was not rich, but it was open. You had no grand destiny, no overwhelming passion, no defining trauma. You were... unformed. A clean, primed canvas." The Curator's voice lost its cosmic echo, becoming almost intimate. "That is what is 'in it for me.' An operator with minimal baggage. A consciousness that has known the mundane, yearned for the extraordinary through fiction, but has not been hardened by it. You are adaptable. You possess the one thing those 'richer' souls have burned away in the forging of their own stories: plausible deniability."

"Deniability?" I echoed.

"You can be placed anywhere, in any role, and you will believe it. You can adapt because you are not already someone else. You can be a hero, a villain, a baker, a king, and you will not be fighting against the ghost of your past life as a prime minister. You will simply be. For the narratives that require a truly fresh perspective, for the worlds that need a catalyst that is not already poisoned by its own history... you are not a dime a dozen. You are a rarity."

The image of my face in its palm shifted, showing the moment of impact, the brief, pure terror before the end. "And you have one more quality. You have nothing to lose. You have already faced the end. The fear of mortality, the great limiter for all living things, is gone. You know the worst has already happened. And you are still here. That makes you... fearless. And fearlessness in a protagonist makes for a very, very interesting story."

The hand retracted, and the image faded.

"So. That is the transaction. I provide the stage, the context, the narrative potential. You provide the blank slate, the adaptability, and the courage of one who has already died. We will craft a story together. Does this satisfy your query?"

It did. It was terrifying, and egotistical, and somehow the most honest deal I'd ever been offered. I wasn't chosen because I was special. I was chosen because I was empty. And in that emptiness, I had the potential to become anything.

"Just out of curiosity, are there more of your kind? Will I be performing for you alone or an audience of cosmic horrors?"

The sensation of amusement returned, a ripple that made the very starlight seem to shiver. "An audience of cosmic horrors," the Curator repeated, the phrase rolling around in the void as if it were a delightful new confection. "A melodramatic yet not entirely inaccurate turn of phrase. Yes, there are more. We are a... collective. A consortium. You might think of us as authors in a grand, eternal workshop, or perhaps critics at an infinite festival of narratives."

A new image bloomed in the space between us, not a bubble of a world, but a complex, shifting structure that looked like a neural network made of galaxies and shadow. Countless points of light, each one a consciousness like the Curator, were connected by threads of shimmering potential.

"I am but one curator of one sector of the multiverse. My colleagues oversee their own narratives, their own stable of protagonists. We observe, we trade notes, we occasionally wager on particularly intriguing storylines. We crave entertainment over all, but prefer not to muddy our hands personally. Instead, we seek our fun through lower dimensional means"

The image shifted to show two of the brilliant points of light focusing on a single, swirling reality-bubble. I saw a knight fighting a dragon, and felt a faint, distant sensation of appraisal, like two art critics leaning in to examine a brushstroke.

"Your performance, as you put it, will primarily be for me. I am your patron, your editor. Your success enhances my portfolio. Your failure is a data point for analysis. However, should your narrative prove particularly compelling—unpredictable, emotionally resonant, genre-defying—it may be syndicated. Others of my kind may observe. Your story could become... popular."

The way it said "popular" carried a weight that felt immense and terrifying. It wasn't about fame. It was about becoming a subject of study for entities whose very thoughts shaped realities.

"Does the idea of an audience unsettle you?" the Curator asked, its tone one of genuine, clinical curiosity.

"Wouldn't it unsettle you?" I shot back. "Knowing your every choice, your every moment of pain or triumph, is being watched and judged by things you can't comprehend?"

"No," it answered simply, without ego. "It is simply the nature of existence. All stories require a teller and a listener. The alternative is silence. Oblivion. The true death, where not even a memory of your story remains. Is a story told in a vacuum with no one to hear it truly a story at all? Here, you are guaranteed to be heard. Is that not a form of immortality?"

It had a point. A frightening, cosmic point, but a point nonetheless. To be forgotten was the final, true splattering of the self. This... this was something else.

"So it's not just you," I summarized. "It's a whole committee. And I'm your new... intern."

"Apt," the Curator pulsed with approval. "Now. Shall we discuss the benefits package?"

"Just before we do...You said preforming well will attract attention and-maybe, I don't know-sponsorship? But what if I do poorly? will you directly pull the plug and toss me into oblivion?"

"Perish the thought" the Curator dismissed my worry emotionlessly. "Once the show begins, even if we find it boring it worthless, we will merely shift out gaze to someplace more interesting. To interrupt an actor in his stride, no matter how lacklustre it may be, is unbecoming of any audience. That said, failing to at least keep a minimum amount of interest will cause your act to be a single one, where you will be stuck in your original world until you inevitably die. Or go mad. Or turn to stone with the ages. Whichever comes first."

"So if I do well enough, I can go through multiple worlds?"

The Curator pondered for a moment before answering. "Consider this one of your 'Infinite Flow' novels."

Before I could say anything else, the void shifted again. The tapestry of worlds and the neural network of Curators faded, replaced by two distinct, swirling vortexes of information. One glowed with a billion familiar icons: fantasy swords, sci-fi starships, cybernetic implants, magical runes. The other was a storm of pure, abstract potential—light, energy, mathematical concepts given form.

"The package is this," the Curator's voice was now clean, precise, like a contract being read. "The ability to pick any world or setting as well as any power system. The two do not have to be compatible."

The implication hung in the air, vast and staggering. It wasn't just about choosing to be a wizard in a high fantasy realm. It was about...

"Let me get this straight," I interrupted, my consciousness reeling from the possibilities. "I could choose a low-tech, post-apocalyptic wasteland as my setting... and graft the magic system from a high-fantasy epic onto it?"

"Yes."

"Or a hyper-advanced, galaxy-spanning civilization... powered entirely by... I don't know, chi cultivation and martial arts?"

"A popular, if often unstable, combination. The societal dissonance alone generates fascinating narrative friction."

"Or..." I said, the most absurd idea dawning on me, "I could pick a mundane, slice-of-life world exactly like my old one... but give myself the powers of a reality-warping god?"

For the first time, the Curator's steady, analytical presence wavered with a flicker of what felt like... immense interest. "Now you are thinking like a Curator. That particular choice is a profound test of character. The narrative tension between infinite power and a world built on powerlessness is... exquisite. It almost always ends in tragedy, enlightenment, or a terrifying blend of both. The data is priceless."

It was the ultimate power fantasy and the ultimate narrative experiment, all rolled into one. They weren't just giving me a role; they were giving me the tools to break the system, to create something utterly unique. My value wasn't just as a blank slate, but as a creative force. A designer of my own prison, my own paradise, my own lab.

"This is the real test, isn't it?" I said, understanding dawning. "The first choice. The setting and the power. It tells you everything about what kind of story I'm going to create. What kind of *person I really am*."

"The first and most revealing choice of many," the Curator confirmed. "Do you seek to dominate? To hide? To create? To destroy? To escape? To understand? Your selections will be a direct reflection of the unresolved desires of your terminated existence. We are not just giving you a world and a power. We are giving you a mirror."

The two vortexes floated before me, infinite and waiting. The power to combine any genre with any rule of magic or science. It was the ultimate act of creation.

The Curator's final words hung in the cosmic air, a soft challenge.

"So," it said. "What will your story be?"

"You won't judge me no matter what world I pick? Even if it's already a piece of fiction?"

"How can you tell we aren't in a piece of fiction right now" spoke the Curator with a hint of underlying humour. "Everything is subjective. Everything can be observed from a higher dimension. Even we dare not proclaim ourselves the pinnacle of existence, the sole 'Real World'

That...was actually quite terrifying. The most powerful thing I've ever met, which referred to two colliding universes as a mere "crib" for stories believed a higher being was directing It refreshed my mind once again on the concept of Chtullian horror. "Azatoth the Blind God- ahh moment" I muttered.

"Do I take that as you wanting to reincarnate in a H.P Lovecraft work?" the Curator asked kindly.

"No! Gods, no," I said quickly, the image of being devoured by something with too many teeth and not enough eyes flashing through my mind. "It just puts things in perspective. It makes my choice feel... smaller. And maybe a little less embarrassing."

"The concept of embarrassment is a social construct of your former vessel. It has no purchase here. Proceed."

"Right." I focused, pushing the cosmic vertigo aside. I had a plan. A terrifying, potentially suicidal plan, but one that felt right. It was a blend of two worlds I had been utterly absorbed in mere moments—or an eternity—before my death.

"I want the world. The setting. I want the nightmare of the Forgotten Shore. I want the Spell, the Gates, the Nightmare Creatures. I want the world of Shadow Slave."

A specific reality-bubble swelled before me, dark and turbulent. I could see a desolate, sunless beach, a terrifying black sea, and a colossal, dead god chained to a massive black rock. The air around the bubble seemed to crackle with silent screams and the clang of invisible swords.

"A harsh selection. A world governed by a cruel and arbitrary divine mechanism. A high probability of a short and gruesome narrative. Intriguing." The Curator made no judgment, merely noting the parameters. "And the power system? The rules that will govern your existence within it? Will you seek to master the Spell itself?"

"No," I said, my voice gaining certainty. "The Spell gives power, but it comes with a Flaw. A chains. I'm taking a different set of chains. I want the power system from Lord of the Mysteries. The Beyonder pathways."

The second vortex of information, the one of abstract potential, surged forward. It resolved into twenty-two distinct, shimmering symbols, each one radiating a different and profound aura. Some felt stable and scholarly, others chaotic and maddening, others still were shadowy and full of intrigue.

"A system of ascent through ingestion and enlightenment. Prone to madness, loss of humanity, and existential peril. A fascinating counterpoint to the chosen world. The two systems are not designed to interact. The narrative instability will be... significant." The Curator's tone was one of immense professional satisfaction. "You have chosen not one but two crucibles. You wish to be hammered on two anvils at once. State your chosen Pathway."

The twenty-two symbols glowed before me, each a path to power and insanity. I knew them all. I'd theorized about them, debated them, dreamed about them. Now, the choice was terrifyingly real. As I scrolled down them, noting the remarks and brief explanations for each, I came up with another idea. "Can I include the Pathways from the Outer Deities? And will I have access to the Sefiroth or Above the Sequence stuff, or only the Uniqueness?

Without a word, the list flickered and then ten new symbols appeared. 'Chaos Primogeniture, Chaos Mist, Patriarch, Eternal Aeon...'  

I found myself licking my lips (?) as I took in the sight. However, I reigned in my excitement pretty quickly as I came to a disappointing conclusion-there simply wasn't enough information on these Pathways. The most talked about were the Chaos Primogeniture, Chaos Mist and Eternal Aeon Pathway, then followed by Sublunary Eye and Tail-Devourer, but the information of their High-Sequence capabilities was still severely lacking behind the orthodox 22 Pathways.

'CP is out anyways, I don't particularly want to be a woman. Besides, the Original Creator probably won't be applicable in the Shadow Slave world...will likely just rip open the Seal and let the Void in. Broker is pretty bad-ass and its Sequence 4 is built for obliterating goons, but I might not live long enough to reach it. Although the Broker and Grey Merchant can both reduce hostility, Abominations are completely cuckoo.'

'Spamming Cycles as a Circle Inhabitant would drive anyone into despair, and Contractee is possibly the greatest Sequence 7 apart from maybe Painter but the negative effects could potentially compile with my Flaw and be my undoing. Plus all spiritual creatures in Shadow Slave have gone mad, unlike it LOTM where it was only a few. Patriarch's negative effects are also lethal if triggered at the wrong time, though, heh heh, the Sex Addict and Fallen Tree Spirit Sequences would be quite interesting.

"Can I just skip the negative effects of Potions?"

"That would defeat the purpose of choosing the Lord of Mysteries' system in the first place, no?" The Curator cocked Its head. 

Second Law would turn me into a disgusting zombie...

Everlasting was straight up a one-way trip to Loo Loo Land...

Tail-Devourer was as risky Patriarch but the severe negative effects of the former only kick in around Sequence 2 so I should be fine for the most part, but I still didn't want any roadblock down the line...

Eternal Edict was actually very safe and useful, but I doubted I had the intelligence to properly make use of the arrangements of Fate...

Condenser was solid all-round, and not too many enemies in Shadow Slave were resistant to physical damage. Sure, I would need to be near water for the Sequence 5 to be effective but apart from that every Sequence is useful, Heavybringer is especially OP. Firing a literal cancer ray sounded dope as hell, not to mention forming a nuclear sun with my bare hands...

In the end, I simply couldn't bring myself to decide. I removed all but Condenser from the list, leaving 23 Pathways for me to chose. Then, I turned to the ever-patient Curator. "Alright, I've come to a decision. I would like you to turn this list into a wheel and spin it for me after reincarnating me. Ah, about that, can we skip the whole rebirth thing and just create a body for me? Fourteen to sixteen would be best, being younger will help me with some things I have planned."

"That is possible" the Curator acquiesced to my demands. "I will warn you though, the changes wrought by your Pathway will apply to you. This can range from the simple genetic altering of some Pathways, such as Attendant of Mysteries turning your eyes black, or severe cases like Devil and Demoness shifting your very physique."

"Ah" I wince and smack my forehead. "I actually forgot, please remove Demoness from the wheel, I don't want to lose my little brother."

"A Demoness can still engage in love with women, yes? Life's short, why not give it a try?"

I stared at the shadowy God in suspicion as I tried to figure out if It was mocking me. After several seconds though, I heard a ding that proved the Demoness Pathway was gone. Phew, that was a close one.

"One last thing" I said, thankful the Curator showed no sign of being impatient or annoyed. "Is it possible for me to gain access to multiple Pathways? Whether that be neighbouring or not, including Outer Deity Pathways? Because if I change my mind, or get Shepherd but can't Graze any Beyonder Characteristics then..."

"Grazing will work on the Souls within the world" the Curator stated simply. "As for acquiring access to other Pathways...I will allow it to be technically possible, but don't get your hopes up. In fact, it's tied to some very specific Pathways themselves. With your Wheel of choice, everything comes down to your Fortune "

"And I don't suppose you'll tell me what they are?"

It just smiled at me. With no mouth.

"Alright then" I shook my head and took a deep breathe. "I'm ready, Mr. Curator"

"Oh I'm sure you are" It mused before the cosmic cradle erupted in pure pristine light, drowning all my senses and awashing me with oblivion. 

===============================================================

After the Human was gone, the Curator remained in place for quite a while. Rather than spin the conspicuous wheel beside It, the Curator merely stood still. After what could be a minute or an eon, another figure made Its' appearance. If the Human was here, perhaps he would have recognised It-or not, since by virtue of the fact it resembled the original Curator, it was indescribable. "What do you plan to do with that one?" It asked.

"The same as always, of course. I'm a tad bit disappointed he chose a pre-fabricated world for his adventure, but the cocktail he proposed was enough to make up for it. I wonder how well he'll do. Or how terribly."

"You have a nasty habit of playing with your food."

"I'm a D̴͎̝̠̀̀e̸̟͍̺̽̐̀n̸̝̙̙̈́̈́͝i̴̢̟̦̿͌̔z̵̫̝͚̈́̕͠e̴͉̘͐̈́n̵̝̻͋͜͝͝ o̸͖̺̠̐͆̒f̸͎͕̝̽͠͝ Í̵͔̫̼̐͆n̸͓̞̈́̈́͐͜f̴̠͑̓͐͜i̵̦̙̝͆̾͘n̴͕͓̫͘̚͝i̵̞̙͚͌͆̚t̴̠͎̺͊͆̿y̴̻͉͑͆͝  what did you expect?"

"Whatever. Are you going to adjust his difficulty for the First Nightmare? I sincerely doubt he'll survive it, especially since you never told him it would begin shortly. That was mean of you, by the way."

"Haah, fine fine. I guess I should  set things up properly at least. Just stop harping on about my methods, you really ruin the show. Oh yes, my dear C̸̢͕͙̀̔͆r̵̢̦̦͒̓̾a̵͓͖̝͐͐͋w̵̦̫͍̾̾l̸͔͚̙͆͒͘i̸̡͎͕͐̾͠n̵͚͍̼͌́͝g̴̢̝͍͑́̈́ O̸̪̟̙̔͝n̸̢͔̻͑̓̕ë̴̙͇͓́͛̕  do you want to give this a go by any chance?"

The shadow gestured towards the standing wheel. The other It stared silently for several seconds before shrugging and stepping up to it. Without a word, It spun the wheel fiercely. The duo watched in silence as it spun round and round a dozen times before slowly stopping. As They witnessed where the pointer stop, a noise of amusement came from the Shadow.

"Well, would you look at that? I guess the bastard does have some fortune in him."

Chapter Text

The universe twisted, folded, and slammed into me.

There was no impact, only a sudden, violent usurpation of senses.

The sterile, cosmic scent of the void was replaced by the thick, solemn air of dust, old wood, and fading beeswax. The infinite starlit expanse vanished, replaced by a cage of shadows and failing, colored light.

I was on my knees. Cold, rough stone bit into them through the thin fabric of my trousers. My body felt… small. Light. Frail. A profound weakness gripped my limbs, the deep-seated fatigue of malnutrition. I raised my hands—slender, pale, and young—and pushed a heavy wave of blonde hair from my face. It was the colour of old straw and fell to my shoulders.

I was in a church. Or what was left of one.

The place was a skeleton of its former glory. High, vaulted ceilings were shrouded in darkness, their painted saints peeling away to reveal rotten timber. Stained glass windows lined the walls, but most were shattered or grime-coated, allowing only slivers of the strange, bruised twilight outside to cut through the gloom, illuminating swirling motes of dust. Pews were smashed and piled haphazardly against one wall as if for a fire that was never lit. At the far end, a shattered altar stood bare, a large, tragic crucifix hanging askew above it, the figure of Christ staring down with sorrowful, painted eyes.

This wasn't the Forgotten Shore. It wasn't even the Dream Realm, or a Nightmare. Well, of course it wasn't. What fool of an author would drop the main character into a Nightmare mere minutes after introducing them? The Curator seemed detached and robotic during our conversation, but it clearly had precise protocols in place. My thoughts running wild failed to conceal my true state beneath though.

My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird in a fragile cage. This was it. The new story. Panic threatened to rise, a cold tide in my chest. I forced it down, clinging to the one solid thing I had left from my previous existence: my mind. My observation.

Observe. Understand. Plan. The instincts of the chosen pathway, still dormant but whispering at the edge of my consciousness, guided me.

My clothes. I looked down. I was dressed in simple, well-made but worn black trousers and a black shirt. Clean, but threadbare in places. It was the uniform of an acolyte. An orphan taken in by the church, perhaps. It explained why I was somewhat dressed but still malnourished.

The silence was absolute. Oppressive. I was utterly alone.

Pushing myself unsteadily to my feet, I took a stumbling step. My vision swam for a moment before clearing. As I moved, something cold and metallic shifted against my chest beneath the tunic.

I stopped, my breath catching. With trembling fingers, I reached inside the collar and pulled the object free.

It was a pendant on a simple silver chain. A cross. But it was wrong. It was a Latin cross, but the horizontal and vertical beams were perfectly smooth, blank of any engraving, any symbol, any representation of a corpus. It was just… a blank cross. Cold and heavy in my hand.

It felt… significant. An artifact. A key? A ward? Or simply the mark of faith in this broken place?

I closed my fingers around it, the metal warming to my touch. It was the first concrete thing I owned in this new life. A mystery.

A blank cross for a blank man on a blank page.

The heavy oak door of the church groaned open, slicing a blade of dull, purplish twilight through the dusty gloom. A figure was silhouetted in the entrance, bent and hacking, a sound that was more a physical tearing than a cough.

I flinched, my hand closing tightly around the blank cross, my heart seizing in my chest. Not alone.

The man stumbled inside, shutting the door against the outside world with a grunt. As my eyes adjusted, I saw him clearly. He was old, his face a roadmap of deep lines and weathered skin, framed by a fringe of grey hair. He wore the same simple black garments I did, though his were adorned with a stole, marking him as a priest. In his arms, he clutched a small, cloth-wrapped bundle.

He saw me standing by the shattered altar and his strained expression softened into a weary smile. "Adam. You're awake. Good."

Adam. So that was my name here. It felt foreign, a ill-fitting garment for now. But I sure sure I would adapt quickly enough. The Curator picked me for that ability, after all. 'What, did I end up with the Fool Pathway? Am I a Faceless now?' 

He shuffled forward, each step seeming to cost him effort, and sank onto one of the few intact pews with a sigh of relief. He unwrapped the cloth bundle to reveal a small, coarse loaf of dark bread. He broke it in two, the sound shockingly loud in the silent church, and held the larger piece out to me.

"Here. Eat. The night will be long, and the cold is settling in."

I approached slowly, my movements cautious. The aroma of the bread, simple and earthy, was the most wonderful thing I had ever smelled. My stomach clenched painfully. I took the offered piece, my fingers brushing his. His skin was papery and cold.

"Thank you, Father," I said, the title feeling natural on my tongue, a fragment of this body's memory guiding me.

He waved a dismissive hand before another cough wracked his frame. When it subsided, he was paler. "Eat, boy. Don't let an old man's ailments spoil your supper."

I didn't need telling twice. I tore into the bread, the crust tough but the inside surprisingly dense and filling. As I ate, I watched him. He was sick, maybe dying. And we were here, alone, in this ruin. Guardians of a dead faith in a dead place.

While I chewed, I turned my focus inward. The Curator had said the seed of my power was within me, dormant. The Pathway of The Fool. I tried to grasp it, to feel for that swirling pool of potential I'd felt in the void.

'Show me something,' I thought, concentrating with all my might. 'Give me a vision. A prophecy. Anything.' I focused on the priest. 'Tell me his secret. Tell me why he coughs.'

Nothing.

I tried to feel for the enhanced perception, the intuition of a Seer. I tried to look at the dust motes in the air and predict their paths. I tried to listen to the priest's ragged breathing and intuit the malady causing it.

Nothing. No flash of insight. No whispered secrets from the universe. There was only the taste of bread, the ache in my knees, the cold of the pendant against my skin, and the overwhelming, mundane reality of my situation.

The power was there. I could feel it, a faint, distant hum at the very edge of my perception, like a song played in another room. But it was locked away. Inert. I didn't know how to access it. The knowledge of the potion formula was there—the main ingredient of a Potion...—but the ingredients were meaningless words without the context of this world. I couldn't even tell what Potion it was. Maybe I hadn't landed with the Seer after all?

I was just a boy. A hungry, scared boy named Adam in a broken church with a sick old man.

The grand cosmic power I had chosen felt like a cruel joke. The first challenge wasn't battling Nightmare Creatures; it was figuring out how to turn on the lights.

I finished the bread, the hollow in my stomach slightly eased, a much deeper hollow of powerlessness opening up inside me. The old priest watched me, his startlingly blue eyes—a mirror of my own—full of a pity that I knew wasn't just for my hunger.

"Rest now, Adam," he said softly, his voice a dry rustle. "Today's work is done, and we will move on after just a few more. Perhaps we can finally move closer inwards, towards the better ends of the NQSC."

His voice, despite being a stranger to me not even five minutes ago, does wonders on combating my rising panic attack. Yes, I needed to get myself together. I was in the Human Realm, in the NQSC...though that took up an entire continent, so who knows where that places me. Hopefully near some of the main cast. While I didn't have any particular desire to follow them along like a stalker, I needed to keep track of how far along things were progressing. And...alright, maybe I just wanted to see them. The characters. In the flesh, not just text on a screen or a badly renditioned piece of art from Webnovel. Maybe kick Cassie in the shins a few times while I'm at it too. 

The old priest watched me finish the bread, his own half-eaten portion forgotten in his lap. The brief respite from his cough seemed to have opened a floodgate of melancholy thoughts.

"Look at this place," he muttered, not to me, but to the peeling saints on the walls. "A house of God, left to rot. It tells you everything, doesn't it, boy? Everything you need to know about the state of things."

He shook his head, a slow, weary motion. "In my day... ah, but you don't want to hear an old man ramble." He coughed again, a wet, rattling sound that echoed in the hollow nave. When he stopped, he stared dazedly for a second before resuming. "In my day, there was a... a structure. A morality. You worked hard, you went to mass, you respected your elders. You didn't... you didn't claw at your neighbor's throat for a crust of bread."

He fell silent for a moment, his eyes distant. "Father Malachi of then would have wept to see it. A good man. A strong man. He built this parish from the ground up, you know. Gave people hope. Gave them something to believe in beyond their own misery."

Father Malachi. So that was his name. I filed it away, a single, solid fact in the shifting uncertainty of my new existence.

"Now?" Father Malachi continued, his voice gaining a bitter edge. "Now, it's every soul for itself. The desperation... it's a sickness in the air. It makes people cruel. It makes them forget they have souls at all. They'd sell them for a warm meal and a safe corner to sleep in." He looked at me, his gaze sharpening, as if seeing me properly for the first time. "You remember the Miller family, Adam? Good people. Found them last week, all three of them... gone. The parents were bludgeoned, couldn't find the girl. Ah, she should be nearly twenty now. Maybe she escaped, maybe the Spell claimed her too. Maybe she killed her parents."

He sighed, the anger bleeding out of him, leaving only a profound exhaustion. "It's the world now, boy. It's grinding us down. The light is fading, and the shadows are getting longer and hungrier. And all we can do is hold on in here," he gestured to the crumbling walls, "and pray the doors hold for one more night."

He lapsed into silence, his monologue over, consumed again by his cough and his thoughts. He had given me more than just bread and a name. He had reminded me of the most basic pieces of the world's lore: this wasn't just a broken world; it was a world being consumed by a spiritual despair so potent it could kill. A world where desperation was a tangible force, and safety was a fleeting concept measured one night at a time. Gates, the Nightmare Spell, roving gangs not to mention the most banal of illnesses and disease. Starvation too, judging by his own appearance.

And I was trapped in it, my celestial potential silent, with only a sick old priest and a blank cross for protection. Klein often practised humility when he was scared or alone, didn't he? I was no one. I knew nothing other than the snippets G3 had fed us about the world. Hell, most of what the readers were told came out during the Domain War, when the Waking World was already being abandoned. Why had I ever agreed to this? Wait...the Curator had never actually said what would happen if I refused. Would I just die? Enter a mundane cycle of reincarnation? Be strung up as a puppet for forceful amusement? No, no need to think so negatively about the Curator. He had accommodated my questions and requests plenty in the Star Realm. Deciding to follow the Priest's advice, I lay down on the most intact pew and closed my eyes, regulating my breathe until I felt sleep overtake me.

==================================

The days bled into one another, a grim tapestry of grey skies, grinding poverty, and relentless, gnawing hunger. Father Malachi’s cough grew worse, a constant, wet percussion to our aimless wandering. We became ghosts in the sprawling, festering slums of the NQSC city, two figures in black moving through a world of rust and despair.

We sold alms, or rather, we tried. We offered blessings and prayers to those who would listen, which were few. Mostly, we simply… existed. We shared our meagre scraps of food with those who looked even worse off than us, a gesture that felt less like charity and more like a shared, silent understanding of the abyss we were all circling.

In the moments of exhausted respite, huddled in another abandoned shell of a building, I worked. My body, the young one named Adam, was slowly becoming my own. The initial weakness was being tempered, not into strength, but into a wiry endurance. I could walk for miles on an empty stomach now. My startling blue eyes, once wide with panic, had learned to observe without seeming to, to take in every detail of the oppressive city.

And I had confirmed it. This was the same city. The same mish-mashed dichotomous city The same sense of a world holding its breath, waiting for a nightmare to begin. Or maybe that was just me. We were just on the opposite side of the vast, stinking slum from where Sunny’s story had started. His hell was my hell. We were ants on the same rotting log.

My internal work, however, had met with frustratingly little success. The grand power of the  remained a locked door. I had the key—the knowledge of the potion formula—but no materials to fit it into the lock. The ingredients were nonsense words here: 100 grams of powdered black-sealed grass? The spirit of a Shadow Sea Flower? It was like trying to build a radio with instructions for a nuclear reactor. I didn't even recognise them as belonging to any Sequence 9 Potion. 

The one thing I had grasped, through sheer, desperate repetition and half-remembered lore from the novel, was the most foundational step: meditation. The cycling of Spirituality. Or, as the Awakened of this world called it, Essence.

It was faint, thinner here than I imagined it would be in places of power, tainted with the metallic fear of the Nightmare Gates. But it was there. A faint, ambient energy that permeated everything. In our few quiet moments, I would sit, close my eyes, and try to still the panic in my mind. I would focus on my breathing, and in the space between the inhale and exhale, I would try to feel.

And sometimes, I could. A faint trickle of coolness, like the lightest stream of groundwater, seeping into the core of my being. I couldn’t command it. I couldn’t shape it. I could only acknowledge its presence and let it pool, drop by precious drop, within me. It was a pathetic reservoir, but it was mine. It was the proof that the Curator hadn’t entirely lied. The potential was there, sleeping.

One evening, as we took shelter from a cold, acidic drizzle in the husk of a broken-down transport hauler, Father Malachi looked at me, his eyes fever-bright.

“You’ve been quiet, Adam. More than usual. It’s like you’re… listening to something I can’t hear.”

I looked at my hands, at the blank silver cross resting against my chest. I was listening. I was listening for the whisper of a power that refused to speak, in a world that was slowly but steadily being devoured by the vile Rot of the Void. What would the Goddess of War think now, I wondered. To see Her precious garden be overrun with Sorcery and Corruption. Probably pick up a weapon and wedge someone's skull open. Weaver's, perhaps, if She could find the slippery bastard. 

"Why doesn't my cross have the Lord?" I asked suddenly, looking at Malachi with simple but focused eyes. The old priest raised an eyebrow and then frowned. "We just...didn't have another on hadn't when we gave it to you" he answered vaguely, scratching his chin with a dull look in his eyes. "Everybody knows what the cross represents anyways, and its not like it ever bothered you before. Why now?"

"No reason," I shook my head trying to appear foolishly solemn. "I just...feel there's a difference between me and you."

Malachi paused for a moment before laughing loudly, surprisingly avoiding a coughing fit. "Ha ha Kid, of course there's a difference! I'm nearly eighty years old, you turned fourteen only three months ago. And besides, I'm an Awakened. Of course we're far apart."

I was stunned by his sudden addition of possessing powers, but then found it unsurprising. A normal person couldn't survive to such an age in a place like this, none the less with a serious illness hanging over him. "What's your ability?" I asked curiously, afraid that "Adam" should already know the answer. Thankfully, Malachi just smiled at me. "My Dormant ability allowed me to see the rough strengths of others as blobs of light in their chests. My Awakened allowed me to roughly divide them into camps. Heh, I was pretty good as a Scout back when I was younger. You see, we didn't have the fancy naming sytem modern Awakened do. Sigh, I remember when the first Tyrant came through a Gate..."

I glanced over but said nothing, not probing about his Flaw. That would be too insensitive. 

And only five days later, he died in his sleep

===============================================

While I had gotten stronger, digging a six-foot grave was still tough. I didn't dare dig any shallower either, since I knew for a fact some people were desperate enough to consume a corpse, even one belonging to an old and diseased man. I had seen enough of that while wandering over the past two weeks.

It took most of a day, my thin arms aching as I dug a shallow grave in the hard, unforgiving earth behind the last church we’d sheltered in. I said the prayers he’d taught me, my voice the only sound in the vast, empty silence of the outskirts. The words felt hollow, but they were all I had to give him.

When it was done, I stood before the mound of dirt. A profound loneliness, colder than any wind, settled deep into my bones. He had been my tether, my guide to this broken world, and now he was gone. My fingers found the blank silver cross around my neck. It felt heavy now, a chain of duty and memory. In my other hand, I hand his own crucifix and then sighed.

Slowly, I knelt and carefully hung it from a rough piece of stone I’d wedged at the head of the grave to mark it. It was a better monument for him than for me. He was the faithful one. I was just the fool who’d been left behind.

I stood there for a long time, watching the dull grey light of afternoon fade into a deeper, more profound grey. The emptiness inside me was a void. The Curator’s grand promise felt like a sick, cosmic joke. A Beyonder pathway? In a world with no magic, no monsters, just endless, grinding human misery? What was the point? Unless I could unlock the Sun Pathway, or the Eternal Aeon's redemption-no, wait. I had removed that Pathway from the list. Sighing bitterly, I gave one last bow before the grave of my semi-teacher and turned to leave. Perhaps getting Abyss, Chained, Red Priest or Hanged Man wouldn't be too bad. Delivering catastrophe to this world would hardly make a difference, given how far it was broken.

A deep, overwhelming exhaustion washed over me. My eyes stung. My limbs felt like lead.

I let out a long, uncontrollable yawn that seemed to come from the very depths of my soul. It was a yawn of utter surrender, of a system shutting down. The world swam before my eyes.

Stumbling away from the grave, I barely made it back inside the crumbling church before my legs gave out. I collapsed into a corner on a pile of old sacks, my last conscious thought a silent apology to the old priest for being too tired to even properly mourn him.

The sleep that took me was not peaceful. It was the sleep of the dead-to-the-world, a black, dreamless void of pure escape.

And then, the dream came.

It was not a normal dream. There was no logic, no narrative. There was only a door. A colossal, ancient door of black stone, covered in intricate, maddening carvings that shifted when I wasn't looking. It stood alone in a featureless grey plain.

And it was opening.

A crack of impenetrable darkness appeared between the doors, and from it seeped a cold that froze my very soul. A silent, invisible pressure began to crush me, filled with a hunger so vast and ancient it made the emptiness in my stomach feel like a trifle.

This was no mere dream. This was a summons. An invitation.

The Nightmare had found me.

My eyes flew open in the dark church. I was drenched in a cold sweat, my heart trying to beat its way out of my chest. The yawn, the exhaustion… it hadn’t been surrender.

It had been a symptom.

The Sleep was starting. The true nightmare was beginning. And I no longer had an experienced Awakened to guide me.

Chapter Text

One didn't immediately enter the Spell upon contracting the Nightmare Disease. It took several days to a week before the drowsiness reached the critical point, where your souls was forcefully plucked from your body and sent hurtling towards nigh-certain doom. The Spell wasn't kind or gentle, but it was hella efficient. Of course, according to those from the Age of Heroes-was it one of the Nine? Noctis? Or maybe Anake?-Awakened back then weren't even guaranteed an Aspect, and had to manually cultivate their Rank. Compared to then, the Spell was indeed a "crash course speed run" to Godhood. Anyways, the point was there was protocol follow for soon-to-be Dreamers: report to the nearest police station, where you will be assigned both a room for your convenience and an executioner for theirs. I spent the first three days measuring the growth of the Spell's pull, and figured I wouldn't last a full week. So on the morning of the fourth day, I set out.

'Wonder if I'll get Master Jet like Sunny. What are the chances?'

I wondered aimlessly as I made my way across the slums. Thankfully, no one bothered me, likely because they recognised me from all the alms selling Father Malachi got up to. The neighbourhood knew he was dead, and even those I recognised as belonging to specifically vicious gangs just passed over me. A rare kindness, perhaps helped by my despondent and blank look. The death of the priest hit me hard, even though I only knew him for under two weeks. The memories of the original Adam were purely informational, with very little emotion attached. And yet, I felt tears nearly fall several times as I walked. Maybe the Priest would become something of a local myth in the area, or maybe I would be the only one to remember him. Maybe the world would simply forget and moved on if I died in my Nightmare. The novel never actually described where Sunny began the story. He was just in a park, and then walked to a police station. I knew I wasn't in the same area as him because I didn't spot any of the landmarks he later revealed while on a date with Nephis, but my exact location was still a mystery. Even the old man didn't really know where we were on the map, he just wandered from place to place and only sporadically contacted some fellow priests scattered around.

So, I just followed the path of slowly improving buildings until I reached a place somewhat better than the slums. This should be the bottom of the "actually human" ladder that the Government and Great Clans created. Minimum wage and barely hanging above the red, but above it nonetheless. There were no police checkpoints, something I always found strange in the novel-with such big elitist classism, I expected armed guards at every crossroads-but maybe they were only stationed in the middle-income and higher parts. Anyways, my journey was smooth sailing all the way. Makes sense though, even Sunny only started getting his shit rocked upon unlocking [Fated]. Surely I couldn't have even worse luck than the treacherous Lost from Light?

I knew I had made a wise decision, as by the time I had figured out where the nearest station actually was (courtesy of a passing pedestrian) I was physically yawning and felt my senses start to dull. Did the Spell accelerate based on intent? I thought I would have a couple more hours, but now I figured I had only two at most. I hurried my body as much as I could and managed to find my target-a squat and dull grey building nestled between what looked like offices. The inside was quite impressive though: reinforced armor plates on the walls and poorly hidden turret nests in the ceiling. The officer at the desk was just as scruffy as Sunny's too. I wasn't the only one here: Officers moved with a tired purpose, their eyes avoiding mine as I approached the front desk. The man behind it, his uniform crisp but his face etched with a deep weariness, looked up. His eyes widened almost imperceptibly when he saw me—a too-young boy, alone, dressed in the black rags of a mostly-abandoned faith.

“I’m infected,” I said, my voice flat, the words feeling like ash in my mouth. “The Nightmare Spell.”

A flicker of something—pity? fear?—crossed his features before he schooled it into professional neutrality. He didn’t ask my name. He didn’t need to. He simply nodded, a sharp, jerky motion, and keyed something into his terminal.

“Roberts!” he barked, his voice too loud in the tense quiet. A larger, bulkier officer emerged from a side door. He had the grim, resigned look of a man who’d done this too many times. “New arrival. Prep Room Three.”

Officer Roberts looked me over, his gaze impersonal, like a butcher assessing a cut of meat. “This way, kid.”

He led me down a sterile, brightly lit hallway to a heavy metal door. Inside was a sparse, windowless room. Its sole feature was a stark metal-framed bed, bolted to the floor, with thick leather restraints on the wrists and ankles.

“Lie down,” Roberts instructed, his voice devoid of inflection.

I did as I was told. The metal was cold through my thin clothes. He moved with practiced efficiency, pulling the straps tight, securing my wrists and ankles. The leather was stiff and unyielding. I was utterly, completely helpless in them. 'Is this how Sunny felt, how Cassie and Nephis did too?'

He finished and stood back, looking down at me. The clinical detachment in his eyes was somehow more terrifying than outright malice.

“Listen close,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “This is how it works. You’re going back to sleep. When you do, you won’t be here anymore. You’ll be somewhere else. That’s the First Nightmare.”

I lay perfectly still, my breath steady as I listneed intently. I knew the drill, but perhaps he had personal experiences to share.

“That place, whatever it is, it’s real. The Spell makes it real. And it’s gonna try to kill you. Your job is to not let it. You survive. You find a way out. That’s all that matters.”

He leaned closer, his voice dropping even further. “If you die in there, you die for real. Your heart stops. We’ll come in here and find a monster born from your corpse. That’s how it goes for most.”

The cold finality of his words seeped into my bones.

“But if you do survive… if you make it through…” he continued, a faint, almost mythical note entering his voice. “You come back changed. The Spell rewards survivors. It gives you power. An Aspect. An Ability. Something to help you fight. And it gives you a Flaw. A price. Everyone gets one. Always.”

Aspect. Ability. Flaw. The familiar terms echoed around my skull. Yes, I knew these words. They were what had attracted me to this story long ago, the masterful world woven by Guiltythree. Father Malachi had been an Awakened too, and the thought filled me with newfound determination. 'I won't die here-I'm special. The Curator, a God himself, said so. I can adapt. I must.'

“That’s the deal,” Officer Roberts said, straightening up. “You get one free trip. You survive that, you wake up as a Dormant. After that, the Spell will call you back. Once forcefully against your will, and then again with insidious whispers and inate greed. The Nightmares get harder. The rewards get bigger. The cycle repeats over and over, every building. Until one of them finally kills you.”

He looked at me, a boy tied to a bed, and for a moment, I saw a shred of something human in his eyes. “Good luck, kid. You’re gonna need it.”

He turned and left, the heavy door clicking shut behind him, plunging the room into silence. I was alone, strapped to a bed, waiting for a nightmare to begin.

The Curator’s promise echoed in my mind. A Pathway from Lord of the Mysteries. It was here. My power was here. But I couldn't access it. I was entering the First Nightmare not as a Beyonder, not as a Seer, but as a helpless, mundane boy.

The true horror wasn't the monster waiting for me. It was the terrifying realization that I was about to face it with nothing but my own wits, in a game where the penalty for failure was a very real, very final death. Sunny dreamt of a mountain and the slave caravan that crossed it. He slew an Awakened Hero and a Tyrant there, the former with treachery and the latter through sheer dumb luck. Would I be required to do the same? I wasn't him, I wasn't an actual slum rat. I still had morals, still had actual motives and dreams other than wanting to fuck everyone better than me like some stupid brat. Ah, nearly started hyperventilating there. Gotta keep it under control.

The Spell decided to help me with that, because only minutes later a massive wave of dizziness crashed over me, and I felt like I was falling. An extra extended yawn escaped my mouth as my eyelids irresistibly began to close. I prayed to The Fool, to Amanises, to the True Creator and Adam and even the Mother Goddess of Depravity. I wouldn't get a response of course, but I felt it was apt considering I might gain one of their Pathways. I gave a passing thought to Weaver and the Shadow God to bless me too, but I expected even less from Them. They were both dead, after all.

=========================================

The sterile white light of the prep room dissolved into nothingness. The cold grip of the leather straps vanished. For a moment, there was only a falling sensation, a dizzying plunge through layers of reality.

Then, I stood.

I was on a windswept mountaintop, the air crisp and thin, tasting of ozone and something purer. Before me stood a temple of breathtaking beauty. It was built from radiant white marble, its columns reaching for the heavens, its pediments adorned with sculptures of gods and heroes frozen in perfect, divine action. A sense of profound peace, of absolute order, emanated from it. This was a place of sanctuary, of light untouched by the world's corruption.

Time began to warp.

It accelerated, a blur of days and nights flashing by. I watched, a ghost outside of time, as a trickle of people became a river of desperation. They flooded up the mountain path—families with hollow eyes, soldiers with broken armor, priests clutching shattered relics. They sought refuge within the temple's radiant walls. The skies, once a perfect azure, began to bruise. Gloomy, sickly clouds gathered, and the sun’s light grew wan and feeble, as if fighting a losing battle against a rising tide.

Beyond the horizon, titanic forces clashed. I couldn't see them, but I could feel them—world-shattering blows that vibrated through the very stone of the mountain, and deafening silences that were more terrifying than any sound. The temple, once a bastion of order, began to fray at the edges. The peace shattered into chaos. The cries of the refugees were no longer prayers of thanks, but screams of terror.

Then, time slowed, crystallizing into a moment of perfect dread.

A man, cloaked in shadows so deep they seemed to drink the fading light. He trod the same path as the refugees, but his figure was far more steady and composed. I couldn't see his features, but his shadow extended further behind him than the sun's position should allow. He arrived at the doors of the temple, seemingly admiring the architecture, before stepping inside.

Then time surged forward again, solar cycles passing in the blank of an eye. The clashing powers beyond my view faded, but what replaced it was even worse. From the shadows at the bottom of the mountain, a flood of filthy darkness erupted. It was not an absence of light, but a substance—thick, oily, and alive. It slithered up the mountainside, consuming everything it touched. Grass withered and turned to ash. Stone cracked and blackened. And from the seeping tide, monsters emerged. Twisted, shambling abominations of flesh and nightmare, things with too many teeth and too many limbs, all driven by a single, hellish purpose: to besiege the temple, to defile the divine, to extinguish the last light.

The vision began to fray, the horrific scene dissolving into static.

My eyes flew open.

A sharp, panicked gasp tore from my lungs. I was on my hands and knees on cold, familiar marble. The scent of ozone and purity filled my nostrils.

I was no longer watching the temple.

I was inside it.

I was in the grand courtyard, surrounded by those same radiant columns. The once-orderly space was now a chaotic camp filled with terrified refugees. Their cries, which had been a distant part of the vision, were now a hubbub of fear that slithered around and against my ears. Through the open gates at the far end of the courtyard, I could see the start-or the end-of the path that led down the mountain. More refugees continued to trickle in, small in number now but I knew they would grow.

The vision had been a preview. A warning of what was to come, just like what Sunny had received.

The First Nightmare had begun. And I was trapped in it.

The sharp, panicked gasp tore from my lungs, but the scream that wanted to follow died in my throat. I choked it back, clapping a hand over my mouth. The sound was too loud, too raw in this place of hushed terror. I was on my hands and knees on cold, familiar marble. The scent of ozone and purity filled my nostrils, now undercut by the stink of unwashed bodies and fear-sweat.

I was inside the temple, I realised again.

The grand courtyard was not yet packed but I could easily imagine when it would be.  A scattering of huddled forms—men in the tattered remnants of soldier's uniforms, women clutching crying children, old priests rocking back and forth as they whispered frantic prayers. Their faces were etched with a exhaustion so deep it was a physical weight. This wasn't the chaotic siege of my vision; this was the grim, tense calm before the absolute storm. The gates at the far end were still open, a trickle of new refugees stumbling through, their eyes wide with the horrors they'd fled. The monsters were not yet at the walls. But their coming was a certainty, the doom the Spell had charged me with averting.

Observe. Understand. Plan. The mantra of my potential Pathway, still useless without its power, was all I had.

I forced myself to my feet, my legs trembling not from weakness but from adrenaline and dread. I found a relatively quiet corner near a towering statue of a stern-faced goddess, her marble gaze looking out over the doomed. I slid down the wall, pulling my knees to my chest, making myself small. I had to think. I had to process the horror film that had just played behind my eyes.

The vision. It wasn't random, I knew. It was a message from the Spell itself, foretelling what was to come. Or rather, what had already happened in the actual history. A Fate that Weaver desperately wanted to change, even at the cost of sacrificing everything and everyone, including himself. 

First: This gathering. The desperate flocking to the last bastion of light. We had days, maybe less, before the end began. This temple was a magnet, drawing in the last remnants of a broken world. And it would soon be our grave as well.

Second: The clash beyond the horizon. Horrifying powers fighting each other. Gods? Daemons? The [Unknown] that were the first to breach the Seal? The Doom War was the most likely answer based off the novel. Hope had already been imprisoned and then released, and Nether must have already shattered his stone armies against the might of the Goddess of the Sky, the Lady of Storms.  That meant something had been decided. Something had been lost. And the winner… the winner was now turning its attention here. And my knowledge as a reader denied the pleasant delusion it was a force of good.

Third: Him. The figure cloaked in shadow. He hadn't felt like the others. The monsters were mindless hunger, a natural disaster of flesh. But he… he had purpose. Steady. Composed. He had walked the path and entered the temple. And his shadow… his shadow had been wrong. Not the absence of light, but something more. A blessing. A familiar one. The Shadow God was an Orthodox god in Shadow Slave, albeit disliked and ridiculed by the other five. He was a deity of sanctuary, repose and secrets, not of corruption despite sharing similarities with the black ichor of the Corruption. Was this stranger a follower? A champion? His arrival was a key point. He would soon arrive at the walls.

Fourth: The flood. The end. The monstrous tide that would consume this mountain and everyone on it. That was the finale. The event I had to survive, or better yet, prevent.

A cold, logical part of my mind, the part that had devoured every chapter of Shadow Slave, began to work. This was a scenario. A dungeon, in a way. There were NPCs—the refugees, the priests. There was a setting—the temple. There was a key event—the siege. And there were players. Me. And him. The shadowed man. He had to play the most vital part in the solution.

My goal wasn't just to survive. It was to change the outcome. The vision showed a total loss. Everyone died. The light was extinguished.

But I was a variable the vision hadn't accounted for. I knew the future.

I had no power. I had no weapon. I was just a boy in a black tunic. But I had knowledge. I had a Pathway, dormant and locked, but there. And I had the quiet support of a cosmic force surpassing any mere God in fiction.

The first step was to explore the temple, to see just where I was and the role I had assumed. Next was wait for the Shadowed Man to arrive. He was the other active element in this equation. Ally or enemy, I needed to know. He was connected to the Shadow God, and that connection might be the only shred of divinity we had left on this mountain.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, I pushed myself back to my feet. The numbness was gone, burned away by purpose. I looked out at the fearful crowd, determined not to end up like them in the ordained future. And so, I collected myself and spoke in a quiet, slightly trembling voice: "Spell."

***********************************

Name: Adam

True Name: —

Rank: Aspirant.

Soul Core: Dormant.

Memories: —

Echoes: —

Attributes: [Uniqueness of Visionary], [Flame of Divinity], [Blessed of I̵̪̟̻͋̒n̵̫̦͍͛̓̚f̴͍̙͛͛́i̵̪͕͔͌̕͝n̵͇͖̾͐͌͜ì̵̢̺̺̔̈́t̵̼̝̐͠y̵̡͓͙̔͑͘].

Aspect: [Visionary].

Aspect Rank: [Divine].

Aspect Description: [The Visionary Pathway is adept at psychological manipulation. Authority over Mind, Discernment, and Imagination. With the symbols of Creator and The Ruler of The Mind World, granting partial Omnipotence and Omniscience within that Domain]

Aspect Abilities: [Spectator, ???, ???, ???, ???, ???, ???, ???, ???, Visionary].

[Spectator: A Spectator receives great enhancement, mostly on their inferential, analytical, observational, and identification abilities along with their memory. Spectators possess keen powers of observation when it comes to observing individuals in either an individual or group sense. They can look at a person strictly from a bystander's perspective, discovering their true thoughts from their expressions, their manners, and their subconscious actions. Through this, they can accurately figure out connections and draw conclusions from the details they gathered to form an accurate mental model of the target. A Spectator will also possess the sharpened eyesight needed to analyse a target's body language.]

[Visionary: As the master of the Mind World, the Visionary holds dominion over all mental realms. In essence, They are the embodiment of Humanity: Humanity is both good and evil, rational and mad. Humanity arises naturally but can also be manufactured artificially by the Visionary. As the The Ruler of The Mind World, the Visionary can also be, in a sense, Omniscient, but this effect is limited to matters related to the Mind World. Their Discernment can also extend into the Fate, Reality, and Illusion Domains. They hold some Dream authority- the concept of Dreams itself. They hold partial authority over Loss of Control, the cause of one's descent into corruption.]

Chapter Text

***********************************

Name: Adam

True Name: —

Rank: Aspirant.

Soul Core: Dormant.

Memories: —

Echoes: —

Attributes: [Uniqueness of Visionary], [Flame of Divinity], [Blessed of I̵̪̟̻͋̒n̵̫̦͍͛̓̚f̴͍̙͛͛́i̵̪͕͔͌̕͝n̵͇͖̾͐͌͜ì̵̢̺̺̔̈́t̵̼̝̐͠y̵̡͓͙̔͑͘].

Aspect: [Visionary].

Aspect Rank: [Divine].

Aspect Description: [The Visionary Pathway is adept at psychological manipulation. Authority over Mind, Discernment, and Imagination. With the symbols of Creator and The Ruler of The Mind World, granting partial Omnipotence and Omniscience within that Domain]

Aspect Abilities: [Spectator, ???, ???, ???, ???, ???, ???, ???, ???, Visionary].

[Spectator: A Spectator receives great enhancement, mostly on their inferential, analytical, observational, and identification abilities along with their memory. Spectators possess keen powers of observation when it comes to observing individuals in either an individual or group sense. They can look at a person strictly from a bystander's perspective, discovering their true thoughts from their expressions, their manners, and their subconscious actions. Through this, they can accurately figure out connections and draw conclusions from the details they gathered to form an accurate mental model of the target. A Spectator will also possess the sharpened eyesight needed to analyse a target's body language.]

[Visionary: As the master of the Mind World, the Visionary holds dominion over all mental realms. In essence, They are the embodiment of Humanity: Humanity is both good and evil, rational and mad. Humanity arises naturally but can also be manufactured artificially by the Visionary. As the The Ruler of The Mind World, the Visionary can also be, in a sense, Omniscient, but this effect is limited to matters related to the Mind World. Their Discernment can also extend into the Fate, Reality, and Illusion Domains. They hold some Dream authority- the concept of Dreams itself. They hold partial authority over Loss of Control, the cause of one's descent into corruption.]

********************************************************************

I stared at the information hanging in the air before me, a shimmering screen of light that only I could see. For a short moment, my mind couldn't compute what it was being fed, before I let out an abrupt laugh. Thankfully no one else seemed to hear me, or care if they did, otherwise I would have ducked my head in embarrassment.

Visionary.

The realization was entirely  surprising to be honest. This body, the name, the cross I carried...on some level I had expected to receive one of the God Almighty's Pathways, but the exact one was less certain. Visionary was indeed Adam's Pathway, but Adam was just the Ancient Sun God's backup, while He held Hanged Man and Sun initially. I hadn't really considered possessing White Tower or Tyrant actually, just the other three. Still, not that I knew for certain I could lock in on which path to pursue. In Lord of the Mysteries, the Visionary Pathway is one of the few that can kill High Sequence Beyonders while not being one yourself: madness was the root of everything in that novel after all, and the Visionary holds the trigger for Loss of Control. A Reaper and Shepherd are other examples, and I suppose a Priest of Light could deal harsh damage to a Demon or Shaman King due to type-advantage. 

Then, my eyes scanned over my Attributes.

[Uniqueness of Visionary]. This one was concerning: In the system I understood, the Uniqueness was the final, ultimate ingredient needed to become a Sequence 0, the apex of a Pathway. It was the Pathway's ultimate authority, its' symbolic manifestation. To have it as a base attribute was… it was impossible. It was like being born as a finished God. According to the author himself, a sentient and alive Uniqueness on its own possesses the raw power of a complete Sequence 0, merely lacking the symbolic influence without the Sequence 1 Characteristics. To put it into reference, the Hidden Sage was stronger than Bethel Abraham despite the latter being more "complete". Guess Steam wasn't that  much of a fraud, though He was still the runt of the litter. Seriously, not even having a sliver of a Sephirah under your control by the 5th Epoch? Even Farbauti's dead alt account managed to dabble with the River of Eternal Darkness. Amon would be near that level too, but not quite, since the Ancient Sun God placed restrictions on "Him" via imbued Humanity. 

[Flame of Divinity]. The term was familiar to me too, since it seemed to play an important role in the world of Shadow Slave. Nephis began with this Attribute unlocked from the start, while Sunny had to climb his way up to it.  [Your soul is aflame with the light of divinity] was all it read, so just as vague as in canon. Perhaps it would allow me to take Blood Weave from the Vile Thieving Bird's Egg? Uhh, or did Sunny do it because of the Shadow God's legacy? Damn, my memory was already starting to fail. Hey in my defence, the beginning of the story was pretty quick, and I never re-read most of volume one. Call it PTSD from the ending. 

[Blessed of I̵̪̟̻͋̒n̵̫̦͍͛̓̚f̴͍̙͛͛́i̵̪͕͔͌̕͝n̵͇͖̾͐͌͜ì̵̢̺̺̔̈́t̵̼̝̐͠y̵̡͓͙̔͑͘]. The glitched, corrupted text made my head ache to look at, and the last word was just a squirming mess. Not even the Unknown triggered this from the Spell, the hell was I afflicted with? Hmm, no, I had a solid guess what it was.  [You have been blessed by n̵̫̦͍͛̓̚f̴͍̙͛͛́i̵̪͕͔͌̕͝n̵͇͖̾͐͌͜ì̵̢̺̺̔̈́t̵̼̝̐͠y̵̡͓͙̔͑͘ and all the chaos it may bring.-Love, the Curator]

Aspect Rank: [Divine].

Yeah, that was expected to be honest. As I said earlier, being the Uniqueness brought to life means I was already infinitely close to being a True God. Though it did raise the question about the Author Characteristics: would I somehow need to become Divine three times over, or would mastering the Author Aspect allow me to automatically sublime into Sequence 0? What about the Apotheosis Ritual? I sincerely doubted I had the skill or patience to direct the world from behind for a thousand years. Hell, I didn't even have the time! My biggest problem was the Acting Method though-or rather, me being devoured by the Acting Method. Amon and the Hidden Sage were great examples of the negative effects of being born Complete Mythical Creatures. Even for a softie like Azik, it took having his soul split in half and walking around as an amnesic corpse for a thousand years to learn the meaning of Humanity. Amon failed to do so even after losing the majority of His Godhood, becoming just a Sequence 2 and wandering the Cosmos. At most, He become more melodramatic.

Would something similar happen to me? Would I gradually lose my sense of self and be assimilated into the Uniqueness? The experiences of my namesake were useless, since the Ancient Sun God's botched attempt at revival made it impossible to distinguish what was Adam's original personality and what was the result of being taken over. Rubbing my eyebrows as a wave of sudden fatigue swept over me, I tried to stop thinking of that and move on. Foolish I know, but the thought was too stressful to deal with on top of everything else.

So I read the abilities.

[Spectator].

As the description unfolded in my mind, the world around me seemed to slow down and magnify. The fearful huddle of refugees was no longer just a mass of terrified people. It was an open book. A slight tremble in a man’s hand wasn’t just fear; it was a possible tell of a strapped to his forearm. The way a mother’s eyes flickered towards a specific pillar wasn’t just anxiety; it was the location of where she had hidden something. The whispered argument between two priests wasn’t just panic; it was a deep-seated theological rift laid bare in their micro-expressions, erupting once again. Information flooded me, not as just a noise, but as a somewhat comprehensible stream. He could see the strings connecting everyone, the hidden hierarchies, the secret alliances and hatreds. The power was passive, constant, and overlapping in a way I didn't yet understand, but that was merely my personal inexperience talking.

This was just the first ability. The first of nine unknowns, culminating in…

[Visionary].

The description of the final ability was a vista of such terrifying, absolute power that I almost wanted to laugh again. Omnipotence and Omniscience within the Mind World. Authority over Dreams. Authority over the very concept of Loss of Control—the root of the Corruption itself. How would that work in this world? Would it cause a seed of Corruption to just...appear inside someone? Would they still break down and mutate into a monster? And how would it affect those who were already monsters? This was one of my biggest fears about using the Potion System: compatibility. The Curator hadn't outright stopped me, but neither had he guaranteed my success. Still, the effectiveness was sure to be outstanding. Jet had stated that loads of Awakened grappled with mental issues due to the Nightmares, not to mention the waves that would be stirred up in Antarctica. Wait, wasn't trauma also a cause to be infected with the Spell? Could I specifically trigger Nightmare Seeds within other people to convert them into Awakened? The potential there so too much for me to focus on right now.

The sheer, grotesque scale of the favouritism was staggering. This wasn't being thrown into the deep end; this was being given control of the ocean before the first drop of water touched you. The Curator hadn't just broken the rules. He had looked at the board, decided he didn't like the game, and handed his player a flamethrower. 'Thank you, O' mysterious Curator' I offered a quick prayer of gratitude in my head.

I looked out at the doomed temple, at the people I had moments ago pitied. My perspective had been violently inverted. I wasn't a victim trapped in a nightmare. I was a Divine Ranked Awakened, a Spectator of unparalleled perception, and a potential Visionary of the mental realm, standing in a scenario perfectly designed for my specific, world-altering powers. I was no longer a variable the vision hadn't accounted for. I was the anomaly that was going to shred the vision entirely. A faint, cold smile touched my lips, utterly devoid of humour. It was the smile of someone who had just been handed the keys to a fortress and told the siege outside was now his problem to solve.

…That arrogance shattered only seconds later when a man appeared on the edge of a courtyard. He was middle-aged, with  his grey hair short and cropped close. He sported a trim mouth beard of black hair, and his eyes were a dried gold. For cloths, he wore a simple clerical robe of light blue and red pants. A curved scar ran down his right cheek to just under his cheekbone, though it was relatively faint and I wouldn't have noticed if not for my Spectator vision. His mouth was set in a stern frown, and the lines surrounding it told me it had been that way for years. His skin was also a slight grey, not quite healthy. The most notable trait of his though, for me, was the look in his eyes. 

They were steady and calm, yet carried an aloof cruelness that nearly made me shrink back instinctively. Those were the eyes of a man in power, the look of someone who had experienced the harshness of life. In a way, he reminded me of an army sergeant, though he wasn't particularly muscular. 

 He made no declaration of his arrival, and few noticed him. The two quietly arguing priests did however, and quickly stepped away from each other. going back to supervising the crowd of refugees. The guards closest to him straightened up, and I could see the grips on their spears tighten. As I observed him, I noticed a faint but present aura seeping out of him. The man had restrained it carefully, but failed to escape the attention of someone already watching. It was deep and fathomless, formless yet still gripping me. The world seemed...brighter around him. Larger and more full. I knew what this feeling was, had had it described to me several times from the pages. Sainthood. This man before me was a Transcendant. 

I let out a hiss and swallowed my saliva at the realization, but then the Saint's eyes flickered over and met mine. I had received the tiniest warning from his micro-expression shifting, allowing me to look down an avoid direct eye contact, but that second of connection caused goosebumps to break out across my body. Despite my reaction, I knew I had been discovered, but didn't make any moves. 'So what if I was observing you? I just happen to be more sensitive than others, a little surprising but nothing strange!'

Sure enough, the man only gave me a courtesy once-over before he stopped paying any attention. Then, perhaps satisfied or merely bored, he turned and left through an archway at the back. Licking my lips, I began to seriously think about what to do. Saving the temple and as many people as possible was the obvious goal, but how would I accomplish that? I wasn't even a Dormant yet, I had just received the Spectator Sequence as an advance payment from the Curator. While I could possible bamboozle and trick a few guards or vagrants with my empath abilities, it offered no means to divert a horde of unyielding freaks soon to be barrelling down on our doors.  'Heh, Spectator acting like a Swindler, who would have thought?'

Right, first and foremost: exploring the area. I saw no obvious symbols or insignias on the clothes of the two priests or half-a-dozen guards, and the vison didn't depict the temple with any particular God's heraldry. Deeper in the temple was sure to do so however, so I got up and dusted off my knees. Discreetly making my towards the arch the Saint had entered and exited through, one of the guards spotted me but said nothing, just giving me a threatening glare to make sure I didn't try anything. I flashed him a harmless smile, or tried to, and I guess it convinced him since he just snorted and turned away. Passing through the opening revealed multiple branching corridors, no signs or directions in sight. My keen eyes picked up a smattering of footsteps on all of them, so that method was useless, until I just barely picked out one pair different from the others. While it could have just been my imagination, I had no other leads and so I began to walk the same hall as the footprints. 

  It led me deeper into the temple, and carvings began to appear on the walls. They were all nonsense to me, vague and mighty figures battling each other, or inhuman beasts, or strange shadowed objects. It was as likely to just be a generic myth as a true telling of a battle, so I paid little attention to them. After nearly two minutes, the corridor opened to another chamber, but this one had a door leading to what seemed to be a garden, based on the green and sunlight visible through the arch. The chamber I was currently in held far more allure to me though, because it had a statue centred in front. A  colossal humanoid, its gender was vague but seemed to be leaner towards masculine. A loose robe that only fully covered the chest and torso, leaving the arms uncovered and legs loose, was drabbed across him, and his face was blank except for the inscribed mouth, nose and eyes. An expressionless and detached deity, purposelessly genderless and open to interpretation. Though I doubt any mortal dared to due so. His identity was known to me not through this statue, but the emblem of a blazing sun above it. The Sun God, the Lord of Light, the Deity of Passion and Destruction.

'Well, that makes my being here all the more intriguing'

From what the Spell showed me, the fate of this temple was to be consumed by the forces of darkness. Yet until the end, I saw no depictions of resistance or struggle. This temple worshipped the Sun God, not the Goddess of War, but I still expected a bitter fight till the end, especially against such profaned enemies. But the light was extinguished and all souls seeking its comfort destroyed. 'Did something go wrong? Did the temple leadership perish before the final battle, leaving the survivors unable to conjure effective resistance? Did that Shadow Awakened have something to do with it? Hmm, I can't remember if Shadow and Sun have any deep-rooted hatred towards each other. War certainly seemed to despise Her brother, but the rest are somewhat ambiguous. Sunny and Nephis are are a pretty shitty example to use too...'

I sighed and turned to enter the garden, the room barren of anything else of use and at least one question answered. The garden was as beautiful as it appeared from the outside, glowing in the amber sunlight with birds and insects chirping beyond view. At the centre was a pool of water, no fountain, but rather seemed to bubble up from underground. The water was also beautiful, a honeyed gold that shimmered. The middle-aged Saint was there, on both knees and seemingly in prayer. He leant forward and scooped up the water with both hands, not drinking it but rather washing his face. I moved towards him slowly but resolutely. I had no doubt he had detected my presence, so I didn't want to appear weak or timid. When I was only seven or six feet away, he called out to me.

"You seem to be lost, boy. There is nothing in this garden for your kind."

"Am I being kicked out?" I asked with a raised eyebrow. "Is this place forbidden to visitors?"

"No," the Saint surprisingly chuckled at that, though it was sharp and short.  "I merely mean that there is quite literally nothing for you, a wanderer, to find or do here. This garden is just an ordinary spot, one I visit because I like the tranquillity. There's nothing special about the pool either-it's just an underground spring that was blessed by the Venerable One some time ago. So, you should head back before your friends or family become worried."

"I'm alone," I state calmly, causing the Saint to turn and look at me for the first time. "My village...it was destroyed in the conflict. I was out gathering wood for the fire when it happened. Apart from me, there were only a few survivors but we later split up."

My confidence to lie came from Spectator abilities, as well as the fact Saints can't automatically see through all falsehoods. While Saint Tyris had interrogated Sunny, he had managed to fool her with his half-truths and misdirection. I was also banking on the thought that the Saint wouldn't bother to peer too deep into my backstory-why would he, after all?

Sure enough, he sighed sorrowfully and shook his head. The motion reminded me of Father Malachi, and for a moment my throat tightened. "I am sorry for what you have gone through, child, I truly am," he began. "For the past few months, the world seems to have gone mad. The followers of the Gods have turned on each other, the armies of the underworld pillage and destroy everything they can get their hands on, undeath and vile evil even I cannot comprehend breeds unopposed amongst the carnage and through it all the Lord is silent. Several of my brothers and sisters fear that we have been forsaken."

I looked at the Saint in surprise, not expecting him to just unload all his fears and doubts onto a random and complete stranger. Furthermore, the fact his faith wavered in the Sun God was a massive shocker: while maybe not as much as the followers of War, the believers of Sun in the Chained Isles were still zealous and demented in their belief. Seeing this on my face, the Saint gave a wry smile. By this point, I was doubting my own judgement: what I thought was a no-nonsense stern old man seemed to actually be closer to a kind, fatigued uncle. "Are you taken aback by the truth in my words? I myself could scarcely believe them when the thoughts first appeared. But as time went by and no response cam from neither the Lord nor the Venerable One, and the reports grew more and more horrifying, I came to understand that we were facing a greater scourge than even what was present in the Age of Heroes."

I fell silent at this, an inkling of why the temple had fallen so easily in the original timeline. If their strongest fighter was already pessimistic and prepared to give up, what chance did the weaker have? Taking a deep breathe and steeling myself, I stepped closer and spoke with a lid voice-

"Sir, I beg of you, please allow me to become a Priest!"

Chapter Text

My request to become a priest of the temple wasn't a sudden one, or not to me at least. My options were extremely slim, even non-existent, and I had no way of rallying anybody to fight against the hordes of abominations that would soon come after us. The fact I couldn't even provide a clear time for their arrival would grind any such attempt to a halt. Sneak around the temple for weapons or secrets? If I was a Faceless or Psychiatrist who had Psychological Invisibility maybe, but I was just a Spectator. My only option was to use the system and work my way up it until I could find something better to do. At the same time, I needed to convince this Saint, a pillar of this crumbling temple, radiating a power that could either be our salvation or our final undoing, to fight and support me. To move freely, to have my voice heard when the darkness came, I needed to stand beside him, not beneath him.

The Saint’s dried-gold eyes widened a fraction, the stern lines of his face softening into pure, unadulterated surprise. He was silent for a long moment, studying me not with suspicion, but with a deep, weary curiosity. “A Priest?” he finally said, his voice a low rumble. “Child, the path of the cloth is not a shelter from the storm. It is a commitment to stand within it, to be a lightning rod for the fears of others. It is a life of service, not safety. Why would you seek this now, in the world’s ending?”

This was the test. I couldn’t mention the vision. I couldn’t speak of the nightmare or the Spell. My lie had to be built on the foundation of the truth I’d just been given—his truth. I met his gaze, allowing the lingering shock and grief from Father Malachi’s death to resurface, channelling it into my performance. “My village is gone. The world is madness, as you said. I have nothing left but the memory of a priest who showed me kindness before he… before he died. He believed in sanctuary. In light. When I saw this temple, when I felt… I felt a semblance of that peace here…” I let my voice tremble, just slightly. It wasn’t entirely an act. The scale of what was coming was truly terrifying. “I don’t want to just hide. I want to help. I want to be a part of whatever light remains. Please. I have nowhere else to go.” I saw it in the micro-shift of his expression, the slight relaxation of his jaw. The Spectator ability translated the signals instantly: he saw my youth, my palpable loss, and a desire he interpreted as pure, if naïve, faith. He saw a reflection of the idealism he himself had likely once possessed, now worn down by the silent heavens. He let out a long, slow breath, the sound like wind through ancient stones.

“The old ways are breaking. Perhaps new blood is what is needed, even if it arrives drenched in sorrow.” He stood, his movement fluid and effortless, the power in his frame unmistakable. “Very well. I am Saint Theron. I oversee the spiritual well-being of this sanctuary. I cannot offer you formal ordination—such things require years of study and the blessing of a higher authority that does not answer. But I can offer you a place among the acolytes. You will work, you will pray, and you will learn what it means to hold fast to hope when there is none. If you still wish this path after you have seen the true depth of the despair we face, then we will speak again.” It was more than I could have hoped for. Legitimacy. Access. A reason to wander the temple halls unsupervised, if only openly. “Thank you, Saint Theron,” I said, bowing my head. The gesture felt foreign, but right.

“Come,” he said, his tone shifting to one of practical command. “The first lesson begins now. You will help me take inventory of our medical supplies. The refugees bring not just fear, but injury and sickness. To tend to the body is often the first step in tending to the soul.” He led me back inside, not towards the main courtyard, but down a side passage. As I followed, my mind was already racing, cross-referencing the vision with this new reality. Medical supplies. They would be critical when the siege began. Knowing their location, their quantity, would be the first strategic step in altering our doomed future. Saint Theron had given me a chore. But to me, it was the first move in a war for survival, and I was now perfectly positioned behind enemy lines. Not that I had any intention of bring harm to these people of course, we all stood on the same side after all. Now, the biggest issue was figuring out the exact timeline shown to me.

From what I'd seen, the flood of refugees will stop for a time, which was rapidly accelerated in the opening. Then a man presumably connected to the Shadow God will arrive, followed by another accelerated period of time. Then the monsters. So I had at around two weeks after the last of the refugees show up before we all die. From now, maybe 20 days. While Theron had showed me some favour by agreeing to my request, I was sure I couldn't achieve much more in such a short time by doing chores. I would need an opportunity to stand out, to prove my worth. For now though, I obediently did what was asked of me and started going through the boxes of herbs and labelled potions.

****************************

Three days bled into a tense, weary rhythm. The initial awe of my new reality had subsided, replaced by a grinding, methodical anxiety. I had settled into the role of an acolyte, my black tunic now a familiar uniform. I fetched water, helped distribute thin, gruel-like stew from a massive pot, and followed Saint Theron on his rounds, my Spectator’s sight constantly active, cataloguing every face, every whispered conversation, every hidden tension in the crowded temple.

Saint Theron was a constant, calm presence, but I watched him with a new, critical eye. Each new group of ragged, hollow-eyed refugees that stumbled through the gates was met with the same gentle efficiency. He would observe them, his Transcendent aura a subtle comfort, but he never interrogated them, never pressed for strategic information. He sought only to soothe, to offer sanctuary. And the refugees had nothing to offer but their fear. Their stories were all the same, heard weeks ago from villages and towns now erased from the map. They brought no news from the front lines of this unseen war because there were no front lines anymore. There was only the advancing tide, and they were the flotsam left behind. News from outside the valley mountain range was cut off entirely, and no one knew how things had progressed. Hell, they didn't even know who was fighting, just vague names or notions.

I watched as the priests, under Theron’s directive, distributed food with a scrupulous, heart-breaking morality. A withered elder received the same portion as a broad-shouldered blacksmith. A wailing infant’s mother got more than a solitary scribe. It was an act of profound kindness, a stubborn refusal to surrender their morality to the coming darkness. And it was a catastrophic tactical error. The thought coiled in my mind, cold and ruthless. My thoughts, focused on survival and resource management, conflicted with my hearty. Prioritize, a voice whispered, the voice of unkind reason who knew that some lies were necessary for a greater truth. Feed the strong. Arm the healthy. Identify the soldiers, the hunters, the ones who could hold a spear. This temple wouldn’t be saved by prayers or fairness; it would be saved by those who could kill the things climbing the mountain. But I said nothing. I kept this calculus a secret, locked behind a mask of placid helpfulness.

Because I also saw the deep, genuine compassion in Saint Theron’s eyes. He couldn’t watch a single person suffer if he had the means to prevent it, even momentarily. His kindness was his greatest strength and the flaw that would doom everyone here. This paradox gnawed at me, and it forced me to re-examine the vision. The temple had fallen without a fight. I had assumed it was because they were overwhelmed, because their defences failed. Now, I wasn’t so sure. What if they never fought at all? What if their leader, a man like Theron, so committed to preservation and mercy, had been unable to make the brutal choices necessary for war? What if, when the shadowed figure arrived—the key I still hadn’t identified—he found not a fortress ready for battle, but a hospice waiting for the end? A place where the will to fight had been compassionately, kindly, starved out of existence? The thought was a chilling revelation. The enemy wouldn’t need to break down the gates. They just needed to wait for the light within to sputter and die on its own. And as I carried another bowl of stew to a trembling old woman who might be dead in a week, regardless of the monsters, I feared that was exactly what was happening. Perhaps when the beasts arrived, all they found were corpses and empty hallways.

Apart from gaining a further understanding of Theron's character, I had also managed to explore some more of the temple. As told in the vision, it was quite large, with up to a dozen prayer chambers and four gardens: one for each corner. Apart from me, there were only sixteen other priests and thirty guards, of which three were Ascended and a dozen were Awakened. The rest were Dormant or just trained mortals. The three Ascended had relatively straightforward abilities: one could transform stone to sand and vice-versa. The second had the ability to see echoes of past events that occurred in the last twenty-four hours, and the third could convert kinetic energy into explosions. Two were female, one young the other middle-aged, while the third was a man in the prime of his life. I was closest to the man, who was relatively simple-minded and liked to talk. He told me a bit about the temple and its history, which dated from the dusk of the Age of Heroes to now, and some titbits of the "Venerable One" mentioned by Theron.

They were an extremely powerful but mysterious individual, having not been seen in over fifty years. They were Theron's teacher and likely a Supreme, as well as the founder of this Temple. According to the Master, Jeryl, the Venerable One had been blessed with the blood of the Sun God and held a higher status than other Supremes because of this. Where such a powerful being was now was unclear, and I wondered if they died during the Doom War, but at least I could confirm they wouldn't be showing up here.

**************************************

The summons came as it did each evening: a soft-spoken priest gathering the handful of priests, myself being the only acolyte, and leading us to the inner sanctum. The air here was different from the anxious buzz of the main hall—thicker, heavier with the scent of old incense and silent devotion. Sunlight, filtered through a high, stained-glass window depicting the Sun God's triumph over some serpentine beast, cast fractured pools of colour on the marble floor. Saint Theron stood before the modest altar, his presence seeming to draw the fading light of day to him. We knelt in a semi-circle as he began the daily baptism, not with water, but with light. A gentle, warming radiance emanated from his hands, washing over us. It was a benediction, a reinforcement of the soul against the despair that seeped through the temple walls. To the others, it was a sacred comfort. To me, with my Spectator’s sight, it was a fascinating display of controlled divine energy, a precise and careful application of power meant to soothe rather than invigorate. He gave his usual short speech, his voice a low, resonant hum in the quiet chamber. “The Lord of Light does not promise a world without shadow,” he intoned, his dried-gold eyes moving over each of us. “He promises that the light will always return. He grants us the strength to endure the night, so that we may greet the dawn. Hold fast to that truth. It is your shield.”

The words were meant to be inspiring. All I heard was a doctrine of passive endurance. A promise to endure the slaughter, not to prevent it. I was damned sure there were texts in the Sun God's doctrine about crusades and burning heretics alive, since I had come across some...less friendly tomes the day before, but Theron always chose the gentler messages. For a man in position of power, it was an undeniably good quality, but for a world in a position of imminent destruction it was useless. As the other acolytes rose, bowing and filing out with quiet reverence, my attention was snagged not by the altar, but by the far corner of the chamber. Partially obscured by a heavy woven tapestry depicting a celestial battle, was a door I had somehow missed previously. It wasn't like the others in the temple. It was made of aged, dark bronze, thick and banded with black iron. There were no handles, only a single, complex seal at its centre—a stylized sun whose rays were locked in place by what looked like interlocking chains.

It was utterly out of place in the chamber of gentle light and soothing blessings. It looked less like a door and more like a vault, or a prison. I lingered, pretending to straighten a fallen cushion near the altar until the last of the other acolytes had departed and their footsteps had faded down the hall. The heavy silence of the chamber was broken only by the soft rustle of Theron’s robes as he turned, noticing my presence. “Is there something you need, Adam?” he asked, his tone kind but weary from the day’s burdens. I approached him, my expression one of curious innocence. I gestured towards the corner. “Saint Theron… I couldn’t help but notice that door. It’s unlike any other in the temple. What is it for?”

The effect on him was immediate and subtle. His weary posture straightened almost imperceptibly. The gentle light in his eyes dimmed, replaced by a guarded, ancient caution. The kind warmth in his face cooled by a single, crucial degree. He looked from me to the bronze door and then back, and the silence stretched just a moment too long. “That,” he said, his voice losing its resonant comfort and becoming flat, final, “is a relic of a older time. A sealed vow. It is not for acolytes. It is not for anyone. It is best left forgotten.”

He didn’t say it with anger, but with a weight that felt heavier than the door itself. It was the first time he had outright refused to answer a question, the first time he had hidden something. In that moment, the kind Saint vanished, replaced by a man guarding a secret. And in a temple on the brink of annihilation, a secret that required a bronze door and a chained sun to contain it was the most interesting thing I had seen yet. Perhaps it held the vital clue needed for me to overturn the situation. Of course, it could just as likely be the cage of a Cursed Titan that would obliterate us all instantly in a nuclear blast of annihilation but that was neither here nor there. It was the one of the few places I had yet to access though, and by far the most conspicuous. The other three places were Theron's room, the guards quarters and scribe's office. Sighing to myself, I returned to my duties, storing the bronze door away for future use.

***************************************************************

The silence was the worst part. For days, the rhythm of dread had been set by the arrival of new refugees—their cries, their stories, their desperate energy. Then, the flow slowed to a trickle: a lone family one day, a pair of wounded soldiers the next. Then, nothing. The great gates remained open, but the mountain path below lay empty and still. The void where hope should have been grew louder than any alarm bell. The atmosphere in the temple curdled. The initial shock of survival gave way to the slow poison of idleness and fear. Squabbles broke out over sleeping space, over food portions that were now cut thinner than ever. A deep, restless anxiety hummed through the halls, a tension that my Spectator sight could almost see coiling around people’s throats. The guards’ grips on their weapons were permanent now, their faces set in grim, unyielding lines. They weren’t just watching for external threats anymore; they were watching us.

Saint Theron became a ghost of reassurance, moving through the crowds with his calming aura, laying a hand on a shoulder here, mediating a dispute there. His words were still of hope and dawn, but they began to ring hollow against the palpable, thickening despair. He looked more drained each day, the light around him seeming to fight a little harder to push back a darkness that was no longer just metaphorical. I counted the days. The eleventh since I’d awoken here. The vision had shown the temple’s fall happening rapidly after the arrivals stopped. My every nerve was stretched taut. I’d given up on sleep, spending my nights watching the gates, the Spectator ability burning in my mind, analysing every shift in the wind, every strange sound. And then, he came.

There was no fanfare, no warning, not even the sound of footsteps on the polished stone. I was watching the gate when I saw a figure crest the hill, wrapped in a black shawl that seemed to be impossibly deep. His face was covered by a hood that cast shadows over his eyes, like some sort of Assassin's Creed cosplayer. I would have laughed at that thought, but now I was in no mood. The shadowed man. He was exactly as he’d appeared in the vision, yet the reality of him was a physical blow to my senses. The shadows around him weren’t cast; but seemed alive. And that's not just hyperbole, I swear I saw them wiggle and shift a bit as he approached. He seemed to drink the fading evening light, making the air around him several degrees colder. My Spectator sight, which could read the subtlest twitch of a muscle, slid off him uselessly, unable to find purchase in the inky black. He stood perfectly still, his posture not of a weary traveller or someone ignorantly fleeing disaster, but of an observer who had reached his destination. He was composed, steady, a rock in the frantic river of our fear. A guard finally noticed him, casting a suspicious gaze.

This guard was an Awakened, and I guess his senses were stronger than me, because he gripped his spear and his face dropped. “Halt! Identify yourself!” he barked, his voice cracking with a tension that was near breaking. The man didn’t respond. He simply tilted his head, as if studying the architecture of the gate, the same way he had in the vision. The gesture was calm, analytical, and utterly terrifying. Chaos erupted. More guards converged, shouts echoing through the courtyard. Refugees shrank back, pressing themselves against the walls as if trying to disappear. The air, already thick with tension, now crackled with imminent violence. And through it all, the shadowed man just stood. Waiting. My heart hammered against my ribs. This was it. The catalyst. The event that preceded the flood. The last checkpoint before the final boss.

As the two parties stared at each other in silence-one side tense, the other lazily calm-Theron moved through the crowd. His eyes lit up in recognition, but his face hardened and jaw tensed. He waved down the concerned guards and ordered the crowd to make way. Once they had done so, the man walked through the temple gates, nodding politely at the guards as he passed. He and Theron spoke not a word as they walked side-by-side until they were out of sight. Beside me, another priest let out a sigh of relief. Turning to him, I asked, "Do you recognise that man?" "No," he shook his head. "However, since Bishop Theron walks beside him, he cannot be a foe. I trust the Bishop."

Letting out a hum of acknowledgement and dallied for several minutes longer before discretely sneaking towards Theron's quarters. The room wasn't soundproof, so upon arriving I was able to make out their conversation. The thought of being discovered obviously crossed my mind, but I had an excuse prepared and Theron wasn't the kind to punish me harshly. Putting my ear against the door, I strained my improved senses to their limit.

"You shouldn't be here, Karion" Theron spoke in a less friendly tone than usual, though not to the point of being impolite. "I should not be anywhere," the man replied, "For my soul has already been claimed by Shadow. Yet I persist in the land of the living for I still bear a mission."

"Your presence will bring misfortune to these people. Leave at once, and let us spend the rest of our days in peace."

"Peace? You think being devoured alive, torn apart limb from limb, is a peaceful end? It would be a more graceful death to slip hemlock into everyone's drink-"

"Karion!" I flinched as I heard Theron shout for the first time.

Several seconds of silence reigned after this, as both sides seemingly collected themselves. Eventually, Karion spoke up. "I apologize, old friend. Saying such a thing was cruel, mocking your efforts this far. I admire what you have done, I really do, but surely you can see their lies no salvation at the end of this path? Why do you refuse to take a stand, to brandish the light to repel all darkness?"

"A Blessed of Shadow desires light?" Theron laughed in faux amusement. "I have your God to blame for much of this in fact, for allowing death and misery to proliferate unchecked like it has!" "Shadow merely created death," Karion retorted.

"It was War and Beast and Sun who spread it. War...those mad zealots destroyed our world and even still marched forward to claim more. Let the Rot take them all, those bastards. If I could, I'd go out of my way to uproot that sickening empire of theirs."

"Why do you not?"

"Because the Empire of War no longer exists" he said simply, stunning Theron and I into silence. Well, I was already silent, but my heart still dropped.

"How?" the Saint whispered.

"I am not entirely clear on that myself, but I've heard a group calling themselves "The Nine" played a part in that. Organized revolts, important Nobles assassinated in their homes, churches and temples burnt alongside their priests...the entire country went mad with bloodlust and suppressed desires. The Daemons' have charged suicidally against the Divine, and the aftermath even I do not know yet, though my soul tells me it cannot be good."

"The Nine?" Theron question with a troubled tone. "I have never heard of such a group: the Venerable One has never mentioned it either. And besides, even if the Gods are preoccupied against the Daemons and Nephilim, how could They just watch the Empire fall? It doesn't make sense!"

"Perhaps there is more going on than we know" Karion offered calmly, seemingly unperturbed by his own revelations. Silence once again dropped before Theron asked with a weary tone, "Karion what exactly do you seek here?"

"Nothing, or rather, nothing that you can give me. I merely want to inform you that time is running out. You have five, maybe six, days before every soul in the temple is destroyed. A flood of twisted monstrosities are sweeping through the valley, and this is the only safe place left. If you are unwilling to use the Radiance, then death is the only fate awaiting you."

"Death awaits us either way" Theron dismissed bitterly. "The Gods have fallen silent, and I cannot use the Radiance multiple times. No one in this temple can, and having anyone less than a Transcendant will kill them after a single use anyways. If the Venerable One was here then...but he is not, so that's a moot point. I am not blind to the future coming Karion, but I cannot see a way out. Perhaps this is the fate woven for us. I have lived a long and good life."

"And of the people?" I could hear the loaded question in his words.

"...I will handle that" he spoke quietly, a deadly level of resignation in his voice. Despite his loud outburst at Karion's recommendation of mercy killing, I couldn't help but be alarmed. If a quick and painless death was the only alternative to being eaten by corrupted beasts, would Theron take it? My heart wanted to deny it, but I couldn't. What would I do in his place? The answer, I already knew.

"In that case, I wish you good luck. I will be on my way now."

Hearing the sound of a chair moving backwards, I quickly fled from the door and around a corner. As I heard the door open and low murmuring taking place, I steeled my hard and tried to appear normal. I "walked" around the corner and pretended to be surprised to see Theron and the shadow man standing together, the Saint walking him out. Theron gave a slight smile at me, while Karion just silently observed me. If either knew I had been eavesdropping, they didn't show it.

I passed them by and continued on my way, taking another corner and leaving them behind. I kept walking until I reached my quarters, then locked the door and sat on my bed with my head between my hands. Karion had been a key figure as I had guessed, but he brought only bad news. I thought I would have more time after his appearance, but if it was only four or five days then I would need to speed things along. The fact Theron might be planning to murder everyone here in their sleep was another concern for me to deal with. Karion’s warning had cut my timeline from weeks to mere days, and Theron’s fatalistic resignation was now an active threat. Passive observation was no longer viable. My first move must be to neutralize the immediate danger: Theron’s potential “mercy killing.”

I needed to discreetly monitor the Saint, perhaps using his enhanced perception to track his movements and any preparations for such an act. Simultaneously, I have to solve the riddle of the bronze door. Theron’s guarded secret was the only anomaly in the temple’s otherwise hopeless equation. It represented a power—the “Radiance”—that Karion believed could save them, but Theron refused to use. According to him, it could only be reliably used by a Saint and others would perish, but even then it carried a price high enough to terrify the man.

This meant I would have to risk exploring the inner sanctum again, searching for a way to bypass the sealed door, perhaps by finding a key or deciphering the sun-and-chains emblem. Finally, I had to prepare for the siege itself. My powers as a Spectator could no longer remain a secret though. I would need to identify potential allies among the guards and Awakened, like the simple-minded Jeryl, and begin subtly planting the seeds of defiance, convincing them that a fight—however desperate—was better than a quiet, administered death. Rallying the people, which I originally dismissed due a lack of time and authority, was once again the best option. Groaning painfully, I lay down on the bed and closed my eyes. I would deal with everything tomorrow, riht now I just wanted to sleep.

Chapter Text

Morning came earlier than I would have liked-a feeling I figured I would be experiencing a lot as the clock ran down. Another three days had passed since Karion came and went, and I had only made some marginal progress on opening the bronze door. Theron hadn't been acting any different despite the deadline closing in, and while supplies got notably tighter, it hadn't yet reached the point of desperation. A few got sick, and a couple of the weaker refugees even died, but order was maintained for the most part. There were no actual sings of the approaching apocalypse either: the weather hadn't changed noticeably, nor had the ground shook. The sun was still a grey blob in the sky, but it had been that way for weeks apparently. While his attempts to get more information on what was behind the door, what the "Radiance" mentioned by the two Saints was, had failed, he was more successful in his...other ventures.

For three days, my became a ghost in the temple’s nervous system. I did not command or confront. I simply… nudged those around me in the way I wanted, but only using the tools they themselves prepared.

Leaning against a wall near a group of grumbling guards, I’d sigh, just loud enough to be heard. “It’s a shame. All this strength, waiting to be used. If only we had a plan.” The words were vague, but they fell on the fertile soil of their frustration, giving their inchoate anger a shape: the lack of a plan. These were men trained from a young age, since I knew the temple adopted orphans, who held more zealotry than even Theron himself (as bizarre as that may be). They desired action, a definitive move to do...something, even if it was ineffective. Being in the forefront of handling the refugees had also frayed their nerves. Even the toughest soldier can only handle the wailing of children and mothers before they started to crack.

Serving stew to a family, I’d murmur to a grim-faced father, “The children look so pale. I hope the Saint has a strategy to protect the most vulnerable.” The man’s fear for his family was subtly redirected from the external threat to the internal leadership, a quiet question of Theron’s capability forming where blind faith had been. These people knew Theron: not personally, but through stories passe down for years. They all depicted him as a godly and kind man, but not a fighter, not a negotiator. The grim father could not draw upon stories of Theron's prowess or leadership, though the Saint was certainly brave, this no one denied. But would that be enough? Could mere courage save them in these times?

I never lied. I simply highlighted existing fears and unspoken doubts, weaving them into a narrative of unease. I was an author composing a symphony of discontent, each note perfectly chosen to resonate, yet the music felt like the listeners’ own thoughts. I was the Manipulator, the Author of a new, defiant story, carefully editing out the passages on passive acceptance and writing in margins of rebellion. I watched the atmosphere shift, the tension coiling tighter, ready to spring. There was no malice towards Theron, even though I will not claim I held no frustration towards the older man. As Noctis had said, the Age of Heroes was long past. The Gods had fallen silent, and soon They would fall dead. It was up to me to ensure the same fate did not befall the hapless souls here. Even if this was a mere false history generated by the Spell. 

The manipulations continued on the next day. Saint Theron's compassionate inaction was a slower, kinder death sentence than the horde climbing our mountain. I wasn't trying to betray the man I respected; I was trying to save everyone from the despair he wore like a shroud. This was the message I slipped between my gilded words, a backdoor I left in case anyone reported me for betrayal. 'I am not evil; I am merely trying to help!'

My Spectator ability became my scalpel. I could see the frustration in the set of a guard's jaw, the silent terror in a mother's eyes, the grim acceptance in a soldier's slouch. I didn't invent their fears. I simply found them, and I gave them a voice.

Leaning against a sun-warmed wall near a group of guards, I let out a weary sigh, just loud enough to be heard. "The masonry on the eastern wall is so strong," I murmured, as if to myself. "A real shame we don't have a plan to use it. All this strength, waiting." I saw one guard's hands still on his spear. Another glanced toward the wall I’d mentioned. I’d redirected their aimless anxiety into a tangible, solvable problem.

Serving thin stew, I knelt beside a young mother. "He feels the cold, doesn't he?" I said softly, nodding at her shivering child. "I overheard the priests say the inner sanctum retains heat best. Reserved for... well." I let the sentence hang, leaving her with the unspoken question: Reserved for who? The sick of course, for they needed it badly. But perhaps the mother thought of a different group. I wasn't lying. I was just suggesting that the strategy of shared suffering might not be the only way. 

I listened to the blacksmith curse his lack of decent metal, and later I mentioned to one of the Ascended female Temple warriors, "It's amazing what that man can do with scrap. Imagine if he had real ore." I was connecting people, building a subconscious web of capability and need that completely bypassed Theron's paralyzed leadership.

By the time the sun rose on the fourth day, I knew I had achieved the first level of success. Portion of the crowd stared with emotional eyes at the guards and servers, and when Theron showed up for his daily inspection, there was less warmth and hope in the eyes of his observers. This change did not go unnoticed by the man, as his jaw tightened slightly. He stayed for longer that day, speaking with men and women I assumed held local influence. I had also marked them and dropped a few words here and there, but never made proper contact. I was afraid they would point me out as the source of discontent spreading through their ranks. I had less to worry about from the guards and other priests, I had already found out, as Jeryl and more shared my frustrations to some extent. The priests were all young, the older and more experienced taken away to fight in the Doom War. That meant the ones who stayed behind were eager for action, for glory in the name of their God. 

**********************************************

The subtle cracks I’d been carefully etching into the foundation of Theron’s peaceful sanctuary finally began to spread. I saw it in the way the guards now stood their ground when he passed, their nods less deferential, their eyes holding unspoken questions. I heard it in the low, tense murmurs that rippled through the refugee crowds, no longer just fear, but a sharp, frustrated anger. My whispers had taken root. Theron had to personally intervene more and more, his calming aura now a visible effort, a light straining against a rising tide of discontent he couldn’t understand.

It culminated in a tense gathering in the main hall. Myself, a handful of the most resolute guards whose resolve I’d hardened, and even a few younger priests whose faith had curdled into a desperate need for action, stood before Theron. Jeryl and one of the two Ascended woman were with me, though the third remained indecisive even now. We had talked over what we would say to the Saint for several hours, choosing the early rays of the morning when there would be less people. I wanted to spare Theron the humiliation of being questioned by his own subordinates, even if it would be a better stage for my ends. I knew the feeling myself from my past life after all, and it struck a particular chord of distaste. 

“Saint Theron,” I began, my voice respectful but firm, acting as the group’s "reluctant" speaker. “The people are afraid. We are all afraid. But fear is curdling into panic. We have strong walls, able bodies. Let us form a militia. Let us prepare a defence. Give us a plan, any plan, to fight for this sanctuary.”

He looked at us, his face etched with a profound, weary sadness. “To fight is to invite the darkness inside,” he said, his voice hollow. “Our strength is in endurance, in faith. To raise a weapon is to become what we fear. I will not lead you down that path.”

"That's nonsense!" roared Jeryl, before swallowing his voice after Theron looked at him. "Please, Sir, at least let the volunteers choose to fight. The Radiance, the things the temple sealed behind that door, let us wield it. We do not fear oblivion if it means saving the lives of hundreds of others!"

"My answer is no! Now, disperse and resume your duties. I am sure your absence is negatively affecting your brothers and sisters."

"What are you afraid of, Saint Theron?" I spoke clearly, my voice piercing the old man's heart. His brows furrowed and then relaxed, but in a way that made my stomach drop. "There are worse fates than death, boy. Now leave."

The finality in his tone was a door slamming shut. The hope in the eyes around me died, replaced by a bitter helplessness. I felt it too—a cold fury at his beautiful, suicidal philosophy.

He refused. He would let us all die peacefully rather than risk our souls, believing that being torn apart and devoured by Nightmare Creatures was better than the "Oblivion" mention by Jeryl. Was it ignorance, I wondered? Did growing up in an era of peace leave Theron without understanding of the terrors of the Corruption? Entirely possible, I mused. The Gods had been damn effective at hunting down the Void's spawn, and the Daemons kept to themselves apart from the occasional love-spat between Nether and Storm. Maybe men like Theron were genuinely ignorant. Or perhaps I was the ignorant one, since I still didn't know what the temple's secret weapon was.

Turning to Jeryl, I tried my luck. "Ascended Sir, what do you know about the bronze doors?"

"Only what I told you before" he sighed. "It houses either a great weapon or a terrifying power that requires the Supreme Venerable to watch over. The seal itself was created many centuries ago: the Venerable is merely this generations guardian. I don't know if his absence has had any effect on the seal, but Theron doesn't seem to spend much time around it. As for opening the door itself, the only key is in the Bishop's office."

"And the oblivion you mentioned?"

"The Venerable's own words, apparently. I can only guess based off them, but it seems those unable to bear the weight of the weapon are erased beyond all measure...including their souls."

Jeryl had nothing knew to offer, and the other Ascended only had hearsay. And so, I had no choice but to change my game. I stopped being a surgeon. I became an arsonist.

I let my Spectator sight flare, pinpointing the most volatile elements in the crowd—a man with a hair-trigger temper who’d been robbed on the road, another who’d lost his family and had nothing left to lose. I didn’t need to be subtle know, a few probs and deliberate mistreatments and he would lash out. The guards and priests would come to my defence, and the situation would escalate from there. I was already aware of a dozen or so strong-ish men who looked at us temple folk meanly. Another problem with Theron's mercy was his failure to properly screen those who came to him.

The air in the great hall was thick enough to choke on—a stew of fear, sweat, and simmering rage. I could feel it, a pressure against my skin, every frayed nerve in the place humming a tune of impending violence. My Spectator’s sight picked out the threads of it, the micro-expressions of people pushed past their breaking point. It was a tapestry of despair, and it needed one final, brutal pull to unravel completely. I took a breath and tried to psyche myself up for what was to come. I needed to manage my expressions carefully, and keep my voice controlled just enough so only those I want to hear will do so. This wasn't in line with the Acting Method of a Spectator, quite the opposite in fact, but I had no push through.

I found my thread. He was a big man, shoulders slumped not in defeat but in a coiled, dangerous grief. His eyes were hollow, the eyes of a man who had lost everything—family, home, any scrap of future. He was a bomb waiting for a fuse.

Taking a deep breath, I walked straight into him, my shoulder hitting his arm with a solid thud. I didn't apologize. I sneered, letting all the calculated contempt I could muster into my voice.

"Watch where you're standing, you oaf. Some of us have actual work to do."

He turned, his face a mask of slow-burning shock that quickly kindled into fury. "What did you say to me, you little rat?"

I met his gaze, my expression one of pure, arrogant dismissal. "I said move. Or are your ears as useless as the rest of you? No wonder you ended up here with nothing."

I saw the exact moment the last of his restraint snapped. It was in the way his jaw clenched, the way the hollows in his eyes filled with a raw, blinding fire. "My family is dead," he growled, the words ripped from somewhere deep and broken inside him. "You spoiled, pious little—"

"Maybe they got tired of you," I cut in, my voice a cold, sharp blade. My heart was hammering, a frantic drum against my ribs. This was cruel. This was monstrous. But it was necessary. "Maybe they saw you for the worthless burden you are and found a quicker way out."

With a roar that was half anguish, half pure rage, he lunged at me. I was ready for it, sidestepping just enough so his grasping hand only caught my tunic, tearing the fabric. The sound was like a starting pistol.

"Hey! Back off!" A guard—one of the younger ones whose frustration I'd been stoking for days—was there in an instant, shoving the big man back. He saw the torn cloth, saw me—an acolyte, one of theirs—being attacked.

"He attacked me!" I said, my voice pitched high with feigned shock and indignation. "He just snapped!"

The big man wasn't listening. His world had narrowed to the guard and the insult. He swung, a wild, powerful punch that caught the guard on the shoulder, spinning him around.

That was all it took.

Another guard, seeing his comrade struck, waded in with a shout. A friend of the big man, seeing him set upon, threw himself into the fray. A woman screamed. A priest tried to intervene and was knocked aside.

It wasn't a fight anymore. It was an explosion.

Weeks of hunger, of terror, of watching the light die in their saint's eyes, all of it erupted at once. It was a dam breaking. Fists flew. A bench was overturned. The air filled with shouts, curses, the raw, animal sounds of a crowd tearing itself apart.

I stumbled back from the epicenter, my chest heaving. The chaos I’d orchestrated roared around me, a terrifying, living thing. I had wanted a spark. I had created a wildfire.

The guards, outnumbered and panicking, fought to subdue the riot. The refugees, a wave of unleashed desperation, fought back. This was the culmination. Not of my careful whispers, but of their pain. And I had been the one to finally, decisively, light the match.

A guard, his own frustration pushed to the limit, shoved someone back. “You’ll show respect!”

It wasn’t a debate anymore. It was a spark hitting gunpowder.

A fist flew. A scream ripped through the hall. The scene erupted into chaos. The ruffians, their fear transmuted into blinding rage, lunged. The guards, their discipline shattered by days of pent-up anxiety and my careful manipulation, met them with equal fury. It was no longer a unified community facing a threat. It was a brawl, a schism, a civil war contained inside a single temple. There would be bloodshed, but relatively few casualties I knew. Despite their tensions, the guards were well trained and diligent, even if lacking actual experience. They knew to hold back, to subdue rather than kill or maim. 

I stood back, my heart hammering against my ribs, the taste of ash in my mouth. I’d done it. I’d shattered Theron’s peace. The path of passive endurance was gone, burned away in the fire I’d lit.

Now, we would either forge a will to fight in this chaos, or we would all tear each other apart before the first monster ever reached our gate. I had gambled everything on the former, and as I watched men I’d eaten beside bloody each other’s noses, I was terrified I’d chosen wrong. 'I wonder if this is how Nephis felt, watching Bright Castle tear itself apart? No, that crazy bitch probably enjoyed it. If she felt anything at all. Gods, what did Sunny ever see in that woman?!'

***********************************************

The conflict did not end for twenty minutes, maybe more, and it took Theron thundering down the hallways personally before it did. He hadn't spoken, but a formless rage pressed down on us all, temple-folk and outsiders alike. I briefly wondered which category I counted as, given my only brief stint as an acolyte, before bowing my head submissively before the Saint. He gave me a probing glance, but only for injury, and not suspicion. Why would he, since I was just a mundane boy of only nineteen or twenty? Theron was swift in gathering witnesses and testimonies. The man I had originally provoked was knocked unconscious by a stray punch, so it was the young guard who came to my rescue who was the first to be grilled. He stated he acted in my defence, and I in turn stood up for him. This started a cacophony of voices shouting that we had done nothing wrong, silenced with an impertinent flick of Theron's wrist. "One at a time," he spoke.

When he had heard our side of the story, he turned to one of the refugee spokespeople. A man I vaguely remembered as a carpenter stepped forward and spoke nervously. Most of the involved had no idea what was happening, merely striking back in retaliation for stray blows or just outright panicking. While the mob was not blameless, there could be no fair judgement passed on any one individual. And Theron was far too kind for group punishment. He ordered an early night, and for every guard to stay awake on supervision before turning away. Yet he had only taken a few steps before abruptly stopping, then calling out my name. "Adam, you are to come with me."

Jeryl and the others looked at me with worry, but I just shook my head and followed after the older Saint. We walked in silence towards his office, and he offered me a seat upon entering. I looked around in restrained curiosity, not wanting to gawk too much, but Theron seemed unbothered. Not that there was much to see: it was a quaint but cosy little room, with carpets and a high-back chair of leather. A bookshelf stretched from wall to wall, but it was only half full. Once I was properly seated, Theron crossed his hands and looked at me deeply.

"I have heard from Annette that you and others have been greatly dissatisfied with my leadership as of late. You feel I have abandoned our dignity as servants of the Lord of Light, that I am content to simply doom my fellow man to the darkness. Is this what you think?"

"Yes" I respond frankly. 

The silence that followed was heavier than the chaos in the hall. I sat in the high-backed leather chair, feeling like a child called to the principal's office, the weight of the recent violence and my own guilt pressing down on me. Theron didn't sit behind his desk. He stood by a small, high window, staring out at the grey sky, his broad shoulders slumped with an exhaustion that seemed to go far beyond the physical.

“They tell me you were defending yourself,” he began again, his voice quiet, devoid of the resonant power he used in the sanctum. It was just the tired voice of an old man.

“I was,” I said, the lie tasting like ash. “I didn’t mean for it to… escalate like that.”

“It was always going to escalate, Adam,” he sighed, turning to face me. There was no accusation in his dried-gold eyes, only a deep, weary understanding that was somehow worse. “The fear had nowhere else to go. I have… given them no outlet.”

He gestured for me to stay seated as he slowly lowered himself into the chair opposite me. “You are not from here. You have seen more of the world than I have. This temple… it is all I have ever known. I was left on its steps as a babe. The stones of this floor were my cradle; the hymns, my lullabies. My world has always ended at the tree line.”

The confession was stunning. This powerful Saint, a Transcendent being, was a prisoner of his own sanctuary. His entire existence had been this single, failing point of light. How old was he? I called him an old man, but Transcendants had a way of surpassing age. Maybe late fifties, maybe mid-sixties?

“I met Karion on one of the few occasions I journeyed beyond the mountain,” he continued, a faint, ghostly smile touching his lips. “It was a diplomatic errand, a foolish attempt at unity between our gods before the current war. We are not friends. Our natures are too opposed. But we understand each other. We are both… relics of a dying age, trying to fulfil our duties to powers that may no longer even be watching. The path of Ascension is becoming harder with each passing year. The need for struggle and growth has slowed and stagnated, as much as the Priests of War would try to make you believe otherwise. Their Empire, founded on the very concepts, has decayed and begun rotting from the inside.”

He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and the mask of the serene Saint finally fell away completely. What was left was a man stretched to his absolute limit.

“You think I am a coward,” he stated, not as a question, but a fact. “You think I lack the will to fight. You are wrong. I have been fighting every single day and night since the refugees began to arrive. Just not in a way you can see.”

He took a slow, shuddering breath. “The ‘Radiance’ is not merely a weapon. It is a blasphemous item, combined from the divinity of not one, not even two, but three Gods. It was left over from a horrendous battle from the Age of Heroes, maybe even earlier, that requires champions of the three Gods to sacrificed themselves. Their souls and lineages combined into one. An extremely powerful thing…and volatile. Unstable. To wield it in violence, to channel it for war… it would be like trying to focus sunlight through a lens made of glass. It would shatter. It would consume the wielder and likely everyone nearby in a conflagration of pure, undirected divine power.”

"It combines the purification of the Sun, the destruction of War, and the emotions of Heart. I do noy trust my own capability to wield the power of the former two, so I can only turn towards the last of the three."

He met my eyes, and I saw the true depth of his sacrifice. “I have not been idle. I have been using the Radiance, siphoning it in the smallest, most controlled amounts I can manage. I have been trying to use it to tunnel through the mountain, to create an escape route. But the process is agonizingly slow. It drains me. It requires absolute peace of mind, a soul utterly dedicated to preservation, not destruction. Any act of aggression, any intent to harm… it would disrupt my control. It would snap the tenuous connection I hold, and the Radiance would shift towards the other two aspects within it. Only by minting the ascetic balance within my heart can I choose the power of the Goddess of Souls”

He looked at his hands, and for a moment, I saw them tremble. “Agreeing to form a militia, to brandish weapons, to prepare for battle… in my heart, that is an act of war. The Radiance would sense that shift in my spirit. It would become unusable. The escape tunnel would collapse, and our one hope—a hope I have been sacrificing my strength to build—would vanish. Not to mention the possibility of it just exploding. So you see, boy? I am not choosing peace over war. I am choosing a possible, difficult salvation over a guaranteed, glorious death.”

The truth landed like a physical blow. I had seen a passive leader. In reality, I was looking at a man conducting a desperate, silent, and solitary operation to save us all, an operation my manipulations had just brought to the brink of catastrophic failure. My cleverness, my authoring of discontent, hadn't been a masterstroke. It had been the fumbling of a fool who couldn't see the real battle being fought. 'So in the end, I was right,' I though numbly. 'I was the ignorant one.'

"Why tell me now" I asked firmly, leaning forward. 

"Because I have already felt my heart begin to shift. Whether or not I can hold control before the arrival of the Creatures of Dark is now uncertain. And so, I need you, and those who share the same heart as you, to help me. We will need to work together to maintain the output necessary to reach our freedom."

"But you said anyone less than Transcendant would...perish..." My words trailed off as I realized what was being asked.

"Yes, my boy" Theron looked at me grimly. "I ama asking if you are willing to sacrifice yourself to save these people." 

Chapter Text

The silence in the office stretched, thick with the weight of Theron’s confession and his impossible request. I looked at my hands, then at the worn carpet beneath my feet, anywhere but at the Saint’s weary, expectant gaze. My mind, usually a whirlwind of analysis and schemes, was stunned into a rare, blank stillness.

He was asking me to die. Not in the abstract, hypothetical death of a future battle, but in a very concrete, immediate way. To pour my life force into a divine artifact until I was erased, soul and all, to buy a few hundred people a chance to run from a horror I had seen consume everything in a vision.

And the truly terrifying part was that I saw no reason to refuse.

What was the alternative? Wait for the monsters? Die screaming, torn apart in the temple’s courtyard, my death just one among hundreds? Or perhaps be “mercifully” ended by a despairing Theron if his control finally snapped? My grand plan of manipulation had been based on a fundamental misunderstanding. There was no army to rally, no glorious last stand to organize. There was only this: a desperate, silent, digging operation against time, powered by the sacrifice of souls.

A strange, cold calm settled over me. This was the Curator’s game, wasn’t it? This was the “interesting story.” Not a tale of cunning and power, but one of brutal, necessary sacrifice. I should have expected it, really. Not all Nightmares require brute force and killing to clear, though killing is usually still a factor. A game where the clear condition hinges on sacrifice, whether your own or others, would probably be more exciting to watch than just a battle. 

“How long?” I asked, my voice surprisingly steady. “How long have you been digging?”

Theron’s shoulders slumped further, as if the question itself carried a physical weight. “Weeks. Since the first refugees arrived and I knew this would be the final haven. The mountain’s roots are deep, Adam. Impossibly deep. And the rock… it is not natural stone. It is infused with the same ancient power that the Radiance embodies. It resists its own.”

Weeks. A Transcendent being, channelling a sliver of divine power for weeks, and he was still digging. The sheer scale of it was mind-boggling. A normal Transcendent could level a city block, but to tunnel through miles of magically reinforced mountain? It was a task for a Sovereign, maybe even a Sacred. The Radiance’s power must be… astronomical. A true sliver of deific might.

And he’d been doing it alone. The isolation of it, the immense, silent burden, suddenly made his hollow eyes and weary posture make perfect, horrifying sense. He hadn’t been passive. He’d been exhausted, pouring every ounce of his being into a hole in the ground.

“You can’t finish it alone,” I stated, the truth of it settling in my gut like a stone. “Not before they get here.”

“No,” he admitted, the word a soft exhalation of defeat. “I cannot. The progress is measured in metres a day. The strain… it is…” He trailed off, unable to even describe it.

That was the final piece. There was no choice. Refusal meant everyone died for certain. Acceptance meant I died, but maybe, just maybe, enough others would live for my death to have meaning. It was a brutal, simple equation.

I looked up from the floor and met his gaze. The fear was still there, a cold knot in my stomach, but it was overshadowed by that eerie calm. This was the role I had been given. The Fool who had seen the end, now tasked with forging the escape.

“Alright,” I said, the word simple and final. “I’ll help you. What do you need me to do?”

There was no grand speech, no heroic declaration. Just a quiet acceptance of the only path forward left in our doomed world. The Author had written himself into a corner, and the only way out was to burn the page. "How far along are we to the bottom? Wait, if the mountain is so high, how did everybody get up here?"

Theron looked at me in confusion before answering. "Did you forget? The path is blessed by the Venerable One, it ensures that any pilgrim who walks it doesn't run out of energy. Don't think about using it to fight though, standing in the open will only get us killed quicker than in here. As for your other question...maybe four-fifths or just slightly less. Thankfully, the Radiance's power does not depend on the Rank of its user: it will apply the same power for a Dormant as it will a Transcendant. It's just the former will die after only a few minutes. Its' fuel is faith, devotion and emotions, not soul essence. The one silver lining, I suppose."

Now that was interesting. A Supreme-level Echo that could be used by anyone, even if only for a tiny period of time, so long as your heart was strong enough. The value of such a thing was astronomical, but I could all to easily see it turned into a sacrificial basin, lives thrown into the grinder to fuel it. No wonder Theron was so loathe to use it, or even acknowledge its presence. I wondered darkly, just how much blood had been spilled for it over the years. 

"I will talk with the most determined, the most brave" I promised, standing up from the chair. Theron sagged in his own, face both relieved and ashamed. "Thank you, Adam. It is shameful of me to shirk this duty, but I cannot bring myself to ask them to die for me, even if I know it's their duty. In the end, perhaps you're right: I am a coward."

"You are no such thing" I denied firmly, placing my hands on the table and leaning forward. "I have seen many men in my life Theron, and you are amongst the best of them. You would rather be hurt than hurt others, and while this can be a fatal flaw at times, it by no means makes you weak. It is simply another side of the coin that is strength. You tried your best with the options available to you, and perused a method I didn't even think of."

Digging out of the mountain? Never even crossed my mind. The thought was ludicrous for someone who lived in the 21st Century only four weeks ago.

Theron gave a pained smile as he looked up at me. "Thank you, Adam. I knew it was a good idea to allow you to join the temple."

I looked at him, puzzled. "You had a feeling about me?"

"Yes. I can't explain it, but I felt you were wiser beyond your years. And those eyes...those were the eyes who had seen untellable horrors. I know them well. My teacher held the same gaze many a time."

I took a breathe and then bowed to Theron before leaving his office. The fact I had revealed a bit of myself during our first meeting wasn't surprising, given my inexperience and lingering panic over the vision. That didn't matter now though. Now, I had to convince the people I had roughly come to consider friends to offer up their lifeblood to a divine artifact gone rogue and buy time for the several hundred trapped civilians to escape with Theron. 

I found Jeryl first. He was in the barracks, meticulously cleaning his gear, his face set in lines of frustration from the earlier confrontation. I didn’t soften the blow. I told him everything—the Radiance, the tunnel, the true cost. His blunt, honest nature deserved nothing less.

He listened in silence, his hands stilling on his weapon. When I finished, he looked past me, toward the temple walls, as if he could see the mountain itself. “Oblivion,” he muttered, the word I’d heard him use before now taking on a horrifyingly concrete meaning. He was silent for a long moment, then he nodded, a single, sharp jerk of his head. “If that’s the price for getting the children out, then I’ll pay it. My life was given to this temple. It’s fitting it ends for it.”

His simple, unwavering faith was a powerful catalyst. With Jeryl at my side, we gathered the others. We didn’t go to the main hall. We sought out the individuals—the young priests with fire in their eyes who craved purpose, the guards whose frustration had hardened into a desperate need to act, to mean something.

I didn’t manipulate or lie anymore, no deceits or ulterior meaning loaded behind my words. I presented the brutal calculus. I showed them the mountain Theron had been trying to move alone. I told them about the black tide swarming towards us, mixing my own vision with what Theron and Karion had described. Surprisingly, the others took it better than I expected. They saw it not as death, but as the final, greatest prayer for their God.

The guards were harder. According to Theron, the maths only needed a third of their number volunteered. It was a sobering, necessary balance. The remaining two-thirds were tasked with the future—maintaining order in the final, frantic hours and leading the evacuation through the tunnel once it was complete. Theirs was a different kind of courage: the courage to live with the memory of our deaths and ensure they were not in vain. After gathering everyone, I told them to rest and prepare themselves for tomorrow: by Theron's own words, they needed time to collect themselves.

And when the next day came, we stood before Theron in the inner sanctum, a group of two dozen: priests, guards, and me. There were no speeches left to give. The bronze door stood before us, its chained sun seal seeming to pulse with a faint, anticipatory light.

Theron looked at us, his face a mask of sorrow and reverence. “The path will be forged with light,” he said, his voice thick. “Your light.”

He turned to the door, and for the first time, I saw him begin the process of opening it not with a key, but with an outpouring of his own soul, a soft, golden radiance flowing from his hands to the intricate seal. The chains on the sun began to glow, then unravel.

To my shock, the bronze door didn't open-it melted away. The liquid bronze then filled grooves carved into the walls and floor, where it shimmered and waited. Theron walked on unbothered, and we followed him. Once everyone passed, the bronze surged upwards and once again took the shape of a solid metal door, unchanged from before. Behind the door was a simple tunnel, carved from smooth rock with no artwork or carvings, just torches placed every eight feet evenly. We walked in silence for anywhere between five minutes and thirty, before reaching our destination.

Once I stepped inside, it felt like the air itself had vanished, replaced by a substance that was pure, thrumming power. It was hard to breathe, not from lack of air, but because each inhalation felt like drawing in liquid light. My eyes, even before they were forced shut, could only manage fractured glimpses of the source.

It was a crystal, three meters tall and perfectly geometric, but that was like calling the sun a warm rock. It wasn’t a thing that contained light; it was light given impossible, solid form. A miniature sun of silver and gold, its brilliance was a physical force, a pressure against my face and soul. Looking directly at it was like trying to stare into the heart of a star—blinding, painful, and utterly mesmerizing for the five seconds my vision could endure before white spots drowned everything out.

Theron’s voice was a strained thread woven through the overwhelming hum that now filled the chamber. “The circle. Join hands.”

We fumbled for each other, priests, guards, Jeryl, myself—a chain of the doomed linking around the impossible crystal. Jeryl’s grip on my right hand was like iron, his calloused palm steady. The priest on my left was trembling, his fingers cold and slick with sweat.

Theron placed his own hands upon the crystal’s blazing surface. There was no cry of pain, only a deep, resonant groan that seemed to come from the very bones of the mountain. The light didn’t just brighten; it detonated without warning.

A silent, concussive wave of pure radiance slammed into us. My eyes screwed shut of their own accord, seared by the intensity even through my eyelids. The world vanished into a white-hot void.

And then the pull began.

It was not a pull on my body, but on my essence. My Spirituality. It felt like a hook had been set deep in my core, and an inexorable force was steadily, mercilessly, reeling it out. A cold fire raced along my veins, not burning, but unmaking it, breaking it down to the purest components on a molecular level. I could feel pieces of myself—my memories, my thoughts, the very fabric of my being—being drawn toward the crystal, atomized into pure energy to feed its hunger.

A scream tore from someone’s throat—a raw, ragged sound of agony and terror. I didn’t know if it was mine. I clenched the hand to my left as hard as I humanely could, and felt someone squeeze mine in turn. The Radiance didn't need Spirituality from anyone but its actual user, but it would still take what was given to it. The main ingredient though, I could already start to feel being taken from me. The pain was striking, burning hot irons being pressed onto the soft tissue of my belly. Within seconds, I felt the uncontrollable urge to just let go, to turn my back and flee, to give up and submit, to scream and destroy that wretched thing which afflicted such pain on me.

But I ignored all those impulses. To flee, surrender or resist would trigger my own doom. I had agreed to come here, and now I had to fulfil my vow. 

The affirmation may have helped, or maybe it was just my mind scrambling for anything to distract it, but I swear I felt the pain lessen a fraction.

Beneath my knees, the solid marble floor of the sanctum shuddered. Then it began to vibrate, a deep, subsonic tremor that climbed into a violent shake. The hum of the Radiance deepened, becoming the grinding roar of impossible forces at work. It was the sound of reality being rewritten, of stone not being melted or vaporized, but uncreated, its existence revoked by the sheer, annihilating light.

A pressure descended, immense and focused. It wasn't the diffuse weight of the Radiance's aura. This was directed, purposeful. It pushed down, a divine piston driving into the foundation of the world. This was it. This was the force forging our path to survival. Every shudder of the ground, every scream of straining rock, was a meter of tunnel being carved through the impossible mountain.

The cost was etched in the agony of the circle. I could feel the person to my left weakening, their grip going slack as their essence-not Soul Essence, but the literal essence of their existence- was drained away faster than their body could endure. The Radiance was a hungry god, and we were its communion.

I clenched Jeryl’s hand tighter, anchoring myself in the solid, stubborn reality of his presence as my own was slowly siphoned away into the light. We were paying in blood and soul for every inch of freedom. And the bill had just come due.

The cycles blurred into a nightmare of light and agony. Six hours of soul-rending drain, a few precious moments of collapse where we shoved tasteless nutrient gruel into our mouths and gulped tepid water, then the circle would reform. The sanctum, once a place of reverence, now felt like a slaughterhouse, the air thick with the scent of ozone and a deeper, more metallic tang of spent life force.

Theron moved among us during these respites, a ghost of his former self. His own light was dimmed, his face gaunt, but his hands were gentle as he passed out rations and checked on the weakest. His voice, though hoarse, never lost its thread of steadfast assurance.

“The path extends,” he would rasp, his eyes holding onto ours with a desperate intensity. “Another fifty meters cleared. The rock gives way. Hold on. We are closer.”

We clung to his words like drowning men to splinters. But doubt was a rot in my mind. Could he truly see the progress? Or were the numbers—fifty meters, a hundred meters—just invented comforts, a necessary lie to keep the human components of his machine from breaking down too soon? The Radiance offered no feedback, only a constant, voracious demand. We were burning ourselves out based entirely on faith in a man who was burning himself out faster than any of us.

The first death came fifteen hours in.

It was two of the youngest priests, brothers who had volunteered together. Their faith had been the brightest, their resolve the most fervent. Perhaps that was why the Radiance consumed them first. One moment they were in the circle, their faces masks of strained concentration. The next, a soundless flash of silver-gold erupted from the crystal, not outwards, but inwards, like a vacuum imploding.

It wasn't fire. It was pure, instantaneous dissolution.

Their forms didn't burn; they were unwoven at the seams. Their bodies became shimmering motes of light for a fraction of a second, then were sucked into the heart of the crystal. There was no scream, no time for one. One moment they were there, the next, two empty spaces in the circle, their absence a deafening silence in the roaring chamber.

The shock was a physical blow. The circle wavered, the flow of energy stuttering. A raw, animal sob escaped from one of the other priests.

“Steady!” Theron’s voice cracked like a whip, frayed with his own grief but utterly commanding. “Their sacrifice is not in vain! The path lengthens! Hold the line!”

We held. What else could we do?

The deaths became a grim, predictable rhythm. Every cycle, as we grew weaker and the Radiance’s hunger seemed to grow stronger, it would claim another. A guard who had joked about seeing the ocean one day vanished between one heartbeat and the next. Another priest, her lips still moving in a silent prayer, was taken.

We were being erased, one by one. The circle shrank. The empty spaces where our comrades had stood were colder than the surrounding air.

When only half of us remained, our numbers perilously thin, Theron finally called a halt. His voice was little more than a shredded whisper.

“Rest. A longer rest. Conserve your strength.”

We didn’t need telling twice. We broke the circle, not with the relief of before, but with the numb exhaustion of survivors stepping over the bodies of the fallen, except there were no bodies. Just memories, already fading under the relentless glare of the Radiance.

I collapsed against the wall, sliding down to the floor. Jeryl slumped beside me, his breathing ragged. He looked older, the vitality leached from him. We didn’t speak. There were no words left. We just sat in the blinding, silent cathedral of our shared demise, waiting for the call to go back in and feed the god that was eating us alive. I wonder why the Venerable One, or those who came before him, kept such an object. Surely the Gods sought to reclaim Their individual pieces? Why would War and Heart allow Sun to keep it for Himself? Even for the Gods, a Supreme was nothing to scoff at, an immensely powerful tool and pawn for battles They cannot wage directly. Not to mention the fact Theron claimed all three Supremes that made up the artefact held Divine lineages. 

As I clutched my forehead in though, it happened. 

The thought was a serpent, cold and venomous, slithering into the quiet exhaustion of my mind. It didn’t shout; it whispered, its logic perverse and undeniable.

Is this the right thing to do?

The goal of a Nightmare is not to complete the objective. The goal is to change Fate. To alter the recorded history. The Spell rewards deviation. It doesn't care if you turn a glorious victory into a catastrophic defeat, or a silent, forgotten failure into a legendary triumph. So long as the outcome is different, the potential is fulfilled. The Tomb of Ariel was proof, as the Six Calamities knew that killing everybody within the Nightmare would allow them to return to the Waking World, why they engaged in such horrific and wholescale slaughter.

The memory of the vision crashed over me: the temple, empty and dark, being consumed by a tide of filth. No resistance. No final stand.

I had assumed it was because they were all dead.

But what if they weren’t?

What if the reason the Nightmare Creatures marched into the temple unopposed was because it was already empty? Because Theron’s desperate, sacrificial plan had worked? What if the true, historical outcome was that a handful of survivors, led by a broken saint, had fled through a tunnel of light, escaping into an unknown world, leaving the temple to be desecrated by a victory without a battle?

The Spell had shown me the end of the story. But it hadn't shown me the fate of the characters.

A cold sweat broke out on my skin, entirely separate from the Radiance’s heat. My hands began to tremble. To ensure a higher rating… to truly master this Nightmare and seize its ultimate reward… the most profound change wouldn’t be engineering an escape.

It would be ensuring that no one escaped.

The thought was so abhorrent, so monstrous, that a wave of nausea clenched my stomach. I gagged, doubling over, my forehead pressing against the cool stone floor. I saw the faces of the priests, incinerated into motes of light. I saw Jeryl’s steadfast resolve. I saw Theron’s weary, sacrificial love for his people.

And the serpent whispered: Their deaths would mean more. Their sacrifice would be absolute. A perfect, tragic end. A story the Spell would never forget. One it might even reward.

I was a fool. A proud, arrogant fool. I had been so focused on defying the vision of destruction, on being the clever author who rewrites the ending, that I never considered the most terrifying possibility:

What if the ending I was desperately fighting for was the one the Spell wanted me to achieve?

What if my "heroism" was just me playing my assigned part in the original tragedy?

The weight of the choice was crushing. Save them, and potentially earn a mediocre reward for simply following the script of a forgotten history. Or… condemn them all, betray every ounce of trust they’d placed in me, and twist this tale into a gut-wrenching masterpiece of failure that the Spell would be forced to recognize as a true, monumental change of Fate. But that was assuming Theron really was successful in the original timeline. How could I know? How could I choose without certainty? I was no criminal mastermind, no insane gambler willing to risk everything for as potential fantasy. 

I stayed curled on the floor, shaking, the light of the Radiance burning against my closed eyelids like a judgment. I had wanted to be the author. Now I understood the terrible price of the title. It wasn't about writing a better story.

It was about being willing to write the worst one imaginable, if it meant the story was yours. Just because He is willing to accept the worst, doesn't mean He won't strive for the best.

Amon's words, ones I had admired and then moved on from. Who did I think I was, the real Adam? I was just a wannabe actor, a loser who was so average even a God took pity on me. I couldn't stir up a world war, couldn't spend a three thousand years skulking in the shadows, lying and using everybody close to me. I-I-

The truth hit me with the force of a physical blow, shattering the last fragile illusion I’d clung to. I wasn't some reincarnation of a cunning, ancient being. I wasn't a chosen one, a fragment of Adam from *Lord of the Mysteries*. I was a ghost. A terrified, ordinary soul stuffed into a borrowed name and a borrowed body, playing at being a god with a power I didn't understand, in a story that was eating me alive.

For a fleeting, insane moment, I envied the hypothetical holder of the Hanged Man Pathway. To have your emotions, your doubts, your very logic excised. To be a madman, self-assured in everything you do or did. There would be no paralyzing moral crisis. No soul-sickening weigh-up of lives versus a Spell rating. A Hanged Man would simply choose the most efficient and brutal path to power and walk it without a backward glance, untouched by the human cost. For their Lord would bear their sins.

But I wasn't a Hanged Man. I was a Spectator. And a Spectator, above all else, observes. Even when the thing they are forced to observe is the darkest, most selfish part of themselves.

I saw it clearly now. The temptation wasn't some external corruption. It was my own fear and ambition given a voice. The desire to not just survive, but to win big. To emerge from this hell not just alive, but powerful. To make the agony mean something more. No wonder Theron refused to allow others in here. Only a day and I was already considering killing everybody else here as an outlet.

I watched the others in the dim light—Jeryl’s steady, resigned breathing, the hollow-eyed tremors of the remaining priests. I saw Theron, a man who had given everything, preparing to give the last dregs of his soul for people who might already be dead in the true history.

And I knew, with a certainty that felt like a nail being driven into my own coffin, that I couldn't do it. I couldn't become the monster that ensured their sacrifice was for nothing. I was just a man. A scared, selfish, ordinary man. But I was still enough of a man to not willingly orchestrate a massacre for a better loot box.

The grand cosmic game could go to hell.

Theron stirred, pushing himself upright with a groan that spoke of fractured bones and a splintered spirit. His light, though faint, began to steady. He didn't look at us with pity or sorrow anymore. There was only a grim, final determination.

“Once more,” he rasped, the words scraping from his throat. “We finish it this time. The end is in sight.”

The call to resume the operation wasn't a request. It was a verdict.

I pushed myself up from the cold floor. My body felt like it was made of lead and glass. My mind was a scarred wasteland, but it was clear. The doubt was gone, burned away in the crucible of my own shame. There was no more calculation, no more weighing of outcomes.

There was only the circle. The Radiance. The tunnel.

I took my place, the empty spaces where others had been now a permanent part of the formation. Jeryl found my hand, his grip still strong, an anchor in the raging sea of light. I met his gaze and gave a single, grim nod. No words were needed.

Theron placed his hands on the crystal.

The light detonated. The pull began. The mountain shook.

And I gave myself over to it completely. Not as a chosen one, not as a hero, but as a man who had finally, truly, accepted his role. I was fuel. And I would burn until there was nothing left, for the simple, stupid, human reason that it was the right thing to do.

The Spell could keep its rating.

[E̵̺̦̪͛͐̿R̸̞͚͉͆͆R̴̝̺̼͆̐̕O̴̡̼͓̓̔̚R̴͉̦̟̔̐͛ E̵̘̪̼̓͒R̴͙̪̒͘͝R̸̡̪̘͌̈́͌O̸̢͕̺͋͐͘R̵͕̺͋͆͝ E̴̢̝͊͊̾R̵͕͇̦̀̽̚R̵̼͕̿̐̔O̸͖̝͖͘̕̕R̸͙͇̦̀̐̕]

[Your Aspect is evolving!]

[Congratulations on your new Aspect Ability!]

[Telepathist] 

Chapter Text

Name: Adam

True Name: —

Rank: Aspirant.

Soul Core: Dormant.

Memories: —

Echoes: —

Attributes: [Uniqueness of Visionary], [Flame of Divinity], [Blessed of I̵̪̟̻͋̒n̵̫̦͍͛̓̚f̴͍̙͛͛́i̵̪͕͔͌̕͝n̵͇͖̾͐͌͜ì̵̢̺̺̔̈́t̵̼̝̐͠y̵̡͓͙̔͑͘].

Aspect: [Visionary].

Aspect Rank: [Divine].

Aspect Description: [The Visionary Pathway is adept at psychological manipulation. Authority over Mind, Discernment, and Imagination. With the symbols of Creator and The Ruler of The Mind World, granting partial Omnipotence and Omniscience within that Domain]

Aspect Abilities: [Spectator, Telepathist, ???, ???, ???, ???, ???, ???, ???, Visionary].

[Spectator: A Spectator receives great enhancement, mostly on their inferential, analytical, observational, and identification abilities along with their memory. Spectators possess keen powers of observation when it comes to observing individuals in either an individual or group sense. They can look at a person strictly from a bystander's perspective, discovering their true thoughts from their expressions, their manners, and their subconscious actions. Through this, they can accurately figure out connections and draw conclusions from the details they gathered to form an accurate mental model of the target. A Spectator will also possess the sharpened eyesight needed to analyse a target's body language.]

[Telepathist: Telepathists are able to read the superficial thoughts of others and are also able to simulate the trajectory of such thoughts to a certain degree. A Telepathist's observation is not only limited to superficial details, but deeper into one's aura, Ether Body, or other mysterious domains. They also know what kind of emotional reaction to show in the appropriate situation and know in detail what kind of expression and body language to react with. Their eyesight has been further enhanced, being much clearer than before.]

[Visionary: As the master of the Mind World, the Visionary holds dominion over all mental realms. In essence, They are the embodiment of Humanity: Humanity is both good and evil, rational and mad. Humanity arises naturally but can also be manufactured artificially by the Visionary. As the The Ruler of The Mind World, the Visionary can also be, in a sense, Omniscient, but this effect is limited to matters related to the Mind World. Their Discernment can also extend into the Fate, Reality, and Illusion Domains. They hold some Dream authority- the concept of Dreams itself. They hold partial authority over Loss of Control, the cause of one's descent into corruption.]

******************************************************

As I heard the triumphant yet static-y voice of the Spell ring out in my head, it felt like I had just shattered into glass. A void of crystallin blue and turquoise water rushed around me, a vortex with myself as the centre. I felt something indescribable, unknowable, unfathomable break within me and slowly disperse. Not leaving my body, but joining it, becoming one. It was like a cube of ice stuck in my throat had finally melted, allowing me to swallow the water smoothly. I knew what this signified, I would have know even without the Spell. I had successfully digested my Spectator Potion.

But how?

A Spectator was meant to just spectate, not to involve themselves. Using clues and probes they had gathered through their observations was allowed, but taking the central stage like I had, being the key in Theron's decision to recruit more helpers, this was far from the detached and aloof audience member the Potion demanded. had the Acting Method been twisted here, in this strange world? Or was it yet again another gift from the Curator? I didn't know, and I wouldn't until I got out of here, so I shelved that question and focused on something else.

The torrent of power from the Radiance was still there, the horrific drain on my very essence, but a new layer of perception unfolded within me. It was as if a second, calmer mind had awakened inside my own, a mind attuned not to the external world, but to the internal sea of thought and emotion.

Telepathist. The name from the lore of the Visionary Pathway surfaced in my memory. Sequence 8. The ability to listen to the thoughts of others, to sense surface emotions, and most crucially, to better understand and master one’s own mind.

As I used the improved logic gifted to me, I came to a possible theory to what had just triggered my advancement now. I had advanced by accepting. The core of the Spectator was observation. And the most important thing for a Spectator to observe was itself. Without understanding their own mind and heart, how can they understand and eventually dominates others'? The Spectator Pathway was both the easiest and hardest to lose control in, because any weaknesses can be patched up early on, but if latent issues slip under the radar then they erupt all the more furiously. If I hadn't accepted my morality, if I had insisted on sacrificing the others here, my guilt would have eventually consumed me. 

I had been forced to stare into the abyss of my own soul, to see the monstrous temptation to betray everyone for a better reward. I had seen my own ordinariness, my fear, my pathetic self-aggrandizement. I had observed the darkest parts of Adam, the persona, and the terrified man hiding beneath.

The intoxicating possibility unfolded in my mind, a dizzying ladder of power. Could I climb it all here? Could I advance through sheer self-understanding and will, bypassing the Nightmare Spell's brutal gauntlet entirely? Sequence 7 Psychiatrist, Sequence 5 Dreamwalker, Sequence 4 Manipulator... all the way to the pinnacle, Sequence 0 Visionary, while still technically a Dormant in the Spell's system?

The thought was as terrifying as it was alluring. To wield that kind of power, the authority over minds and dreams, without the Spell's constraints...

But almost as soon as the fantasy formed, my new Telepathist-honed logic dismantled it. No. The barriers between Sequences, especially the major ones, weren't just about comprehension. They were about fundamental changes in one's very being, a consolidation of power and concept that required immense pressure and often, external catalysts. The Acting Method was the path, but the Nightmares were the forges. They provided the life-and-death stakes, the alien environments, and the raw, existential fuel necessary to shatter through those bottlenecks. Sequence 7, the first major filter... there was no way around it. I would have to survive a Nightmare to break through.

My momentary distraction had a cost. My focus on the Radiance wavered. The flow of energy from me stuttered, creating a minute but critical instability in the circle's output. The immense power, so precariously balanced, bucked like a wild thing.

"Adam!" Theron's voice was a lash of pure will, cutting through the hum and my own thoughts. "Hold the line! Now!"

I snapped back, my heart lurching. I threw every ounce of my renewed concentration—and my new Telepathist's sense of self—into stabilizing the flow. I could feel the panic of the others ripple through our connection, a psychic feedback loop that I instinctively soothed, projecting a sliver of calm I did not feel. The Radiance steadied, its hunger once again becoming a constant, agonizing drain instead of a chaotic vortex.

After that, time lost all meaning. It became a river of pain and light. My advancement had granted a surge of fresh energy, a deeper well to draw from, but it was still being consumed relentlessly. The Telepathist ability was a double-edged sword; I was now hyper-aware of the fading life force of everyone around me, each diminishing spark a small tragedy I felt in my own soul. Jeryl's iron resolve was beginning to show hairline fractures of exhaustion. The priests' devotional fervour was thinning into a desperate, raw endurance.

We were not going to last much longer.

And then, it stopped.

Theron didn't cry out. He didn't slump over. He simply... ceased. The torrent of power flowing from him into the Radiance cut off as if a valve had been shut.

In the profound silence that followed—a silence so deep the absence of the hum felt like a physical pressure—a low, deep groan echoed through the chamber. It didn't come from the crystal or any of us. It came from the mountain itself. A final, settling sigh of ancient stone that had been forced to yield.

Theron slowly, stiffly, lowered his hands from the crystal's surface. The light within it pulsed once, gently, and then dimmed to a bearable glow.

He turned to us, his face etched with a exhaustion so complete it was a wonder he was still standing. But in his eyes, in the depths of those dried-gold pools, was a light that had nothing to do with the Radiance.

"It is done," he whispered, the words carrying through the silent chamber with the weight of a proclamation. "The passage is complete. We have reached the world below."

A collective, shuddering breath was released from the circle. The remaining guards and priests swayed on their knees, some collapsing fully to the floor. Jeryl let out a grunt that was half sob, half laugh of pure disbelief.

We had done it. We had actually done it. Through the sacrifice of half our number, through the utter exhaustion of our souls, we had carved a path through the impossible.

The cost was written in the empty spaces around us, in the hollows of our own cheeks, in the permanent tremor in our hands. But we had done it.

We had changed Fate.

"Now we need to move the people down here and out. It will take hours, maybe half even half a day if the odds aren't in our favour. The path is just a slope too: be careful when assisting the elderly or frail. Take a short break for now, I'll have the others start them down." Then, Theron smiled at us.

"You have all down so well."

I felt warmth swell up inside me at the praise, even as the advance of the majority of us did not go unnoticed. Three quarters of us had been consumed by that dreaded flame to finish forging the path. And that was with Theron providing the vast majority of the fuel required. If it was just us, we would have been burnt out before digging more than thirty feet. 

Still possessing some spare energy left over from my advancement, I approached Jeryl and helped him sit down, back against the wall. I clasped his forearm in encouragement and he flashed me a pale grin in turn. "Finally, we can get off this godforsaken mountain" he grunted. I raised an eyebrow, my tone teasing, "Did I just hear you curse the holy ground of the Lord?"

"Oh sod off" he laughed before a coughing fit interrupted it. He waved away my concern before I could even speak. "I'm just tired, 'tis all. Go on now, the Bishop needs you more than me. Go on!"

I stepped away with a nod and walked over to Theron, who seemed to be meditating to recover his Essence. I knelt beside him quietly, at least until a pained groan escaped my lips as my knees complained. The Saint's lips twitched in vague amusement before he opened his eyes and looked at me. He had aged at least a decade in appearance, and his hair was more grey that colour, but there was a quiet contentment in his gaze.

The air in the chamber still hummed with the faint, fading echo of the Radiance. "Where will we go once we reach the bottom?"

“South,” Theron said, his voice low with fatigue. He didn’t open his eyes. “Karion said the city at the end of the range still stands. The Sentinels still hold the walls. It’s our best chance.”

I nodded, musing over the feasibility. “How far?”

“Weeks on foot. Less if we find working transports along the old roads. The land between here and there is… scarred. But passable.”

We lapsed into a tired silence. The plan was simple. Gather the survivors. Take the new tunnel down through the mountain’s roots. Emerge on the other side. Walk. Hope.

“What will you do?” I asked. “After.”

A faint, weary smile touched Theron’s lips. “Sleep. For a year. Then… find a quiet village. Tend a garden. Never channel light again.”

“Sounds good,” I said. I meant it, too. After what happened here, I would never look at sunlight or fire the same way. I offered a brief prayer to Aucusces, apologizing for all the times I called him a fraud. He still was, but at least he was scary fraud.

It was then the mountain groaned.

Not the deep, shifting groan of the Radiance at work. This was sharper. A shudder that vibrated through the stone beneath them. At the centre of the chamber, the Radiance flared—a sudden, violent pulse of light that stabbed at my eyes. Shit, don't tell me the fucking Sun God heard me blaspheming in His temple?!

Theron’s eyes snapped open. He lunged forward, not toward the entrance, but toward the crystal. He placed his hands on its surface, his body tensing. A low sound of effort escaped his lips. The Radiance’s wild flaring subsided, dimming back to its usual intense glow. But Theron’s face was now etched with a sharp, fresh panic.

“Something’s wrong,” he breathed, his voice tight. “The barrier… it’s under stress. Adam. Go. Now. See what is happening.”

I didn’t ask questions. I just pushed myself up, my own exhaustion forgotten in a surge of adrenaline, and ran from the chamber.

I moved through the temple’s inner passages, the familiar route now feeling alien. The usual quiet was broken by a growing noise from ahead—not screams, but a low, collective murmur of fear.

Then I burst into the main courtyard. The scene was frozen. Refugees, guards, priests—all were standing still, facing the great open gates. They were silent now, just staring. Pushing through through the crowd, my heart hammering against my ribs from the exhaustion. I managed to force myself to the front and looked out the front doors, down the stairs.

The view from the mountain was usually vast, showing the lands below. Not anymore.

The foot of the mountain was gone. It was covered in a moving blackness. It was a swarm. A solid mass of creatures, countless, their forms shifting and writhing together. They pressed forward in a silent, relentless tide. And they were crashing against a wall: a pale gold barrier glowed where the swarm made contact, flickering like a weak flame each time the black tide surged against it. The light was thin. It held for now, but it shimmered under the endless, pressing weight. This was the temple’s final defence. The source of the quake. The reason the Radiance had reacted.

The monsters had arrived, they were here. The siege had already begun and he barrier was all that stood between them and the end. And if my gut was right, then the frequent flickering meant it was already struggling to hold them off. Spinning on my feet, I grabbed the closest guard I could see and ordered him to tell Theron what was happening. I then moved through the crowd to find Ascended Annette, who had already begun shepherding the civilians into groups to be taken underground. Her eyes locked with mine, and the grim realization I saw in them made me clench my jaw. We had just finished the tunnel, we had just finally seen a way out. And while the cruel mistress it was, Fate had just dropped a bomb on our heads and laughed. 

My body moved on instinct, grabbing and pushing people into more manageable shapes. In a better scenario I would have been gentle and coercive, but we were running out of time and force was the best motivator for those panicking. And they were panicking: men and women falling to the ground, clutching their heads between their hands in despair. A couple were screaming to themselves or just mumbling blankly. If it wasn't for the fact I had been told the barrier blocked all forms of attack, I would have believed a Mental Nightmare Creature had assaulted us. Though there were probably a few down there, in the endless horde. After forming a group of around fourty, I directed them towards the bronze door, which had been left unreformed after I exited it. The people slowed as curiosity inevitably took root in their minds, briefly quenching the fear and making them look around, but I drove them deeper with a merciless voice. "Move! Move if you don't want to die!"

Crude, but effective. 

When I reached the bottom, two other groups had already arrived. Theron stood to the side, watching me with an anxious gaze, the guard I sent down before me standing awkwardly beside him. "The barrier's up," I told Theron, my voice short. "It's a full swarm. They're everywhere at the bottom."

Theron’s shoulders sank. He looked exhausted. "I was afraid of that," he said, his voice rough. "Using the Radiance like we did… it’s like lighting a signal fire. We called them here faster. Made them hungrier." He let out a heavy breath. "The barrier is linked to the Radiance’s power. It won’t hold. Twelve hours. Maybe less."

Twelve hours. The number hit me hard. We had just finished the tunnel. We needed time—time to organize, to explain, to let people breathe.

"We don't have time," Theron said, as if reading my mind. He forced himself to stand, moving with a grim focus that pushed past his fatigue. "The supplies are already packed. The carts are ready in the lower storerooms, near the tunnel. We leave now. We start the evacuation immediately."

I followed him out, back up the tunnel. At this point, I had probably run a small marathon just going back and forth. The main hall was chaos, but it was a directed chaos. The guards who hadn’t joined the circle were already moving, faces hard, voices firm as they organized people into lines. They’d been waiting for this.

Theron moved through it all with a quiet command, giving sharp, clear orders. The despair from before was gone, replaced by the grim resolve of someone carrying out a plan they wished they never had to use. As we passed a group of priests loading the last bundles onto a cart, Theron’s eyes lingered on them. His voice dropped, just for me. "The barrier… it demands a lot. It’ll need a constant flow of power to last even twelve hours."

He didn’t say more. He didn’t have to. I saw it in his eyes. The Radiance needed fuel. We’d just burned through lives to dig our way out. Now, to keep the door open long enough for everyone to escape, we’d have to burn more. I understood. The empty spots in the circle would need to be filled. The math was ugly and simple. We didn’t talk about it. What was there to say? The choice was already made. Saying it out loud would only waste time and make the weight heavier.

The evacuation began in earnest. People were guided toward the temple’s depths, toward the hidden tunnel that was their only chance. The air was thick with fear, but it was focused—sharpened by the guards’ efficiency and Theron’s silent determination.

We were racing a clock none of us could see, counting down to the moment the gold light outside finally gave out. Before heading back in, I took another look at the black mass slithering against the barrier, the enemies I would have to inevitably face countless times in the future. The Nightmares, the Dream Realm, Gates, even as Echoes held by other Awakened. I should read up on some guidebooks when I enter the Academy. I didn't recognise any of these creatures at first glance, but they were individually indistinct from this distance. Maybe there were a few familiar faces down there, but that wouldn't change anything. I couldn't even beat a regular guard in combat with my current abilities, nonetheless a raving monster. I would have to wait till I became a Sequence 6 before engaging in close combat with others. Dragon Scales would be a great help then, though I had a feeling I would probably be a proper Awakened by the time I unlocked that, maybe even Ascended if I was too unlucky with opportunities. 

Survival was the immediate goal, but after that came existence. I needed a purpose, a way to blend in and leverage my new abilities without painting a target on my back.

The memory of Master Jet’s briefing surfaced—a titbit she revealed to Sunny when hunting down a rogue Awakened named Kurt. The government and the Great Clans were perpetually short on one specific resource: individuals who could stabilize the mentally fractured. An Awakened lost their mind wasn't just a tragedy; they were a walking catastrophe, a threat to everyone around them. The value of a person who could prevent that, or at least manage the fallout, was immense.

My new ability as a Telepathist was a key. But it was a crude, untested key. I could sense surface emotions and hear the whispers of another's thoughts, but true mental healing? That was far beyond its current scope. Soothing a terrified Dormant was one thing; calming an Awakened whose very grip on reality was crumbling was an entirely different league of power. My current skills were a first-aid kit, not a surgical suite. I might be able to avoid provoking such individuals, but I couldn't stop them from being triggered by others

This presented both an opportunity and a danger. The opportunity was clear. In the world of Shadow Slave, there would be no shortage of patients. The traumatized, the broken, the ones teetering on the edge—they would be my practice. Digesting the Psychiatrist potion wouldn't be a problem; the environment would provide endless material to act upon. I could build a life there, a useful, quiet life that also served my need to advance along the Pathway.

The danger, however, was in the revelation. I could not, under any circumstances, reveal the true nature of my power. Letting any faction know I was part of a foreign power system, that my abilities were rooted in the esoteric principles of the Visionary Pathway—principles that could eventually manipulate dreams, rewrite personalities, and impose my will on reality itself—would be a death sentence. I would be seen not as a useful tool, but as an existential threat to be contained, dissected, and understood.

My role would have to be carefully crafted: a skilled empath. Not a master of the mind, but a proficient soother of surface-level turmoil. I would offer just enough value to be indispensable, but never enough to be frightening. It was a tightrope walk, but it was a path. It was a way to turn mere survival into a foundation for something more, all while staying hidden in plain sight. Firstly, of course, I had to survive the abominable death trying to claim me here. 

****************************************************************

The familiar, agonizing pull of the Radiance had become a grim rhythm. My world had narrowed to the circle of light, the grip of the hands beside me, and the constant, draining effort to keep a sliver of myself separate from the torrent flowing into the crystal. The last of the civilian evacuees had long since vanished into the tunnel’s depths, their frightened whispers swallowed by the dark. Only the temple’s guardians remained now—the priests, the guards, Jeryl, and myself—forming the final battery for Theron’s desperate stand.

The relative silence was shattered by the sound of frantic, stumbling footsteps. A young priest, one of the runners tasked with monitoring the evacuation’s tail end, burst into the chamber. He collapsed to his knees, gasping for air, his face ashen.

“The barrier!” he choked out, waving a trembling hand toward the world above. “The top… it’s thinning! Fading! You can see the shadows pressing through!”

A cold dread, sharper than the Radiance’s drain, shot through me. Theron’s eyes snapped open, their usual warmth replaced by a hard, focused light. He didn’t question the report. Instead, he placed a hand back on the crystal, his brow furrowing in concentration as he tapped into the remaining energy to sense the barrier’s integrity for himself. A moment later, his face tightened, confirming the worst.

“He’s right,” Theron’s voice was flat, devoid of its usual resonance. “The barrier is failing faster than projected. The main body of civilians is only just beginning their march down the mountain. They are slow and burdened by the need for supplies.”

The unspoken conclusion hung in the air, heavier than the mountain above us. If we broke the circle now, if we stopped feeding the Radiance, the barrier would fall instantly. The horde would pour through the temple and flood into the tunnel. They would run down the fleeing civilians long before they could reach any semblance of safety, and we join them, probably dead even before them because we were behind.. Our sacrifice would have been for nothing.

Theron looked around the circle, his gaze meeting each of ours. The fear in the room was a tangible thing, a metallic taste in the air. I saw it in the white-knuckled grip of the guard next to me, in the rapid, shallow breathing of the priests.

“I will not lie to you,” Theron said, his voice quiet but clear, cutting through the panic. “To hold the barrier until they are clear… it will take everything we have left. It will likely take more. I will not order you to stay. I will not think less of any who choose to run. The choice is yours.”

His words were a mercy and a condemnation. He was offering a way out, but we all knew the truth of it. Choosing to run meant abandoning the others to a swift death and then facing the horde alone in the tunnel with no hope. Staying meant a chance, however slim, that the people we’d sworn to protect might live. It meant a morally superior end, rather than a frantic, terrified one.

The silence stretched. I could feel the conflict raging in the people around me, a storm of terror and duty. I felt it in myself. Every instinct screamed to run, to try for those extra minutes of life.

Then, Jeryl shifted. The big man let out a grunt, adjusting his stance, settling his weight as if digging in for a final blow. He didn’t say a word. He just tightened his grip on my hand and on the hand of the priest beside him.

It was enough. One by one, the others followed. A priest bowed her head, tears streaking through the dust on her cheeks, but her feet remained planted. A guard met Theron’s gaze and gave a single, sharp nod. No one left. No one moved toward the tunnel.

Theron’s expression was a complex mix of profound grief and even deeper pride. “Then we see it through,” he whispered.

He placed his hands back on the Radiance. The light flared, brighter and hungrier than before. The pull intensified, a vicious, final demand. The familiar process began again, but this time it felt different. This wasn’t about digging a path anymore. This was a holding action. A last stand. We weren’t just giving our energy now; we were buying time, second by precious second, with the currency of our souls. The chamber filled with the light of our ending, and we gave ourselves over to it completely.

I couldn't help but keep the despairing thoughts from my mind though, even as the stabbing pain of the Radiance did its best to help me in that regard. What was the point? We were burning ourselves out here, offering ourselves up to this hungry light, but for what? A hope? A chance? Theron had sent the civilians away with only two of the guards. The world outside was a scarred wasteland, crawling with who-knows-what other dangers. The city at the end of the mountain range might be no better off than here, Karion's story old news. Those people we were dying for might be walking straight into another nightmare, or simply collapsing from exhaustion and despair a few miles from this mountain. Our sacrifice could be for nothing. It could be utterly meaningless.

I forced the thought down. It was a luxury I couldn’t afford. Doubt was a crack in the will, and right now, our collective will was the only thing keeping the Radiance focused and the barrier intact.

My mind, ever analytical even as it was being assaulted from within, the logical failsafe of the Telepathist kicking in, turned to a more immediate, terrifying question: what happened when the barrier finally fell? Theron hadn’t said. He’d spoken of buying time, of holding until they were clear. But clear meant distance. A lot of it.

Then I understood. The Radiance. It wasn’t just a light or a tool for digging. It was a bomb. A Supreme-level artifact containing the condensed power of three God-blessed champions. Theron wasn’t just going to let the monsters swarm us once we were spent. He was waiting. He was letting us drain ourselves into it, building up its power to a critical peak. And then, when the horde finally broke through and flooded the temple, he would trigger it.

He would turn this entire mountain top into a sun.

The imagined scale of it nearly took my breath away and I wanted to laugh. I didn't know for certain that was what he planned, but it was what I would do at least. It was a final, defiant act of vengeance that would wipe every abomination on this peak from existence.

But he couldn’t do it yet. He had to wait. He had to let the civilians get far enough away, or the shockwave, the sheer thermal bloom of the detonation, would catch them on the foothills and vaporize them just as surely as the monsters. Our sacrifice wasn't just to hold the barrier. It was to keep the Radiance stable and contained until the precise moment Theron could unleash its fury without killing the very people we were trying to save.

We were buying distance with our lives. We were the fuse, burning down slowly, giving the bomb time to arm itself and its targets time to flee its blast radius. I tightened my grip on the hands beside me, pouring every ounce of my will into the flow. The Telepathist in me sensed the same grim understanding dawning on the others. There was no panic anymore. Just a cold, resigned focus. We were no longer just priests and guards. We were a component in a doomsday weapon. Our function was to burn out at the designated time.

The Radiance glowed brighter, accepting its final offering silently. Did it know what awaited it at the end of this meal? Did it possess any level of intelligence at all, even that of the Spell's? Probably not, if Theron's attitude was anything to go by. Still, I was sure it would be joyously celebrating if it could right now. It had the chance to send thousands of Void Creatures back where they came from, after all. 

The chamber had become a tomb illuminated by a dying star. The air itself felt thin, siphoned away by the Radiance’s relentless hunger. One by one, the others had gone. There was no grand fanfare, no final words. A priest would simply shudder, their grip on the circle going slack, and then that silent, horrifying flash would consume them, pulling their essence into the crystal’s core. Each disappearance was a subtraction from the world, a light going out that left the remaining ones colder, more alone.

Anette, the other Ascended who had stayed, was the last of the others. She was a woman of few words and fierce loyalty. A minute ago, she had simply let out a low, shuddering gasp, a sound of final surrender. There was no flash for her, not like the others. The Radiance was too weak now, its process less violent, more efficient. Her form simply… unravelled, dissolving into a stream of silver motes that were drawn into the crystal like dust into a vacuum. She was just gone.

Then there were three.

The ground gave another violent shudder, different from the controlled tremors of the Radiance’s work. This was a jarring, sickening lurch. Above the constant hum, a new sound echoed down from the temple above—a distant, splintering crack, like ice over a frozen lake giving way. The Radiance dimmed another perceptible notch, its light growing softer, more desperate.

The barrier was failing. It was no longer a question of if, but of how many had already gotten through. I could feel it—a minute drain on the energy we were producing was now severed, a line cut. The power was no longer flowing to reinforce the shield. It was all being consumed just to maintain the Radiance’s own unstable core. I knew, with a certainty that chilled my bones, that the first cracks had appeared. Smaller, faster creatures would be squeezing through even now, scuttling into the temple grounds above us.

Theron’s eyes met mine across the dimming light. They were hollowed out, filled with a grief so profound it had passed beyond emotion into a simple, terrible fact of existence. Then he looked at Jeryl.

Jeryl understood. The big man had been a steady rock throughout, his simple faith an anchor in the chaos. Now, he looked from Theron to me, a sad, weary smile touching his cracked lips. There was no fear in his eyes, only a deep regret for a future he would never see. He gave me a look that was an apology and a farewell all at once. Then he turned to Theron and offered a slow, deliberate half-bow of utmost respect—a soldier acknowledging his commander for the final time.

He didn’t wait for the Radiance to take the last dregs of him. He gave them freely.

With a final, grinding effort of will, Jeryl pushed. I felt it through our connection—not a trickle, but a torrent, a flash flood of everything he had left, every memory, every hope, every shred of his being, violently expelled and offered up. The Radiance, sensing the sudden surge, flared in response. This time, the consumption was not silent.

A soundless flash of silver-gold erupted around Jeryl, but from within him. For a split second, his body was a silhouette against the light, every vein and artery blazing like a network of lightning. Then he was gone, his entire existence incinerated in an instant, the energy sucked into the crystal with a pull that felt like the chamber itself gasped.

The silence he left behind was deafening.

Then there were two.

Just me and Theron. The Saint and the fraud. The weight of Jeryl’s sacrifice, of everyone’s sacrifice, settled on my shoulders, a mantle I hadn’t asked for and didn’t deserve. The Radiance’s light, briefly bolstered by Jeryl’s final gift, stabilized for a handful of heartbeats. It was a fleeting reprieve. The drain resumed, slower now, but steady. We were the last two logs on the fire, and the flames were dying.

Theron’s gaze held mine. There were no words left to say. We both knew the calculus. The barrier was breached. The end was beginning upstairs. Our only purpose now was to hold on a little longer. To give the convoy every second we could steal. And then… then it would be time for the sun to rise one last time.

If Theron was surprised to see me last till the end, he didn't show it. I thought of asking him, but I was already too tired to stand up: it was the power of the Radiance that kept me in place. I suppose, as Ascended, Jeryl and Annette had been prioritised by the Radiance. As stronger than a Dormant but weaker than an Ascended, plus having topped up halfway through, I had managed to outlast the others-except for Theron, who seemed to be growing weaker each minute yet still stood tall. 

The hum of the Radiance was a feeble thing now, a sputtering candle where once a sun had raged. The drain was slower, a cold, syrupy pull that felt less like having my soul ripped out and more like watching it seep away into the dark. There was no pain left. Just a vast, hollowing emptiness.

Theron’s voice cut through the stillness, a dry rasp that seemed to cost him immense effort. He wasn’t looking at me. His eyes were fixed on the dimming crystal, but he was speaking to me. To the silence. To himself.

“I never saw the ocean, you know,” he began, his words slow, measured. “The Venerable One… he promised to take me, once. When my training was complete. We were going to travel to the coast of the Silent Sapphire Sea.” A faint, ghostly smile touched his lips. “I used to dream of the sound it would make. He said it was a roar that could drown out all other thoughts.”

He was quiet for a long moment, the only sound the faint, pathetic hum of the dying artifact.

“I am afraid, Adam,” he confessed, the admission seeming to surprise even him. “Not of the end. I made my peace with that weeks ago. But of what comes after. Is there a dawn for us? Any of us?” He drew a shuddering breath. “I have to believe there is. I have to believe that this… this is not the end of our story. That the Gods, in Their infinite wisdom, have not abandoned us to this darkness. That humanity will find a way. We always have. We are… resilient.”

His words hung in the air, a desperate, beautiful prayer.

Inside my skull, a different voice answered, too tired and broken to be given sound. They’re gone, Theron. Or They never cared to begin with. Your Gods are just as doomed as we are, as doomed as the Daemons and all other life across the Realms. The things out there… they don’t care about your faith. They’ll grind your bones to dust and your city to rubble, and then they’ll move on to the next world. There’s no grand design. Just… hunger.

But I didn’t say it. I let his hope sit there, unchallenged. It was all he had left.

My own mind, untethered by exhaustion, drifted away from gods and humanity’s fate. It went back to a small apartment on a world without magic. To a life of quiet mediocrity. I hadn’t been a hero there either. Just a man. An average man with a peaceful, diligent soul, who found comfort in routine and simple pleasures. I’d never done anything great. Never saved anyone. I’d just… lived. Kindly, for the most part. Inoffensively.

And now here I was, at the end of all things, having helped burn two dozen people to fuel a magical bomb, having helped save a few hundred others. Was it a redemption? Was it a tragedy? It felt too grand a label for what it was. It just… was.

The thought of dying returned, not as a sharp terror, but as a heavy, accepted weight. And with it came the most absurd, mundane, and profoundly human regret of all.

I never got to see the rest of it, I thought, the absurdity almost making me want to laugh, if I’d had the energy. I never got to see the full anime, after waiting for years.

It was such a stupid, trivial thing. But in that moment, it was the most real regret I had. Not for lost love, or unfinished ambitions, but for a story left untold.

Theron continued to speak softly, his words blurring into a gentle stream of memories and faith, a lullaby for the end of the world. I listened, but my own final thought was a silent, petty grievance against a universe that would deny a man his anime finale. And perhaps it was that which gave me possibly the dumbest, but also maybe the best, idea I had had yet. I looked at Theron and asked him, "Do you plan on detonating the Radiance when they approach?"

He looked at me in slight surprise before nodding. "Yes, I have already set it up. All that is required is a small source of energy. I made it so the system runs backwards on itself, colliding and igniting. It's quite simple, actually, even you could do it now."

"Then let me."

My words, firm yet cold, resolute yet simple, seem to momentarily daze Theron. He looks at me with confusion before tilting his head forward. "What?"

“Let me do it.”

Theron seemed to deny the meaning in my words, his eyes struggling to focus on me in the gloom. “Do what, my boy?”

“Light the fuse. You’ve set the trigger. Let me be the one to pull it.”

His reaction was immediate, a flicker of his old authority. “No. Absolutely not. This is my duty. My burden. My—”

“They need you,” I interrupted, the words finding a strength I didn’t know I had left. “The civilians. They have two guards against a broken world. They need a Transcendant. They need a leader. They don’t need a martyr who’s already half-dead. You can still protect them. I can’t.”

I saw the conflict war on his face—duty warring with desire, the weight of his responsibility against the crushing fatigue. “The Radiance… it is tied to me now. If I leave its presence before the detonation, the feedback will…” He trailed off, but I understood. It would consume what was left of him.

“Then don’t leave it tied to you,” I said, the plan forming with a cold, perfect clarity. “Drop the barrier. Stop feeding it. Let it calm. The connection will weaken. Then go. Run. I’ll stay. When they break through… I’ll give it back all the energy it wants. All at once.”

Theron stared at me, truly stunned into silence. The plan was insane. It was a gamble that the Radiance’s stability wouldn’t fail completely without a constant feed, that I could reignite it fast enough.

“How?” he finally whispered, his voice breaking. “How can you be so… accepting? You have lived, Adam. You have seen things outside these walls, experienced wonders I have only read of. How can you sit there and choose this so calmly?”

I didn’t have an answer for him. Not one he would understand. I couldn’t explain the soul-deep weariness of a life that had already felt too long, or the quiet acceptance of an average man who had, against all odds, finally done one thing that mattered. I just gave him a faint, tired smile.

“Please, Theron. Step away.”

The fight left him all at once. His shoulders, which had carried the weight of this temple for so long, finally slumped in utter defeat. He didn’t speak. He simply stumbled forward and wrapped his arms around me in a tight, desperate embrace. I felt the hot sting of his tears against my neck, the tremble of his exhausted frame. Then, he let go, turned, and without looking back, walked unsteadily toward the tunnel entrance.

As he crossed the threshold and moved down the passage, the effect was immediate. The constant, draining pull from the Radiance ceased. The light in the chamber dimmed drastically, shrinking back to the core crystal’s initial, potent glow. From somewhere high above, a sound like a million panes of glass shattering echoed down—the final collapse of the golden barrier.

A moment of perfect, terrifying silence followed.

Then the sound began. A low rumble that built into a thunderous stampede. It grew louder for several minutes, getting closer and literally shaking the mountain. I wouldn't be surprised if they trigger an avalanche, though I suppose you would need snow for that. The horde, unchained, was coming. I could hear them—a wave of claws and fury—crashing through the temple above, scuttling down corridors, demolishing walls. They knew where the light was. They were coming to snuff it out.

I pushed myself up, my legs trembling, and sat on the stone altar directly beneath the hovering Radiance. I focused, drawing on the last dregs of my Spirituality, and a small, searingly bright blob of silver-gold light coalesced in my palm. The trigger. The final spark. Theron had told me how to activate it, how my end would be painless and as close to instant as it can be. Though he only had a few minutes head start, I was confidant he had gotten far enough away. It was a downward slope after all, and Theron could handle the tumble. The though of a weary old man rolling down a hill did rise a chuckle out of me, I will admit.

The first of them reached the chamber entrance. A twisted, multi-limbed horror, all teeth and rage. It surged into the room, followed by a dozen more, a tide of nightmare flesh. They skidded to a halt, repulsed by the Radiance’s light, their forms hissing and recoiling from its purity. It was a stalemate. But it would only last seconds.

I stood up on the altar, my body a silhouette against the glowing crystal.

I spread my arms wide, the tiny star of ultimate annihilation held aloft in my hand. I smiled at the ugly, unnatural horrors before me. I remember Eurys telling Sunny that the Void was Corruption per se, in that it wasn't inherently negative. It was merely Change, and the rabid madness I saw before me was just the result of said Change and the old ways resisting each other, the host being driven to collapse as a side effect. Still, as I looked at them in person for the first time, I found I couldn't care less. To me, they were all disgusting abominations, and I would purge them here. My lips spread wider as a rush of chūnibyō-ism filled my chest, laughter escaping despite myself. The ball of silver-gold floating in front of my chest, arms spread out like I was embracing the crowd in front of me. 

"Let there be Light!"

And then there was nothing

Chapter Text

And first, I thought I was dead.

I floated in a void, but it was not the starlit expanse where I had met the Curator. That place had felt ancient, personal, a meeting room between realities. This was different. This was vast and coldly mechanical. My consciousness, stripped of a body, drifted.

At first, I felt a pang of disappointment. He's not here. The Curator, the being who had set me on this path, was absent. This wasn't his domain.

Then, memory surfaced—not mine, but Sunny’s. A description from a web novel I’d read a lifetime ago. Between those stars, countless strings of silver light were woven into a beautiful and inconceivably complex net, forming various nexuses and constellations.

As if the thought itself had power, the void around me resolved into that exact vision.

It was breath-taking. A cosmic tapestry of impossible scale. Silver threads of pure light crisscrossed an infinite darkness, connecting points of brilliant, cold light. They pulsed with a rhythmic, silent energy, weaving and re-weaving patterns too complex for my mind to follow. It was a web of fate, a circuit board for reality itself. It was the most beautiful and terrifying thing I had ever seen.

And then the thought came, unbidden, a product of my old world’s perspective: It looks like a neural network.

The analogy was perfect. The silver threads were synaptic connections, the glowing nexuses were neurons firing. This wasn't just a place; it was a process. A function. I had worked with computers, digging through and sorting old code for my employers. I had seen a few images of a brain scan too, just here or there, available in the Age of Information. 

The question that had haunted humanity since the Spell’s arrival echoed in my formless mind: Is it alive?

Sunny believed it was just a machine, neither alive nor dead, or even capable of creativity beyond what was already inscribed in it. Of course, Nephis believed it held a specific malice towards her, and Cassie also seemed to have her own theories, but the exact level of sentience the Spell possessed wasn't revealed up to the chapters I'd read. According to the novel though: it was the ultimate arbiter, the impartial, unfeeling engine that governed the new laws of reality. It did not care about my sacrifice, my fears, or my regrets. It would only assess my performance against its parameters.

A profound silence fell, deeper than any I had ever known. The beautiful, terrifying web of light seemed to hold its breath.

Then, a voice that was not a voice, a sound that was pure information, echoed through the core of my being. It was devoid of tone, of gender, of emotion. It was the system itself, speaking its judgment.

[Assessing...]

The appraisal had begun.

[You have received a Memory: Unshadowed Crucifix]

'Huh? Wait, hold on a bit, what the fuck-'

[Aspirant! Your trial is over.]

[A young and lonely man ascended to the Temple of Evenlight to escape the terrors of the Doom. He manipulated all within, through trickery and inspiration, rallying the despondent Saint to open his heart and finally break free from his self-imposed shackles of responsibility. Challenging the very Fates themselves, he burnt his own blood and soul to open the passage for others to escape, even accepting the final sacrifice in the Saint's stead. The Lord of Light did not bless him, but he enacted Divine Retribution upon the darkness regardless.]

[You have defeated a Dormant Beast: Black Ooze.]

[You have defeated three thousand Dormant Beasts: Black Ooze.]

[You have defeated an Awakened Devil: Sentry of the Vines]

[You have defeated five hundred Awakened Devils: Sentry of the Vines]

[You have defeated a Corrupted Tyrant: Filthy Leviathan.]

[You have slain three hundred Fallen Demons: Glade Reaper]

[You have received the Sun God's blessing.]

[È̴͇͍̼̈́R̸̻͎̼͒͝R̵͓̟͒̐̿O̵͇̻͉͌̽͘R̸̙̘͚̾̔͘ È̴͇͍̼̈́R̸̻͎̼͒͝R̵͓̟͒̐̿O̵͇̻͉͌̽͘R̸̙̘͚̾̔͘ È̴͇͍̼̈́R̸̻͎̼͒͝R̵͓̟͒̐̿O̵͇̻͉͌̽͘R̸̙̘͚̾̔͘]

[You have received-Blessing of the Visionary]

[You have achieved the unimaginable!]

[Final appraisal: Illustrious!. Your determination truly knows no bounds.]

The Spell’s voice, that cold, cosmic-ass automated teller of doom and glory, started listing off my sins and triumphs. I listened, my non-existent jaw hanging open somewhere in this void.

Manipulated everyone? Okay, guilty as charged. Rallied the Saint? Theron probably would have died if I wasn't there to take his place, and it seemed my action opened his worldview, but I felt embarrassed with the credit.

Then there was the kill count.

[You have defeated three thousand Dormant Beasts…]

"Wait, hold on—" I tried to interrupt the void.

[…five hundred Awakened Devils…]

"Three *thousand*? What the actual fuck? I blew up a rock! I didn’t fight them!"

**[…a Corrupted Tyrant…]

"A LEVIATHAN? I didn't even see a leviathan! Was it in the back?!"

[…three hundred Ascended Demons…]

I just… stopped. My mind went completely blank. The sheer, ridiculous, overkill scale of it was too much. I’d vaporized a mountain top and the Spell was crediting me for every single bug that got caught in the blast radius. It was the most insane, broken, exploit-level farming I could possibly imagine. A hysterical laugh bubbled up, a sound of pure, unadulterated what-the-fuck.

Then came the errors. The glitched text. The… blessings.

[È̴͇͍̼̈́R̸̻͎̼͒͝R̵͓̟͒̐̿O̵͇̻͉͌̽͘R̸̙̘͚̾̔͘… You have received-Blessing of the Visionary]

My mirth vanished, replaced by a shot of cold, electric shock. The Visionary? My Pathway? That… that was the Curator’s handiwork. That was a cheat code he’d slipped into the system. That wasn’t part of the loot table.

The final verdict dropped.

[Final appraisal: Illustrious!]

Silence.

For a full three seconds, there was nothing. Just the silent, swirling cosmos of the Spell’s inner workings.

Then the dam broke.

"Holy shit," I whispered into the nothingness. The words were flat, stunned. Then, louder, a disbelieving crack of laughter. "HOLY SHIT! ILLUSTRIOUS?!"

A whirlwind of emotions tore through me. Elation, so sharp and bright it was painful. Vindication—all that terror, all that guilt, it meant something! It was fucking worth something! I hadn’t just scraped by; I’d aced the test. I’d broken the curve.

But right on its heels came a darker, more complex current. A sickening sense of whiplash. Jeryl’s sad smile. The priests dissolving into light. Me, provoking a grieving man into a fight. All of it, every brutal, ugly, necessary sacrifice, was now neatly packaged and labelled with a shiny, S-tier rating. The Spell had turned our tragedy into a high score.

I felt exhilarated and sick to my stomach. I wanted to cheer and scream at the same time.

"Illustrious," I said again, the word tasting strange. It was too grand, too epic for what it felt like. It felt like I’d just survived a car crash by accidentally launching myself through the sunroof and landing in a pile of money.

And then, the gamer brain kicked in. The part of me that had min-maxed RPG characters and hunted for achievements. Illustrious. What’s above that? Mythical? Legendary? The glorious that Sunny got? What do you get for that? What’s the loot? What did the Blessing of the Visionary actually do?

The fear was gone, burned away. What was left was a wild, hungry curiosity. A desperate need to see what was on the next page. Like a kid in a candy shop, I felt giddy and for the first time in weeks I couldn't wait to wake up in the Real World.

The Spell’s beautiful, uncaring network pulsed around me. I was just a blip in its code. But I was a blip with one hell of a high score.

[The First Seal is broken.]

[Awakening dormant powers…]

[È̴͇͍̼̈́R̸̻͎̼͒͝R̵͓̟͒̐̿O̵͇̻͉͌̽͘R̸̙̘͚̾̔͘ [È̴͇͍̼̈́R̸̻͎̼͒͝R̵͓̟͒̐̿O̵͇̻͉͌̽͘R̸̙̘͚̾̔͘ [È̴͇͍̼̈́R̸̻͎̼͒͝R̵͓̟͒̐̿O̵͇̻͉͌̽͘R̸̙̘͚̾̔͘]

[Interference detecting, running external sourcing...quick fix complete]

Huh?

[You have received a True Name: The True Creator]

You fucking what mate?

[Arise, True Creator]

********************************************************************

I opened my eyes feeling like I had just been reborn. Firstly because my body felt lighter, fresher and more well-rested than it had been since my college days. And secondly because the sudden intensity of the bright lights nearly made me cry out like a baby. A shadow moved and stood over me, blocking out the lights, and I blinked away the last of the sun spots. Looking up, I saw the same man who had walked me in here-was it Bruno? Marco?-whose face remained just as flat as I remembered it. I opened my mouth, but took several seconds to gather my voice.

"Uh...Hi?"

"Congratulation son surviving your first baptism, Sleeper Adam. As per Government regulation , I am here to inform you of your new rights and responsibilities as a Dormant."

"Hey, uh, wait a second-!"

"Firstly, you are entitled to receive free psychological counselling from experienced psychiatrists. No matter what traumatic experience you have encountered, there is no shame in asking for help. Many bottle it up, only to explode and harm those around them later. Do have desire immediate therapy?"

"...no."

"Second: As a Sleeper, you are also entitled to enrol in the Awakened Academy. You'll be provided with food, lodging and a wide choice of preparatory classes. You will get acquainted with most of the people who will enter the Dream Realm with you. Whether they become companions or rivals all comes down to luck and your own personality. Do you want me to call someone to bring you to the Academy?"

"You won't do it yourself?"

"As an Awakened, I have better things to be doing."

I blinked at looked at the man (his name was Roberts, I remembered) but didn't see any special designation on his uniform. Seeing my scrutiny, he calmly explained, "I prefer an ordinary suit for work."

"Right. Um, well...yes, I would like to be brought to the Academy as soon a possible please. May I know the date?"

"May 13th, 21XX" he replied with the same tone, at this point making me question if he was a robot. Still, that was incredibly useful information to know. The Winter Solstice took place in mid to late December if I remember correctly, meaning I had six or seven months to prepare before being shuttled off into the Dream Realm for Round 2. Waaay better than Sunless and Nephis had it, so I guess the Curator was actually quite a kind guy-or cosmic God, rather, 

"Right then. The third thing I have to tell you: at the Academy you will be asked about your experiences, your Flaw, Aspect and other such information. Whether or not you want to reveal this is up to you-I'm merely telling you this now so you can think on it. On that note, can you see your Flaw and Attributes now?"

I looked down and, with a mental urging, a string of glowing white runes appeared before my eyes. After a second or two, they shifted and morphed into plain English, enabling me to read them.

[All power has a price.]

[You have received a Flaw.]

[Your Flaw is: Justice]

[Flaw Description: Justice indicates that the fairest decision will be made. Justice is the sword that cuts through a situation and will not be swayed by outer beauty when deciding what is fair and just. Your decisions and methods will not be distracted by emotions, being driven by logic and necessity.]

Ah, shit.

Roberts watched me read the Runes with a furrowed brow before letting out a small sigh. His voice shifted several degrees, taking on a slightly more comforting tone, "Listen kid, Flaws can be lethal, but everybody has one. No matter how bad yours is, remember that someone out there probably has it worse."

Sure, I knew that, Sunny was just one misfortunate conversation away from becoming someone's dog, while Nephis dealt with agony manifest every time she used her power. Cassie had it bad too, but the witch deserved it in her case. But I wasn't afraid of my Flaw crippling me like that. No, what I feared was the same thing I thought about back in the temple: would following the Acting Method and aligning myself with the Divinity within the Visionary Pathway alter and change me? Now, it seems, I had the inkling of an answer. 

It wouldn't outright make me a cold, heartless machine, but it would still pose a problem when working in teams. Being willing to sacrifice weaker members to achieve a goal would make it extremely difficult to fit in with cohorts who depend on each other to survive. It could be worse though, as Roberts clamed, since my Flaw didn't force me to drive for success with 100% of my effort. I would probably only choose to actually sacrifice others if the situation was extreme enough for it. Justice was fair after all, and would only ever meet the problem with an appropriate solution. Still, the prospect of gradual corruption sliding into my brain made me feel nauseous all over again. 

Seeing my condition turn towards the worst, Roberts sighed and moved towards the door after undoing my straps. "I'll call the driver outside, they should arrive in around fifteen. Take that time to collect and familiarise yourself with your interface and Aspect. I wish you good fortune, Sleeper Adam."

Once Roberts was gone, I took his advice to heart and moved on to the other new additions to my interface.

****************************************************

Name: Adam

True Name: The True Creator

Rank: Dreamer.

Soul Core: Demon [3/7].

Memories: Unshadowed Crucifix

Echoes: —

Attributes: [Uniqueness of Visionary], [Flame of Divinity], [Blessed of I̵̪̟̻͋̒n̵̫̦͍͛̓̚f̴͍̙͛͛́i̵̪͕͔͌̕͝n̵͇͖̾͐͌͜ì̵̢̺̺̔̈́t̵̼̝̐͠y̵̡͓͙̔͑͘].

Aspect: [Visionary].

Aspect Rank: [Divine].

Aspect Description: [The Visionary Pathway is adept at psychological manipulation. Authority over Mind, Discernment, and Imagination. They hold the symbols of Creator and The Ruler of The Mind World, granting partial Omnipotence and Omniscience within that Domain]

Aspect Abilities: [Spectator, Telepathist, ???, ???, ???, ???, ???, ???, ???, Visionary (1/1)].

[Spectator: A Spectator receives great enhancement, mostly on their inferential, analytical, observational, and identification abilities along with their memory. Spectators possess keen powers of observation when it comes to observing individuals in either an individual or group sense. They can look at a person strictly from a bystander's perspective, discovering their true thoughts from their expressions, their manners, and their subconscious actions. Through this, they can accurately figure out connections and draw conclusions from the details they gathered to form an accurate mental model of the target. A Spectator will also possess the sharpened eyesight needed to analyse a target's body language.]

[Telepathist: Telepathists are able to read the superficial thoughts of others and are also able to simulate the trajectory of such thoughts to a certain degree. A Telepathist's observation is not only limited to superficial details, but deeper into one's aura, Ether Body, or other mysterious domains. They also know what kind of emotional reaction to show in the appropriate situation and know in detail what kind of expression and body language to react with. Their eyesight has been further enhanced, being much clearer than before.]

[Visionary: As the master of the Mind World, the Visionary holds dominion over all mental realms. In essence, They are the embodiment of Humanity: Humanity is both good and evil, rational and mad. Humanity arises naturally but can also be manufactured artificially by the Visionary. As the The Ruler of The Mind World, the Visionary can also be, in a sense, Omniscient, but this effect is limited to matters related to the Mind World. Their Discernment can also extend into the Fate, Reality, and Illusion Domains. They hold some Dream authority- the concept of Dreams itself. They hold partial authority over Loss of Control, the cause of one's descent into corruption.]

[Envisioning (1/1): You can Envision a singular item, whether it be an inanimate object, a person or a conceptual incarnation. The better your understanding of the subject, and the more similar its power to you, the better the effect. Envisioned items cannot be resummoned upon destruction, but can exist independently even if the summoner dies and have their own Essence pool by default. Envisioned lifeforms do not need substance to survive but have all biological functions unlocked if they desire to use them.]

Flaw: Justice

Flaw Description: Justice indicates that the fairest decision will be made. Justice is the sword that cuts through a situation and will not be swayed by outer beauty when deciding what is fair and just. Your decisions and methods will not be distracted by emotions, being driven by logic and necessity.

******************************************************

Reading down the list, the two things that caught my attention were obviously my number of Soul Cores, and my newly unlocked ability: Envisioning. I knew what that was, the core power of a Sequence 0 Visionary, but the fact I had unlocked was insane enough that I nearly blacked out. Forcing myself to remain calm, I focused on the relatively less shocking sight of my Soul Cores. According to the Spell, I had killed around 4,000 Nightmare Creatures while self-destructing the Radiance. How I had actually survived that long enough for the Spell to pull me out was nothing short of divine intervention by the way, but I guess Papa Curator was looking out for me in ways I couldn't comprehend. Anyways, I only received one Memory from the whole thing, which was complete fucking bullshit, but now I guess it made sense. Unless my Aspect functioned like Sunless' did, and I could only gain points proportionate to the direct Rank of my foes, then I should have been halfway through Devil by no. Coupled with my lack of Memories, I guess the Spell or Curator capped the amount of "EXP" I could grind from my first Nightmare. Still, just this would put me way ahead of any other Sleeper in the world.

Though Nephis would also become a Demon by the end of the Forgotten Shore arc, absolutely thrashing Sunny in their fight. 

...With that out of the way, let's talk about the elephant in the room: my new Aspect Ability.

"Whoa. Okay. Hold up." I blinked, eyes seeming to shimmer with new potential. "You're telling me I can just... think stuff into existence?"

A grin spread across my face, wide and incredulous, and I was glad Roberts had left so I wouldn't embarrass myself. "Dude. That is so broken. That's the most busted thing I've ever heard."

"An item? A person? Bro, I could literally envision, like, a perfect cheeseburger. Right now. With extra bacon. Or... or a full-on, top-tier gaming PC that never lags. Holy crap, the possibilities!"

The initial, glorious wave of memes and instant gratification slowly gave way to the cooler, more calculating part of the ability's description. The part about understanding. The part about similarity.

"Okay, okay, so it's not just a 'get whatever I want' button," I mused, scratching my chin. "It's like... a super-powered 3D printer that runs on my brain's blueprints. The better I know it, the less it glitches. And if I try to make, like, a god or something way out of my league, it'll probably just be a crappy knock-off. Fair enough. Balance patch appreciated, I guess."

Then the final clause hit me. The independence part.

"Wait, they get their own Essence? They stick around even if I bite it?" My eyes went wide with a new kind of excitement, one mixed with a healthy dose of "oh this could go so wrong."

"That's... that's insane. That's not a summon, that's creation. I could make a Gundam! A real one!" The loneliness of my new existence, the mask I'd have to wear in the real world, the potential twisting of my Flaw, momentarily lifted at the thought.

But then my modern, meme-saturated brain immediately took a hard left into chaos.

"...Or I could make, like, a Stand. I could totally make a Stand.『ZA WARUDO』or something! Would it have its own personality? Could it yell 'Muda Muda Muda' for me? This is the best power ever!"

I burst out laughing, the sound echoing in the room. The sheer absurdity of it all—the cosmic horror, the sacrifice, now culminating in the ability to potentially manifest a JoJo reference—was too much.

It was stupid. It was glorious. It was terrifyingly powerful if used right, and a hilarious disaster if used wrong.

When I had finally gained enough control to stop laughing, the smile faded from my face. The rational part of my mind kicked in again, and I suddenly felt like my soul had been sucked out. The mania I had just experienced was a stress response, I knew, sent out to relieve the weeks of anxiety and strain I had put my mind, body and soul under while in the First Nightmare. It might seem all fun and games, but I could clearly sense my mental state was a little too close to fine glass for my liking. Maybe I should take Roberts' offer up for that therapy session. 

Speaking of the man, only a minute later I heard a knock on the door. "Your driver is here to pick you up. I hope you've calmed down."

I wondered if the room's walls had blocked my fit of hysterics before putting on a calm face and walking out into the corridor. Roberts escorted me out of the station, and the guard at the reception gave me a firm nod as I passed by. Whether it was because another soul had escaped damnation, or just because he was glad he didn't have to handle extra paperwork, I nodded back regardless. 

The silence in the sleek, black military car was heavier than the Radiance’s drain. I slumped in the backseat, watching the battered slums of the outer city blur into the cleaner, fortified structures of the central district. The driver hadn’t said a word. Not a “hello,” not a “where to.” He’d just held up a sign with “CADAVER” scrawled on it—morbid, but efficient—and gestured for Adam to get in. The guy didn’t even glance in the rear-view mirror. It was like driving a piece of furniture.

Guess ‘Illustrious’ doesn’t get you the chatty service, I thought, a wry smirk touching my lips. Or maybe this is just the standard ‘welcome to being government property’ package.

I could feel the driver’s tension, though. The rigid set of his shoulders. The way his knuckles were white on the wheel. To him, I wasn’t  quite a person; I was a recently defrosted Nightmare bomb, fragile and potentially volatile. An object to be delivered carefully.

When the car finally glided to a stop before a set of imposing, gunmetal-grey gates, the driver finally broke the silence without turning around. “Out. Security checkpoint is ahead. They’re expecting you.”

“Thanks for the ride,” I said, my voice still a little rough. “Five stars. Great conversationalist.”

The driver didn’t react. The locks clicked open.

Shaking my head, I shouldered my meagre bag—containing the clothes on his back and a few things Father Malachi left me—and stepped out. The gates slid open with a hydraulic hiss, revealing a stark, modern complex that looked more like a high-security prison than a school. Awakened Academy. The name sounded so cool in the web novels. In reality, it looked like a place you got processed.

The security procedure was… intense. Retina scans, blood pricks for DNA matching, a full-body scanner that probably saw his bones and his soul. A stern-faced woman in a crisp uniform ran through a list of regulations so long it made his head spin. No unauthorized use of Abilities on campus. All Nightmare excursions must be pre-approved and logged. Theory and Combat classes recommended. Blah, blah, blah.

He nodded along, the whole thing feeling surreal. Yesterday, he was burning his soul out to save a temple. Today, he was getting a student ID and a list of dorm rules.

Finally, with a soft beep, the last door slid open. The woman gave him a curt nod. “You’re cleared. Welcome to the Academy, Sleeper. Your orientation packet is on your assigned terminal. Dormitory B, room 214.”

And just like that, he was in.

The air inside was different. Clean, filtered, humming with a low-level energy he could feel in his teeth. Students moved through the wide corridors in small groups. Some looked normal, if tired. Others had faint, shimmering auras, or eyes that glowed with subtle power. A guy with skin that looked like polished marble walked past without a glance.

No one paid him much attention. He was just another new face, another piece of fresh meat for the grinder.

A slow grin spread across my face, the serious mask from the checkpoint melting away. I was inside. I’d survived the fucking nightmare, aced the test, and now I was in the VIP lounge. For the next nine months at least.

Game on.

*************************************************

The scale of it was the first thing that hit me. It was immense, a cavernous space that made the grandest cathedral from my old world look like a dollhouse. And it was built of death.

Pitch-black stone columns, smooth and cold as obsidian, soared towards a vaulted ceiling lost in shadow. But they weren't just stone. Every surface—every column, every sweeping arch, every curve of the distant domes—was inlaid with bones. A mosaic of remains, fused seamlessly into the dark rock. I saw ribs that could have been from a giant, delicate finger bones that looked elven, thick, heavy skulls that spoke of dwarven stock, and countless others I couldn't identify. It was a library of species, a architectural record of mortality.

And in the centre of it all, a cross.

It wasn't wood. pure white marble, and it was colossal, stretching a hundred meters tall, a stark, silent monument. There was no pattern or symbols on it, the cross was as blank as the one I wore around my neck. That was intentional I suppose.

An overwhelming, profound holiness saturated the air, a sense of peace so absolute it felt heavier than the silence. This wasn't a tomb, despite what its' appearance may suggest; it was a reliquary. A sacred, sombre museum of the departed.

What held my attention the longest was the blob of soft, silver-gold light floating in front of the cross. It was hard to distinguish, as it seemed t both pour from the cross, while the cross also seems to be drawing on it to maintain form. I recognised it almost instantly for what it was. My Soul Core.

This was a cathedral. But not for the living. It was a cathedral for the dead, and the being that presided over it all. And it was one I was somewhat familiar with. Not intimately, there wasn't enough of a presence for that, but through who it originally belonged to. This was meant to be Adam's Divine Kingdom, the Corpse Cathedral.

And now it was my fucking Soul Sea.

Chapter Text

The sharp, pleasant chime of the Academy's morning alarm pulled me from a deep, dreamless sleep. A week. It had been a full week since Roberts dropped me off, and the sheer normality of it all still felt like a luxury I didn't deserve.

My room in Dormitory B was spacious, private, and clean. Immaculately so. After a quick shower in my own ensuite—a concept that still felt wildly indulgent—I pulled on the standard-issue grey training gear. The fabric was high-tech, breathable, and fit perfectly. Everything here was just… better.

Stepping into the hallway, the air hummed with quiet energy. The Academy wasn't just a school; it was a fortress of comfort and efficiency, a world away from the battered outer city and lightyears ahead of the grim reality of the First Nightmare. It reminded me of the nicer university campuses from my old life, the kind my well-off family had always expected me to attend. The familiarity was a comfort, a tiny anchor in this insane new world.

The cafeteria was a vast, sunlit atrium. The smell of real coffee and cooked food hit me first, a small miracle in a world still rebuilding. I grabbed a tray—scrambled eggs, toast, a piece of fruit that actually looked fresh—and scanned the room.

A guy named Leo from my Combat Theory class caught my eye and gave a short nod. I returned it with a slight smile. A few tables over, Sarah, a sharp-eyed girl I’d partnered with in Essence Control drills, waved me over, but I gestured to my food and then an empty table, miming that I needed to review something. She smiled and turned back to her friends. It was easy. Polite. Normal. I was building a network, carefully. Not too close, not too distant. Just enough to be remembered as a decent guy.

Settling into a seat by the window, I took a sip of excellent coffee and let my mind drift over the past week.

The classes were… interesting. Basic  information about Essence, History of the Change, Nightmare Creature Taxonomy. It was all stuff I technically already knew from Sunny’s experiences, but hearing it from the Academy’s instructors made it real. They focused on survival, on cohesion, on becoming efficient cogs in the machine that was fighting back against the Nightmare. My "Spectator" aspect made it easy to ace the theoretical stuff, absorbing details and making connections that left others scribbling frantic notes.

My Flaw, Justice, had been quiet. It wasn't a voice in my head, more of a… predisposition. In a strategy simulation, I’d instinctively suggested sacrificing a simulated patrol to draw a stronger enemy into a trap. The instructor had called it "ruthlessly logical." The other students had just stared. I’d played it off as a cold calculation from my Nightmare experience, but I felt it then—the cool, unemotional certainty of the decision. It was fair. It was necessary. It just wasn't very human. I’d have to be careful about that, had to consciously remind myself to smile, to make small talk, to be polite. The instinct was to be efficient, not friendly. It was a little unsettling, but manageable for now.

No one knew my True Name, my Aspect Rank, or the… extent of my abilities. On record, I was Adam, a Sleeper with a rare but unspecified mental-type Aspect, Rank: Dormant Human. I’d practiced with "Spectator" and "Telepathist" in controlled environments, enough to sell the lie. Reading surface thoughts and analysing body language was impressive enough for a newbie. It made people wary of me, which was perfect. I’d kept my Aspect and Flaw to myself, just as Roberts advised. When asked, I gave vague, non-committal answers about “support-based abilities” and a Flaw that “affected my decision-making.” It was boring enough to be believable.

I hadn't dared to try "Envisioning." The description made it sound like the ultimate cheat code, but the requirement for understanding was a serious limiter. I couldn't just whip up a lightsaber; I’d probably accidentally create a fancy glow-stick that overheated. My project, my secret goal, was something simpler. The worst part was, I couldn't even experiment: the Envisioning was a one-time use. My options were seriously limited in that case. Knowing the rules of fairness, I would at most be able to Envision an Ascended with more direct or simple capabilities. Summoning a Titan, of any Rank, was obviously not going to work. 

Finishing the last of my eggs, I focused on the view outside the cafeteria window. manicured green lawns, sparkling fountains, students laughing on their way to early classes. Paradise. A gilded cage, maybe, but a cage with five-star amenities.

It was a good place to get strong. A safe place to figure out exactly what being "The True Creator" was supposed to mean.

I took a last swig of coffee, stood up, and headed for my first class. Time to play the part.

************************************************

One of the first things I did, obviously, was ask for the date upon entering the Academy. Turns out, that was useless because concrete numbers were never actually given as far as I could remember. So instead I had to vaguely ask about big matters or large-scale events, trying not to appear stupidly ignorant of what was going on in the world. While it might be dismissed as the ignorance of someone from the Outskirts, the Government knew I had been adopted by Father Malachi and had received a homemade but proper education. News to me actually. Given Malachi's weird reaction to my blank cross, I had assumed the Curator had just popped me into existence and rewrote everyone's memories to make me fit. But no, this body had a proper past and history, albeit one that didn't concern me now. 

Where was I? Ah yes, the timeline. I’d finally pieced it together from news archives and academy bulletins. I wasn't just a few months early.

I was years early.

Two, maybe even three full years before Sunless would find himself on that cramped ship, heading for his first Nightmare. Five years before Nephis would wake up in the Academy as a Master and plunge the world into chaos, seven years before Antarctica and the Tomb of Ariel. And my current body was fifteen. Damn, that was young. Did the Curator have a preference, or was their some other power at play I didn't understand. I mean, he was a God for crying out loud. Did he even have restraints? 

My first thought had been a frantic, "What do I do? How do I change things?" But the more I pondered, the more I realized this changed nothing about my core plan. In fact, it was the biggest boon I could have asked for.

The key was the Solstice. The one that would send them all to the Forgotten Shore. As long as I didn't get pulled into that specific hellhole—and the odds of that were astronomically low, given the infinite possibilities of the Dream Realm—I was golden. I mean, what would be the point of sending me there without the main cast? I may have faced down a horde of thousands of foul rejects of nature, but a Carapace Demon would still shred me within seconds. Three Soul Cores be damned, my Aspect was useless in that kind of environment. 

But yes, I had time. Precious, invaluable time.

While they were still Sleepers I would be an Awakened. While they were fighting for scraps on the Forgotten Shore, I could be building my power base, gathering Memories, forging connections. I wouldn't be some random Sleeper struggling to catch up when the real chaos began. I could be established. I could be strong.

The end goal was the same: survive the Chain of Nightmares that was destined to tear reality apart. But now, I wouldn't be starting from scratch when it happened. I could have a head start that nobody else on Earth even knew was possible.

A slow smile touched my lips as I took a final sip of coffee. The future was still a terrifying, broken road, but for the first time, I felt like I had a real map and a head start. I just had to make sure I didn't take a wrong turn into a certain cursed shore.

I stood up, placed my tray on the conveyor, and headed for my first class of the day. The path was clear. Train, awaken, get strong. Everything else was just background noise.

I had already received my mandatory induction ceremony two days after I arrived, and it was honestly just filled with the common sense type of boring talk you would expect. I still paid attention though, since my "common sense" originates from a different reality than here's. I had ignored the big Legacy kids of course, instead talking to those around me. I got more than a few pitying looks, given my young appearance and lingering signs of malnutrition, but most were kind enough for strangers.

I got a number of snide looks and comments when trying to start up conversation too, but that was neither here nor there. There were no fools going around running their mouths like Sunny this time, nor was it such any major figures coincidently arriving together at the same time. It was just a normal week at the Academy.

So, where would I end up? The Chained Isles, Bastion, Ravenheart, the Storm Sea? I prayed to every God I could name that it wasn't the Hollow Mountains on the Desert of Ariel. The former would kill me within the hour; the latter would likely have the Skinwalker wear me as its new suit. A quick and easy trial-by-fire for me please, no need to pull any extravagant tricks...was what I would say, but I knew that I was currently being broadcast to at least one eldritch God, so I had already resigned myself to some degree of roughness. 

In my time here, I had also explored the only other gain I received from my Nightmare apart from the bonus Soul Cores: the Memory of the Unshadowed Crucifix. I had initially been quite shocked to see it here, but in the end I found it thematically fitting. It was the first item Grisha held upon walking out of the Chaos Sea and initiated "His" journey to Godhood. Perhaps it was here to do the same for me?

Memory: [Unshadowed Crucifix].

Memory Rank: Transcendant.

Tier: V

Memory Type: Utility/Charm.

Memory Description: [By sacrificing some blood to the Unshadowed Crucifix, it will exude a bright light that purifies any evil influences. It could cleanse powers of degeneration, corruption, corrosion, darkness, evil, ailments, and other domains, quickly causing them to dissipate until nothing was left.]

[In addition to purifying effects, this item also has Transcendent-level abilities in the field of 'Sun', such as 'Sun Flare', but this requires exponentially more blood to be sacrificed, and it can only be the users.]

[God said, "Let there be Light!"]

The Memory description was also quite different from normal, because it directly listed the abilities-granted I already knew them-and that it lacked the lore component the Spell always gave out. It was 100% an item parachuted in by the Curator. The Purification alone made me comparable to a Saintified Nephis, but the ability to also access the previous Sequence abilities was even more broken. The blood cost was a major restriction on that though. If I remember correctly, the Sequence 5 Derrick was already suffering anaemia from using the basic effect only three or four times. I would be lucky to get a single Unshadowed Spear off before collapsing as a dried out corpse. 

Another weird thing was that the crucifix had refused to be dismissed after my first summoning, and then fused the cross hanging around my neck. The design stayed mundane thankfully, but I had no doubt it would revert to its "sharp and spikey" mode when fed blood. Great, I had just escaped from the clutches of the Radiance, and now I had this hanging around my neck. I wondered if I was secretly a Moon Beyonder with all the blood-sucking I was involved in. The negative effects of the Memory weren't listed, so I didn't know if they applied in this world, but if they did then I couldn't use other Memories alongside it. I would have to test that soon.

"Mr Adam, pay attention" called Teacher Julius, looking down at me seriously. I apologized with a small smile, and the other three in the room looked back on their own work. Yes, like Sunny, I had also chosen Wilderness Survival. I could probably build up some muscle in the months I ha before entering the Dream Realm, but I still lacked the puberty-induced testosterone to make any significant progress. Instead, I focused on sharpening my mind and ways to survive through means other than just fighting and killing. Teacher Julius here was happy to provide.

Today's class was all about the difference between Devils and Demons-despite their similar names in demonology, there were a fair few: Demons had childlike intelligence but were capable of learning, while Devils unlocked their own version of Aspects that were usually stronger than a Human of the same Rank. Some other details about how their shape and aura evolves, as well as the types of Memories or Echoes you might receive, were all discussed. Granted a lot was theoretical and based on assumption, but I found it interesting still.

After that was a class on Leadership and Teambuilding. It was a very handy skill to have, and a fair few Legacies attended as well. The cliques were well formed now, and I fit in between as a distant member of the lower-middle one. Enough to be listed as a member but vague even to the others. Getting too involved with others was against the Acting Method: while I may have already left Spectator behind, that was a core theme of the entire Pathway. I had gotten ahead of myself in the First Nightmare and pushed myself too far to the forefront, but managed to offset this with Theron's help.

Ah, Theron...What came of you in the end? Did you detonate the Radiance as you planned, sacrificing yourself to buy time for others to flee? Well, I doubt I would ever know. In the Human World a Saint was the equivalent of a demigod, yet in the Dream Realm such a position was considered a Bishop only. I didn't expect to find any murals describing his life...or his death.

The leadership lecture had been… interesting. The instructor, a stern-faced Awakened from the Legacy clan, drilled into us the importance of trust, clear roles, and playing to each other's strengths. It was all standard corporate teamwork stuff, but hearing it in this context, where the stakes were life and death, gave it a sharper edge. My Spectator abilities passively dissected every example, every case study, filing away the successful strategies and the fatal flaws.

I walked back to my room, the concepts turning over in my head. Trust. Reliance. A team as a single unit. It was a nice idea, but my Flaw, Justice, coldly assessed it. A team was only as strong as its weakest link, and in a true crisis, that link would need to be severed for the greater good. I couldn't build a team on something as flimsy as hope. I needed something absolute. Something that was, by its very nature, a part of me.

I closed the door to my room, the silence a stark contrast to the lecture hall. I sat on the edge of my bed, the instructor's words about "unified purpose" and "synergy" still echoing. And then, it hit me. A sudden, crystalline insight that felt less like a thought and more like a memory unlocking.

Envisioning.

The ability to create a being with its own Essence, one that would persist even if I fell. A being whose understanding and power were tied to my own. The lecture had been about building trust with others. But why build what I could simply create?

I didn't need a teammate. I needed an extension of my own will. A second self.

And I knew exactly who that should be.

Once I was alone, I descended into my Soul Sea, the barren and serene Corpse Cathedral. I took a deep breath as I prepared for what was to come, nervousness and doubt swirling around in my heart. What I was about to do made sense symbolically, and the requirements were all met, but I didn't know how my mere Dormant strength would make things turn out. Pushing away my hesitation with another exhale, I sat cross-legged on the floor, closed my eyes, and sank deep once again, only not into my Soul Sea this time. Down past the rational mind, past the practiced politeness, down into the subconscious murk where every repressed impulse, every dark desire, and every shred of my depraved, selfish humanity swirled in a chaotic current.

It was a torrent of raw id. The petty jealousy I felt watching other Sleepers laugh easily with friends. The cold satisfaction of assessing someone as 'useful' or 'expendable'. The sheer, screaming frustration of having to play this long, careful game when power was within my grasp. I didn't fight it. I let it flow around me, feeling its texture—slippery, hot, and viciously alive.

This was the raw material.

With the precision of a surgeon guided by the Visionary's innate discernment, I began to work. I didn't suppress these emotions; I gathered them. I guided streams of resentment and threads of arrogance, weaving them together. I snipped away the attachments to my core consciousness, the parts that still felt guilt or hesitation, leaving only the pure, unadulterated negative. It was a grueling, terrifying process, a self-lobotomy of the soul. I was consciously carving out a part of my own humanity and giving it independent life.

Then came the cost.

A searing pain erupted from my chest as my Soul Cores responded. All three of them—the vast reservoirs of power I’d earned in the First Nightmare—emptied in a single, violent rush. It was like having my veins pulled out through my sternum. Every drop of Essence I possessed, every ounce of potential power, was siphoned away in an instant to fuel the abomination I was weaving into existence. The room around me ceased to exist. There was only the void of my mind and the terrifying vortex of power I was pouring into a new consciousness.

The torrent stopped as suddenly as it began. A profound emptiness echoed within me. I was drained, hollowed out, my cores utterly barren.

I took a shaky breath and slowly opened my eyes.

He was there.

Kneeling before me, head bowed with his back to the cross that was now tainted black and red around the edges and base, was the tool I had chosen to accompany me to the Dream Realm. A man with jet black hair falling just past his shoulders, in a black robe with silver embellishments and patterns sewn into it, creating a noble and glorious appearance.

Then he looked up.

His eyes two pits of inky black, and shadows descended from his fringe to cover the restof his face, leaving only a vague outline. There was no emotion in those eyes—just a chilling, patient depravity. His face was expressionless apart from that small glimmer and I was forced to avert my gaze.

He stood up, the silk of his robe rustling against itself as he did so. Once he stodd fully, two pairs of black feathered wings-one from the shoulders, one from the waist-spread out behind him. On the cross, a twisting and writhing figure with five heads appeared, bound and chained to the cross. A silent scream of agony seemed to be coming from the face, but it was impossible to see it clearly. And only a second later, everything returned to normal

As I looked at him, I knew he was no Echo. This was my shadow given form. My negative aspect incarnate. The Eve to my Adam, the person I could feel intimately even now after separating. 

With myself as the price, I had Envisioned Sasrir.

Chapter Text

To say I was shocked would be like saying World War II had big consequences-the bloody understatement of the century. I had just brought a character from a novel to life. Yes, I was living inside another story right now, possessing the template of a 2D character, but this was different. This was made by my own hands. I had Envisioned the actual Sasrir!

Or had I? The Deputy of Heaven only had a very brief appearance in the story, and he was basically a blank book in regards to the lore. How such of the "Sasrir" before me was based on Lord of the Mysteries and how much was just me and my theories bundled into a new shape? As downright philosophical as that though was, I had no more time to ponder it. "Before you ask," he said, his dark eyes fixed on mine, "I only know what you know, up to the moment we split. I am your shadow. A part of you."

I finally found my voice, though it came out a bit hoarse. "I... gathered that much. It was what I had desired after all But what part, exactly? My selfishness? My anger?"

He offered a small, thin smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Those are far too simple. I am the part that feels guilty for manipulating Theron, even though it was necessary. I am the desire to just take what we want instead of playing this long game. I am every impatient, selfish, and... less than noble thought you've ever had and quickly locked away. Your inhibitions are gone. I am what's left."

It was a bizarrely clinical way to hear my own flaws described. He wasn't a raging monster; he was a calm, collected repository of everything I considered my weaknesses.

"So you're my id," I said, the old psychology term surfacing from a college class. 

"If you wish to label it," he replied, standing up with a fluid, silent motion. "I am the functionality you removed to operate more efficiently in this place. You are the rational mind, the planner. I am the emotional weight and the moral compromise you no longer have to carry."

"So you take away all my hesitation and fear of consequences? But wait, what's the difference between you and say, the characteristics Amon would possess?"

"Hmm. I would say...Amon would be cowardice, mischief, apathy and hedonism. He would pursue anything and everything, content with chasing temporary pleasures for eternity. I, on the other hand, am just you. Your reflection, with all the dust and grime wiped off. I would not destroy lives just for a quick thrill or on an impulse. I have more sense than that. I would do whatever it takes to acquire what I desire, but I am satisfied with my current state. I would also be willing to die for what I believe in, while Amon obviously would not."

"And perhaps most of," he smiled at me now with more warmth now. "I do have people and emotions I care about. I will act as I want, and protect those I hold close to me."

And awkward silence came between us and I almost felt myself blush before forcing myself to snap out of it. "Well, as cringe as it is to hear what's essentially myself say such things, it's good to know to take after the Ancient Sun God more than the True Creator at least."

A noncommittal hum was the response.

He looked around the Corpse Cathedral, staring at the dimmer Soul Core and the transformed cross behind it. "It seems we have a division of labor."

I took a deep breath, the initial shock giving way to a strange sense of relief. The constant, low-level hum of guilt and frustration that had been my background noise since the nightmare was just... gone. It was all sitting across from me, contained in a separate vessel.

"It does," I said, meeting his gaze. "Just remember whose will is paramount."

"Of course," he said, his voice a soft whisper laced with twinges of amusement. "I am a part of you. Your word is my command."

But the way he said it, so calm and assured, left a lingering question in the air. A part of me wondered if I had just neatly organized my psyche, or if I had created a problem far more complex than any I'd face in the Dream Realm. No, he said it himself, he held my full perspective, just with a different view on things. I wasn't the type to obsess over being "the original" like in some stories, as long as I could live happily and safely. "Sasrir" shouldn't deviate from that either. Realizing I had spent a long time in my Soul Sea, I dismissed it and found myself back in my room. Only when I opened my eyes, Sasrir was still there, looking at me.

Slightly taken aback, I raised an eyebrow. "You can appear by yourself without me summoning you?"

"look down" was all he said. Upon doing so, my pupils constricted. "Where's my shadow? Wait a second-"

Before I could finish, Sasrir melted into a black blob and rushed at me, joining at my feet and taking the form of my shadow before I could even react. Then, after five seconds, he detached and manifested once again. "Bloody hell, are you Sasrir or Sunny? Hold on, Shadow Travel!? What Rank-er, Sequence are you?"

"Sequence 7, Shadow Ascetic. "

"Bloody Hell" I nearly shouted at that, my excitement overflowing my Spectator mask I had prepared. "You're just a Dormant Beast right? How did you manage that?"

"Balance" Sasrir responded succinctly. Seeing my confused look, he let out a small chuckle and spread his hands. "Secrets Suppliant is basically useless here since anyone who can respond to Ritualistic Magic is either dead or completely insane. My high Spirituality might provide a boon while using Sorcery, but that will have to wait until I become an Ascended anyways. As for the powers of a Listener...If I didn't have the Shadow Ascetic's ability to turn it off, I would probably die just by walking near a Nightmare Gate. Therefore, Shadow Ascetic really is the first Sequence that will actually help me survive. At least your Spectator/Telepathist works on other people."

Well, that made sense. In Lod of the Mysteries, the weaknesses of the Hanged Man Pathway in Low Sequences could be made up for with Sealed Artefacts or just praying to the True Creator, but "He" obviously isn't here right now-unless you count me because of my True Name-and Memories aren't quite so easy to gain without killing for them yourself. 

"Did you also receive a status from the Spell?" I asked with curiosity.

Sasrir was silent for a bit before, to my shock, runes similar but different to my own appeared before my eyes. Huh, I didn't know that was possible...Well, Shadow Bond did it after all, so maybe it's not that strange.

****************************************************

Name: Sasrir

True Name: -

Rank: Dreamer.

Soul Core: Beast [1/7].

Memories: -

Echoes: —

Attributes: [Uniqueness of Hanged Man], [Flame of Divinity], [Virtual Persona].

Aspect: [Hanged Man].

Aspect Rank: [Divine].

Aspect Description: [The Hanged Man Pathway represents Degeneration, but also sacrifice and responsibility in a positive sense. They are the Master of Degeneration, the Incarnation of Corruption and the Maker of Flesh and Blood. Through Grazing, they can be considered Omnipotent with the potential to be Omniscient.]

Aspect Abilities: [Secrets Suppliant, Listener, Shadow Ascetic, ???, ???, ???, ???, ???, ???, Hanged Man].

[Secrets Suppliant: A Secrets Suppliant is bestowed with a decent amount of knowledge regarding sacrifices and some knowledge on Ritualistic Magic. The knowledge attached to the potion given will more or less cause distortions in a Secrets Suppliants' cognitive perspectives and thus make it easy for them to lose control. Secrets Suppliants have a high Spiritual Perception which they can use it to detect some mysterious and horrible existences. They can use their strong Spirituality to perform Divination and Ritualistic Magic, but it's not as accurate as Pathways that specialize in this field. Their High Spirituality also allows them to detect auras of relatively powerful Awakened (provided that those Awakened did not conceal their aura beforehand).]

[Listener: Every Listener can Listen directly into the whispers of the secret entities; thus, they frequently come into contact with information from powerful, distorted, and unique entities. While they can obtain powerful, twisted, and unique abilities, if they cannot advance in Sequence, it would be difficult for them to survive for more than 5 years. Every Listener is a lunatic - even if they look normal on the surface and behave normally at ordinary times, they are always crazy on the inside. Even if they don't actively use Listening, one will hear more than ordinary people and most of the Low-Mid Sequence Beyonders within a normal area. When the source of the sound is close enough to them, a Listener will be more affected and will receive more dangerous information. At this stage, this Beyonder power is always active (in a passive state). At later Sequences, they can choose whether or not to proactively use it. Their spiritual sense is also further enhanced.]

[Hanged Man: The True God presiding over the domain of Degeneration/Depravity, an amalgamation of Black Shadows and Writhing Flesh, possessing five heads and the corresponding Shadows. "He" holds partial authority over the domains of Shadow, Darkness, Degeneration/Depravity, Corruption, and Mutation, while also embodying the concepts and partial Symbolism of Sin-Bearing and Sacrifice.]

Flaw: Hanged Man

Flaw Description: When damage or pain is suffered by others in your vicinity, you will suffer it in their stead (only applies to those recognised as allies, but can affect both Humans and Echoes).

***********************************************************

I blinked. "The Hanged Man Pathway, as expected. And... Scapegoat?" The implications were immediately clear. He was designed to endure suffering, to take on the burdens of those around him, whether he wanted to or not. The Spell claimed the Flaw would only work on those designated as allies, but I was sure the final decision was in its' own hands, not mine or his.

Sasrir studied the text as well, his expression one of cold analysis. "Sequence 9 Secrets Suppliant, Sequence 8 Listener, Sequence 7 Shadow Ascetic. The Flaw is logical. I am your shadow, your negative aspect. It is fitting I would also be your shield for such things."

"But you skipped Sequences," I pointed out. "You started at Sequence 7. Can you even progress?"

"That is the question," he murmured, pacing a silent circle in the small room. "The conventional method would be to 'digest' the previous Sequence Potions retroactively. But we possess no Potions, or even Beyonder Characteristics. This power was not imbibed; it was woven from your essence and my... nature."

He stopped, looking at his own hands as if seeing them for the first time. "The alternative is that this is not a Pathway in the traditional sense, but a reflection of your own power's interpretation of it. In which case, progression may not come from 'Acting' but from 'Awakening'—from simply accumulating more power and allowing the Aspect to mature naturally, as any other Awakened would."

A wry, almost mocking smile touched his lips. "Of course, this assumes the 'Acting Method' is even a viable concept here for us. Your own progression to Telepathist was a reward, a final gift from the Curator to set you on the path. We have no proof it is a system we can replicate. We may simply be... Awakened. With unusual starting points."

The thought was sobering. My cheat code might have been a one-time welcome package. Everything from here on out might be just as hard for me as it was for everyone else.

"Then we operate on that assumption," I said, the planner in me taking over. "We proceed as if we are standard Awakened. You train your abilities, I train mine. We accumulate power, Essence, and Memories. We see how—or if—the Aspect develops further."

Sasrir gave a slow, graceful nod. "A prudent course of action. I will bear the pain, and you will wield the vision. We shall see what grows from this division. Of course, we do still have the problem of how you will explain a Sleeper with a startling resemblance to you suddenly appeared in your room, with no identification in any system."

Ah...right. I was so distracted by what was happening, I never actually thought about how I was going to explain the existence of my newfound comrade. Sneak him into the group? Might work for a few days, but someone would catch on quickly enough, if only because Sasrir was so damn conspicuous. The wings had vanished when he entered the real world thankfully, but the ever-present cloak of shadows over his face and upper body was damn attention grabbing. As for his claim of us being nearly identical? Well, I couldn't see his face so I'd take his word for it. Anyways, we couldn't both walk out of here.

"Attach yourself to my shadow for now, I'll let you out when I need you. Can we talk mentally?"

"Yes, but my senses will be blurry and distant while in shadow form. I won't be able to read your mind, so you'll need to explain things clearly to me. There's also the threat of someone sensing my gaze from your shadow. The Shadow Ascetic has been detected before."

"Understood. Well then, see you later."

With that, Sasrir vanished once again and I regained my shadow. After stepping side-to-side to see if any reaction came up, I stopped when nothing happened. Sasrir hadn't made himself known in my head either, so I guess he was either sleeping or simply couldn't be bothered talking. I leaned towards the latter, if he inherited my antisocial tendencies. I took a deep breath and exhaled it, returning to my normal, unflappable state of polite kindness. Sasrir's words had put the reminder in my head that I may not be able to advance through the Acting Method anymore, but I couldn't feel any digestion in the First Nightmare until it suddenly happened. If I had made any progress as a Telepathist, I was none the wiser.

I thought about the absence of a True Name for Sasrir but it wasn't too surprising: the Spell was extremely picky about that sort of thing and I doubt the Curator was invested enough to meddle so deeply. If my Dark Angel friend wanted to get a True Name, he would need to earn it in the Dream Realm. Still, I wondered what he would get. The Hanged Man? The Deputy of Heaven? Left Hand of God? The Shepherd? My mind ran wild with references and possibilities for a bit before I shelved them away in the part of my brain reserved for nonsense. That would come later, nobody could even know he existed, what was the point of having a True Name to brag about?

Shadow Ascetic was a true Mid-Sequence Beyonder with a hell of a punch if used correctly. Summoning shadow monsters, destroying souls through shadows, tangling up foes, subjecting them to their own madness...it was definitely a combat Attribute. In a fight, ten of me would be necessary to beat him, if not more. My constitution received a certain improvement, but I really had no advantage or even equalizer in any regard. Is this how Sunny felt when he got Saint? Lagging behind your own Echo? Heh, maybe if I get to the Forgotten Shore after all I'll nab that stone beauty. Honestly a waste on Sunny. 

I checked the clock and realized it was almost time for dinner. Cracking my shoulders with a yawn, I left my room and made my way towards the cafeteria. I still had many months left before the Dream Realm called me in, and I still had much to learn. With Sasrir around, I could consider things I would normally overlook or perhaps shun, and I had a gut feeling he would quickly become invaluable in the future. Well, that made sense: he was another me after all.

And I always liked to take care of myself. 

Chapter Text

The weeks bled into months with a rhythm that was both gruelling and satisfying. Living with Sasrir was like having a live-in, brutally honest critic who was also a part of my own brain. His presence was a constant mirror, and the reflection was… illuminating.

It started with the small things. I’d flop onto my bed after a long day of theory classes, mentally making an excuse to skip the Academy’s state-of-the-art gym. ‘What’s the point?’ I’d think. ‘I’m not going to build a superhero physique in eight months. My power is mental, anyway.’

A wave of cold, patronizing distaste would waft from the corner where Sasrir sat, silent and still. He didn’t need to say anything. The emotion was his, but the source was all me. He was the embodiment of that shortsighted excuse, and feeling it reflected back at me from a separate entity was like a splash of cold water. It was stupid. It was the kind of lazy, defeatist thinking I’d supposedly left behind.

The Curator hadn’t given me this head start just for me to show up to the Dream Realm with the same soft body I’d had in my old life. I had time, resources, and the best nutrition money couldn't even buy—it was provided by a terrified government. Wasting that was an oversight of monumental proportions.

So I started. Not with weights, not at first. That felt too much like a chore. I went back to basics, to things I’d actually enjoyed in my previous life. I signed up for the rock-climbing wall, relearning the feel of chalk on my hands and the burn of holding a difficult pose. I hit the Olympic-sized pool, the mindless, rhythmic laps of swimming becoming a moving meditation that shut up the constant analytical noise in my head. I I ended up in the Forgotten Shore, I would need to know how to swim for sure.

After about a month of that, the gym didn’t seem so daunting. It became a logic puzzle. This machine targets this muscle group, this exercise creates this kind of functional strength.

It was slow, frustrating work. At fifteen, and after a lifetime of decent but not exceptional nutrition, I was starting from behind. There were no miraculous growth spurts, just the slow, stubborn accumulation of effort. I’d look in the mirror after a month and see barely any change. But Sasrir’s silent presence was a perpetual goad. He judged me for my weakness, openly scowling every time I neared quitting. The best thing about him? While I worked out, he would read up on all the theory for me. He could spend hours at the desk, flipping through old books and electronic screens, to the point I wondered if he was actually a Reader and not a Secrets Suppliant.  

By the five-month mark, the logic puzzle had paid off. The boy who’d arrived at the Academy was gone. The softness had been replaced by defined muscle, a broader set to my shoulders, a strength that wasn’t just potential anymore—it was real. I wouldn’t be winning any physique competitions, but I no longer looked like a stiff breeze would knock me over. I looked like someone who could survive.

It was more than physical. That same ruthless self-audit, sparked by Sasrir’s existence, extended to everything. I scrutinized my study habits, my social interactions, my understanding of Essence Every lazy assumption, every fear-driven avoidance, was dragged out into the light and dissected.

It was like if Sin of Solace was actually good and helpful, rather than the master rage baiter that he was. Still, Sasrir was quite the vicious shit-talker when he wanted to be too, as after a altercation between me and some Legacy lackey, he had exploded with a series of cuss words I wouldn't dare repeat to my mother. For a second, I thought he would directly jump out of my shadow and strangle the ignorant bastard, but he managed to restrain himself in the end. Still, my flickering shadow told me we needed to have a chat.

"It's because of my Listener powers" he explained once we alone in my dorm. "I've been hearing things lately, the rustle of Memories and Echoes, the hum of Essence running through circuits, and their are a few abilities related t sound that do my head in. It's fine at first, by by the end of a week I feel like breaking someone's neck."

"Sounds like you need to vent," I sighed, rubbing my face. 

"Yeah, no kidding I need to vent," Sasrir muttered, the shadow he was leaning against seeming to drink the light from the room. "It's like having a constant, high-pitched whine in the back of my skull that only I can hear. Every footstep in the hall is a thunderclap. I can hear the hum of the fluorescent lights. I swear I can even hear the rustle of that idiot's cheap polyester jacket from earlier." He shot a dark look towards the door. "It makes me want to peel my own ears off. Or his."

I leaned back in my chair, processing this. The Hanged Man Pathway's Listener sequence was all about listening—to secrets, to the unseen, to the whispers of the spiritual world. It made a twisted kind of sense that it would come with a massive sensitivity to sound. A classic supernatural trade-off.

"Sounds like the Curator tweaked your Sequence," I mused. "Maybe gave you the sensory overload of a Listener but paired it with the negatives of an Ascetic from the Eternal Aeon Pathway. You know, the whole 'endure immense suffering to achieve inner peace' thing. Since you can turn off the Listener power normally, he made it so mundane sounds are enhanced instead?"

Sasrir let out a short, humourless bark of laughter. "Sounds like something a right bastard would do, so probably."

I thought for a moment. "We need to find you an outlet, but we can't exactly just let you wander the hallways at night to practise by yourself. The cameras would pick you up, and blocking them out would just raise alarms. I can try and get a dummy target memory if I can?"

"If that's our best option."

I couldn't get a dummy in fact, but I was allowed to take a sturdy punching bag back with me. It had a self-repair function, though that was the effect of an Aspect because the bag itself wasn't a Memory. Whoever had the ability to repair things was probably filthy rich working for the Government, since Sasrir's trashing recovered within an hour. He seemed much more content afterwards, but I still mentally checked myself that my shadow wasn't as friendly as he appeared to me: he was potentially balancing over the abyss at any moment. 

**************************************

Yeah, the mood around the Academy definitely shifted as the days got shorter. The casual arrogance of the Legacy kids faded into a tense, quiet focus. The rest of us, the Sleepers who’d clawed our way through a First Nightmare, just got… grim. The jokes stopped. The cafeteria was quieter. You’d see people staring into space during lectures, and more than a few had that pale, hollow-eyed look of someone who isn't sleeping.

It got to me, too. The weight of what was coming was a constant pressure. I’d be studying in the library and swear I heard a faint, rustling whisper just at the edge of my hearing. I’d snap my head up, but there’d be nothing there. Just the hum of the lights and the rustle of pages. I wrote it off as pre-game jitters, my brain manufacturing its own ghosts.

Sasrir, of course, was perfectly fine. If anything, the growing tension seemed to amuse him. He’d sit in the corner of my room, a smirk playing on his lips as I tried to ignore the non-existent whispers.

"It’s not in your head," he said one evening, his voice cutting through the silence like a shard of ice.

I looked up from my textbook. "What isn't?"

"The whispering. It’s not your imagination playing tricks." He tilted his head, his dark eyes distant, as if tuning into a faint radio signal. "My Listener ability has been picking it up for a week now. A very low, steady throb. Like a heartbeat under the floorboards."

I sat up straighter, my Spectator instincts kicking in, analysing his micro-expressions for any hint of a lie. Then I remembered I couldn't see his face.

"It’s faint," he continued, "but it’s growing stronger every day. It’s not words. Not yet. It’s more like… a pressure. A psychic tide pulling at the edges of this reality. The Dream Realm is getting closer. It’s whispering its arrival."

A cold knot tightened in my stomach. It wasn't just anxiety. It was real. The boundary between our world and the nightmare was thinning, and we could feel it. Sasrir, with his cursed hearing, could feel it clearer than anyone.

"So it's really happening," I said, my voice quieter than I intended.

"It is," he confirmed, that sharp smile returning. "The waiting is almost over. The real fun is about to begin."

Somehow, his version of "fun" did nothing to settle my nerves. The whispers I’d been hearing weren't a trick of my mind; they were the first distant echoes of the storm. And it was coming right for us. The nerves must have shown on my face, our maybe our bond was simply that deep, but Sasrir came over to me and put his hand on my shoulder. "Relax. Sunny survived with Fated despite being a a slum rat with four weeks of training, while we've had six months. My Aspect is basically superior to his in every way too, and you have as many Cores as Nephis did by the end of the Forgotten Shore Arc. We can't be separated by the Spell either, so what's there to worry about?"

"We could get Godgrave," I muttered to myself. "Or the Burning Desert. We know barely anything about the latter since the story never covered it up to where we read, and Godgrave is simply the nesting ground for Corrupted and Great monsters. We're not the Lord of Shadows, we can't just lull a dozen of them to sleep with Nightmare Steed."

"Panic changes nothing" my shadow countered, pressing more firmly down on my shoulder. "Calm yourself Adam. You created me to share your burden, so trust in me to do so."

Taking in his words, I loosed my breath and exhaled. "Thanks, Sassy."

"Don't call me that" he answered in annoyance, flicking the back of my head. 

He was right. I was as well prepared as any Legacy for my Awakening. I had Sasrir, the Unshadowed Crucifix, and the expectations of a God watching from above. I didn't even have the plot device that was Lost from Rizz or Autistic Star following me around. "It's a shame we never got to actually test out your Aspect though. For instance, can you strike shadows to kill weaker foes directly?"

"I'm a Dormant Beast," he responded dryly. "I don't think there is anything weaker than me."

"Eh, there's that Scavenger thing that Fiend evolved from, you know, the one that hunted Sunny all the way across Antarctica and even devoured some of his power. Wait, that reminds me! Can you also absorb the Heart of Darkness or Ruby Core dropped by that Black Knight in the Dark City Cathedral?"

"If I can miraculously kill an Ascended Devil and a Corrupted Terror without being eviscerated or eaten alive, then sure, I could try my luck...what kind of stupid question is that? Do you really want me to die that much?"

"Relax bro, it was just a thought..." I raised my hands in defence and muttered while looking away. "Still, it's worth thinking about, how to evolve our Aspects beyond the Acting Method or Path of Ascension."

"In that case, you might as well consider the Defilement of the Estuary" Sasrir mocked me sarcastically. "I think you would make a lovely Mad Prince."

"Nah, I'm definitely the Dread Lord. A Black Dragon that can command the hearts and minds of others? It was practically made for me. Ah, that would make Amon the Soul Snatcher and Medici the Undying Slaughter or Beast. And Ouroboros would make a fitting Torment."

"So I would be either Beast or Slaughter, or the Mad Prince? Hmm, given my later state in Lord of the Mysteries, I suppose being a being associated with a deranged sovereign does fit. I still don't like it though."

"Yeah well, we won't be entering the Tomb of Ariel for a long while anyways, so it's fine."

"So you plan to do so eventually?"

I laughed at that, leaning back in my chair and smirking at him. "But of course! I already have a little plan forming in this noggin' of mine, though I'll need several years and for all of us to be a Master for it to work. Oh, and only if I can indeed unlock a new Envisioning perk after completing a Nightmare. Don't bother asking, I'll tell you when it's ready-"

"You plan to steal Sunny's True Name and Fate?" Sasrir raised an eyebrow. 

I sat up and stared at him with my mouth open before closing it and coughing sheepishly. "How did you guess?"

"Because," Sasrir was rolling his eyes now, "we share the same origin, and I naturally thought of that too. Let me guess, you plan to envision Amon  and have him use Theft after the Vile Thieving Bird plucks out the strings.  It's a good idea, but I doubt it'll work that easily. The Bird is a Cursed Terror that hoodwinked a Divine Daemon and multiple Void Creatures. Amon would need to be at least a Saint or have Parasite level Theft to even contend with it. And the former means he won't even be able to show up in the Tomb."

"That's why I said not to ask me about it" I waved my hand impatiently. "I'm still trying to work around that stuff."

"Sigh, you've already mentioned your plan to steal away Stone Saint, Weaver's Mask and the Blood Weave. Are you sure you're not actually Amon is disguise?"

"I'm just brainstorming," I shrugged. "Following the plot to the letter is just boring, don't you think? And beside, we have an active audience to impress. If we do well, the Curator hinted at some rewards, or maybe real-time assistance. Besides, if I want to become an Author, I need my own experience in writing scripts. I'm thinking of playing the "ancient and unknown Deity slowly awakening or recovery from his slumber" trope. Maybe add in a few murals, dash my Honorific Name across some walls, that sort of thing."

"I can't tell if you're imitating Klein or Shadow with that method" Sasrir muttered, causing me to smile. "Who says it's one or the other? Maybe I'll drop an "Atomic" right after flexing all my lore knowledge. Heh, I can imagine Cassie's face when I know even more than she does."

Sasrir's head snapped up at her name. "Can the witch pry into our Fates? I'm just an extension of you, but your currently body is an actual citizen of this world, with a past and history. You might not be able to avoid her eyes" he warned.

"That's why I need Weaver's mask" I said, serious this time. "Sunny was being led around the nose by Cassie and Nephis with it anyways, at most it blocked out Mordret's spying for a bit but didn't change anything. It would have far more use in my hands than in his. A Divine Memory...even up to as far as we read before getting dropped in here, there wasn't a second, right? Can you imagine what we could do with something like that?!"

Seeing the fanatical look on my face, Sasrir just sighed and retreated into shadow form, his last words echoing in my head. 

"Just don't let Amon use it, he'll be trouble enough as is and we really don't need to embolden him."

Chapter Text

The Academy in the final days before the solstice was a pressure cooker of grim anticipation. The casual buzz of learning had vanished, replaced by a focused, heavy silence that clung to the hallways. You could feel it in the air—a sharp, electric tension that had even the most arrogant Legacy kids dialling back the bravado. This was it. The final countdown.

The instructors shifted gears completely. No more theoretical deep dives or philosophical debates about Essence theory. Their lessons became brutally practical, stripped down to bare essentials. A grizzled Awakened from the War Department drilled us on field triage, his voice a gravelly monotone as he described how to staunch a wound caused by acidic venom or psychic backlash. "Your first priority isn't to fight," he'd barked, scanning our faces. "It's to survive long enough for your Aspect to kick in. Don't be a hero. Be a survivor." Another instructor, her fingers tracing glowing runes in the air, outlined the most common types of minor Nightmare Creatures—the Scavengers, the Lurkers, the Swarmlings. "Memorize these," she commanded, her voice leaving no room for argument. "Knowing what's trying to kill you is the first step to killing it first."

The cafeteria, usually a place of scattered chatter and occasional laughter, became a sombre mess hall. Sleepers I’d barely spoken to all year gravitated together, forming quiet, grim huddles. We didn't talk much. There was nothing left to say. We just sat, eating the excellent food that suddenly tasted like ash, stealing glances at each other. You’d see someone and think, Will they make it? and then the darker, more selfish thought: Will I see them again? It was a room full of people silently saying goodbye.

But the strangest change was in the Legacies. The ones who usually lounged with an air of bored superiority were suddenly… awake. Their eyes, usually half-lidded with disinterest, now held a sharp, predatory glint. You’d see them in the combat sims, not going through the motions, but tearing into the holographic monsters with a vicious, joyful intensity they’d never shown before. This wasn't training for them; it was a preview. They weren't afraid of the monsters. They were excited. For them, the Dream Realm wasn't a death sentence—it was a hunting ground, their birth right, the place where they would finally get to unsheathe the legendary Memories they’d heard stories about since childhood and prove their clan's worth. Their quiet conversations were no longer about avoiding danger, but about efficient killing fields and teamings. For a Legacy, death is more of a shame than a fear.

The whole place felt like it was holding its breath. Every lesson, every meal, every glance felt weighted with finality. We were all standing on the edge of the cliff, and in a few days, the push was coming. The only question left was who would fly, and who would fall.

Reality really set in when an Awakened-Roche, or maybe Rouge-called the for one last assembly, in a room full of Hollows. "Take a goof look around you," he started, his voice and face as solid as stone. "You may recognise some of these people, you7 might even know them personally. All of them were Dormant or Awakened, novices or those with a hundred battles under their belt. And each and every one of them is dead."

Despite knowing his speech beforehand, it still sent a shiver down my spine. These people were Hollows, Awakened whose souls had been destroyed in the Dream Realm, never to wake up again. The opposite, those who died in body while exploring the Dream Realm, were called the Lost, and Nephis' own mother was one of them. Of course, whether or not she was really dead was still contested in some theories, but it was generally accepted as canon, just like how Broken Sword was indeed dead. Hmm, didn't Valour also send a whole division of Lost to guard Mordret in the Chained Isles? 

Below me, my shadow flickered. "What, are you planning to add the Prince of Nothing to your little retinue of misfits and madmen? I approve, if you feel like holding it up to a vote."

'Come now Sasrir, I might have some grand ideals and expectations for myself, but no way in hell do I have what it takes to convince that psychopath to work alongside me. Hell, even if I became a true Hypnotist he could probably brute force his way through it with his will. Mordret basically has Main Character inner strength.'

"So no Mirror Man, got it. In that case, you want to kill him?"

'Well, I wouldn't say that either...who knows, I'll take things as they come. I'm definitely heading to the Chained Isles after Awakening, if only to steal from the Ebony and Ivory Towers. but getting Bone Weave or other stuff like that will take more planning out.'

After giving us his talk, the Awakened led us to our sleeping pods, prepped and ready to become our coffins at any given time. Charming. The air in the preparation bay was cold and smelled of antiseptic and ozone. The low hum of machinery was the only sound, a stark contrast to the frantic energy that had buzzed through the Academy just hours before. Now, it was all business. 

Instructors moved with a grim efficiency, doing final check-ups on our pods. A woman with fingers that glowed with a soft, diagnostic light ran a scanner over my chest, her expression unreadable. "Vitals are stable. Essence levels are optimal for a Dormant. You're as ready as you can be, Sleeper."

As ready as I can be. The words echoed in my head. It was a coin toss. Half the known Dream Realms could kill you in days. Some, like Godgrave, could do it in minutes. All the training, all the theory, it all came down to the luck of the draw. I tried to channel a bit of that cold ‘Justice’ logic—statistically, my preparation had to improve my odds—but it was hard to feel statistical when your mortality was on the line.

I caught a glimpse of Ben being sealed into his pod, his face pale but set in determination. Lena was already inside hers, her eyes closed in meditation. I wondered how many of them would be here when—*if*—I woke up. The thought was a cold stone in my gut.

My pod hissed open. Time to get in.

I lay back on the cool, contoured surface, the lid beginning to lower. The drowsiness hit almost immediately, a warm, chemical wave that promised to pull me under. It was a fight to keep my eyes open, to hold onto the waking world for just a few seconds more.

Well, this is it, I thought, the mental words slurring. No turning back now.

"Finally," Sasrir's voice was a clear, sharp thread in my fading consciousness, a welcome anchor. "I was getting bored. This place has terrible acoustics for brooding."

A weak laugh bubbled up in my mind. 'You’re just excited to finally use your powers on something that isn’t a punching bag.'

"A man can only pummel synthetic leather for so long before he yearns for a more… organic crunch." His tone was dry, but I could feel the underlying current of readiness. He was poised, a drawn blade in the shadows of my soul.

The lid was almost shut. The world narrowed to a sliver of light.

'Hey, Sassy… try not to let us get eaten by a Great Titan in the first five minutes, okay?'

"Please. I have standards. We’re holding out for at least ten minutes before being devoured by an unspeakable horror." A beat of silence, then his voice softened, losing its edge for just a moment. "Relax, Adam. I am literally a part of you. My only purpose is to ensure our survival. I will take care of it. Of us."

The promise was simple, absolute. It was the least friendly and most comforting thing I’d ever heard.

'Thanks, man.'

The lid sealed with a final, soft hiss. The light vanished, replaced by utter blackness. The last thing I felt wasn't fear, but a strange, shared resolve.

Then, I slept. And my second adventure began.

**************************************

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…The Fool.....Era...

.....Omniscient Lord....Everything...

....Calamity...Origin of.....

...Endless Disorder...

...Singularity...All

...Deviants...Source of...

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...Who am I?

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I knew something would go wrong. I knew it from the start, and I'm not just talking about the Dream Realm exploration. The last thing I remembered hearing was the cold, mechanical voice of the Spell welcoming me, then nothingness. I felt like I was slowly falling down, or maybe sinking, as layers of soft and warm obstacles broke away when I made contact with them on my way down. It was...relaxing, to be honest, and I almost desired to stay longer. But that wasn't meant to be, it seemed, because the feeling vanished as suddenly as it arrived, and then I was awake and aware once again.

Consciousness returned like a slow, muddy tide. My head throbbed, a dull ache behind my eyes, and my thoughts felt wrapped in thick cotton wool. The transition was never pleasant, but this was different. This was a deep, unsettling wrongness that I couldn't quite place. I was lying on something cold and slightly damp, and an oppressive, salty darkness pressed in on me from all sides.

"Ugh," I groaned, pushing myself up to a sitting position. My limbs felt heavy. "Sasrir. You awake?"

A shadow peeled itself from the deeper blackness around me, coalescing into his familiar form. He looked more solid here, more real. "Unfortunately," his voice was a welcome anchor in the disorienting void. "I feel your headache. And your confusion. What is this place? The air is... thick."

"That's what I'm trying to figure out," I muttered, rubbing my temples. "Something's off. I can feel it." I squinted, trying to pierce the absolute blackness. Nothing. It was like being locked in a closet. "Can you see anything?"

"No more than you. But I can hear..." He went perfectly still, his head cocked. The usual sarcasm drained from his expression, replaced by a sharp focus. "Waves."

"Waves?" I repeated, a cold knot beginning to form in my stomach. "Like... ocean waves?"

Yes. Crashing against stone. Not a gentle shore. It sounds violent. And there's... a smell. Rotten salt and something metallic."

The pieces clicked into place with a horrifying, sickening finality. The fog in my brain evaporated, burned away by a surge of pure, undiluted dread. The cold stone. The salty air. The violent sea.

"No," I whispered. Then louder. "Ah fuck, you have got to be kidding me."

I shot to my feet, my heart hammering against my ribs. I shouted a string of curses into the oppressive dark that would have made my old college roommate blush. This was bad, this wasn't where I had wanted to bae Sure, I arguably knew the most about it, but this place was still one of the worst in the Dream Realm.

"Forgotten Shore," I spat the name like it was poison, finally sinking back to the ground in defeat. I angrily bit the knuckle of my thumb, the sharp pain a petty distraction from the monumental disaster unfolding. "After all that... after six months of prep, of thinking I'd beaten the odds, thinking I could outmanoeuvre the story... I end up right where the story fucking starts."

"Does this place seem more familiar to you?" Sasrir asked, his voice low and serious now, all mockery gone. "Can you tell where? This chamber feels enclosed."

"I can't see a damn thing," I growled, frustration boiling over. "It could be a cave in the Crimson Labyrinth. It could be a basement in the Dark City. It could be a hole in the ground for all I know!" I let out a harsh, bitter laugh. "Honestly, at this point, I don't care. Just as long as we're not right under the Soul Devourer Tree or in the nesting grounds of those Spire Messengers. Anywhere but there."

The irony was so thick I could taste it. All my jokes about stealing Sunny's plot, about knowing the script—the universe had apparently decided to call my bluff. Fuck, this was honestly driving me mad right now. I didn't need this on my plate. At least I was two years early-I didn't have to worry about stepping on a stone, rocking the timeline and making the Trio get eaten by their first Scavenger Centurion. 

"Effie should already be here, but I wonder about Kai...and Gunluag, Kido, Gemma, Seishan and the rest of the guys at Bright Castle. I can't remember how long they were here before Nephis led them out of the Dream Realm" Sasrir muttered, more to himself than to me.

"The witch was here for about ten years if I recall, but I don't know about the rest. Heh, should have asked for the Wiki as my golden finger instead" I laughed, brushing away the gloom and darkens in my heart. It would have been far harder, had the majority of it not been absorbed by Sasrir. 

"Glad to see you're feeling better" he smiled towards me.

"No use moping about. This is actually a great chance for me to use..." I concentrated and in seconds, a cluster of silver light motes formed the shape of a crucifix in my hands, "...this!"

"The Unshadowed Crucifix?" Sasrir raised an eyebrow. "I thought you hate pain and blood?"

"I do," I confirmed with a small grin, tossing the Memory towards Sasrir. "That's why you're going to be using it instead! Only activating the Demigod -level abilities requires my own blood, you can use the rest."

"I don't have a Rose Bishop's regeneration you know" he sighed, but dutifully caught and held up the cross. "Close your eyes, this will probably be bright."

I did as I was bid, and even then I hissed as a wave of golden light pierced through my eyelids. I waited for several seconds for it to dim, and then opened them to see Sasrir frowning at me. "We're stuck in a ridge, surrounded by red coral. It seems we got the Coral Labyrinth, though I can't tell how close we are to the Dark Sea. Since it's night but we haven't drowned yet, I think it's safe to say this place is relatively high up though, high enough the Sea can't reach us."

"The question is, how do we get out?"

After a moment of silent contemplation, Sasrir spoke up. "If you don't mind being left alone, I can transform into a shadow and go up. My vision will be limited to block and white, but its better than pure darkness like it is here. And if anything happens, you can just recall me back, though it will take time depending on the distance. I can leave the Crucifix or bring it with me, if you wish."

"Haah, just go out for a couple minutes, bring the Memory. And don't lead any abomination back to the hole."

"Right."

With that, the Unshadowed Crucifix vanished into silver light once again, settling into Sasrir this time. During our months together, we had discovered that, if I consented, Sasrir can summon or dispel any Memory or Echo despite being classified as an Echo himself, and he even has his own Soul Sea, though I couldn't enter it. According to him though, it was just a sea of churning and filthy black mud. Watching Sasrir vanish, I felt the distance between us gradually grow larger until I could only tell his rough direction. 

All by myself, I nestled against a wall and tried to conserve energy. The mood swings and frequent pondering had taken a lot more out of me than I expected, and sleep actually began to encroach on my mind. I vaguely opposed it at first, but with Sasrir nearby and myself hidden in a cubbyhole, I deemed it safe enough to nap for twenty or so minutes. Yet even as my eyes began to close, I still couldn't shake that clinging discomfort, like an itch right in the middle of my back I can't reach.

...I swear I was forgetting something.

Chapter Text

An hour must have passed in a blink, because the next thing I knew, a cold hand was shaking my shoulder. I jolted awake, the deep, instinctual fear of sleeping in a nightmare realm snapping me to alertness instantly.

"It's me," Sasrir's voice was a low whisper in the dark, barely audible over the distant, ominous crash of waves. He was crouched beside me, his form a deeper black in the absolute gloom. "You were out. We need to plan."

I scrubbed a hand over my face, forcing the sleep away. "Right. What did you find?"

"We're perched high. Extremely high," he began, his voice all business. "The coral here is like a jagged red mountain. I could see for miles... not that there's much to see but more nightmare coral and that cursed black sea. But I did spot one of the Seven Statues in the distance. A dark speck on a high plateau. Couldn't tell which one from here."

That was something, at least. A landmark. A potential goal.

"Good. That's good," I said, the planner in me latching onto the information. "What's the situation? Can we move?"

"That's the problem," he said, and I could hear the frustration in his tone. "My Listener powers are... jumbled. It's not just sounds anymore. It's like the entire Labyrinth is whispering, a constant static of hunger and madness. It's hard to pick out immediate threats. And moving now?" He shook his head. "The Dark Sea is still high. Even if we could navigate the paths without falling to our deaths, the things that swim in those waters... I heard them. Splashing. Screeching. It's not worth the risk."

My hope deflated. Trapped. Of course we were trapped.

"But," he continued, and I perked up. "There's a path. It's narrow, and it looks treacherous, but it's there. It winds down from our perch to a lower ridge. When the sea draws back in the morning, that path should be clear. It's our best shot."

A grim choice. Wait here, a sitting duck in our little cubbyhole until dawn, or risk a nightmarish climb in the pitch black with unseen horrors lurking below.

"Alright," I sighed, the decision made by pure survival logic. "We wait for first light. No sense in giving the local wildlife an easy meal."

Sasrir gave a grim nod of agreement. "I'll keep watch. Try to get more rest. You'll need your strength for the climb."

He melted back into the shadows, leaving me alone with the oppressive darkness and the distant sound of the hungry sea. Rest felt impossible now. Every distant screech, every splash, sounded like it was right outside our hole. We had a plan, but it was a thin thread of hope over a very deep, very dark abyss. The Forgotten Shore was already living up to its name.

Despite Sasrir's advice, I didn't go back to sleep immediately, as I realised something extremely important-I was naked. The Spell didn't let you bring anything on you when you first entered the Dream Realm, and that included clothes. Sasrir had been wrapped in black robes from the moment he appeared, but I was as bare as the day I was born. It was a good thing this hole was dry, otherwise I might just catch hypothermia trying to sleep in it. I wondered if I could ask Sasrir to weave my clothes from the shadows, but I couldn't remember if the Shadow Ascetic had to power to grant materiality to shadows. 

The short rest hadn't enabled me to have any epiphanies over what was troubling me either. I knew something was wrong, whether with me or the environment, but I just couldn't place it. I wasn't a Seer, I couldn't just use Divination to see what was wrong with me, and that was frustrating. Checking my Runes revealed nothing new either though, so I had no choice but to pack it up and settle myself once again, drifting off into another slumber. 

*********************************************

The first ray of light was a physical thing, a sharp, crimson blade that sliced through the darkness and directly into my eyes. I groaned, throwing an arm over my face. Sleeping wedged in a coral crevice had left me stiff and aching in places I didn't know could ache. A proper bed felt like a luxury from a past life.

Yawning, I tried to stretch out the kinks, my elbows knocking against the rough, unyielding walls. Sasrir was already there, a patient silhouette against the brightening entrance of our hole. "Ready to face the music?" he asked, his voice dry.

"More like face the nightmare coral," I grumbled, pushing myself up. "Let's just get this over with."

He went first, flowing up and out of the hole with an unnatural grace that still weirded me out. A moment later, his hand—cold and solid—reached down. I grabbed it, and he hauled me up with surprising strength.

And then I saw it.

The Forgotten Shore. The Crimson Labyrinth.

For a long moment, I just stood there, my jaw slightly slack. Reading about it was one thing. Seeing it was something else entirely.

It was a nightmare of architecture carved from a living hell. The labyrinth was vast, a multi-tiered insanity of jagged, blood-red spires and twisting pathways that stretched out to a hazy, horrifying horizon. Paths wound between massive coral pillars, some broad enough to march an army through, others so narrow you'd have to turn sideways. They snaked and twisted without any rhyme or reason, undoubtedly leading to dead ends or worse, just circling back on themselves to trap you. And some didn't just wind around the mounds—they plunged directly into them, becoming dark, gaping tunnels that promised nothing but deeper terror.

There was nothing else. No trees, no grass, no soil. Just the endless, cursed crimson coral and, far below at the bottom of the chasm we were perched above, the sluggish, oily black water of the Dark Sea receding from the lower paths. Above, the sky was a bruised purple, hiding swarms of dreadful flying abominations in its cloud cover.

The descriptions from the novel didn't do it justice. The scale was suffocating. The coral itself wasn't right. It wasn't just rock; it had a weird, almost fleshy texture in places, a sinister gloss under the red sun. Knowing the speculation—that this entire place was part of a colossal living creature, a giant maw for the Crimson Terror to feed on soul essence—made my skin crawl. Every scrape, every drop of blood spilled here, was just feeding the monster.

"Cheery place," I finally muttered, the words feeling utterly inadequate.

"Paradise, according to Effie," Sasrir deadpanned beside me, his eyes scanning the dizzying drops and treacherous paths. "Shall we? That 'somewhat safe' path I mentioned is already looking less appealing in the light of day."

He pointed to a narrow ledge that wound its way down the sheer coral face. It looked like it had been carved by a madman. One wrong step and it was a very long, very final drop.

"Lead the way," I said, my voice tighter than I wanted it to be, something I tried to rectify with a joke. "And try not to feed the Labyrinth."

The easy chatter died as we moved deeper into the canyon-like corridor. The oppressive weight of the place demanded silence. Sasrir walked slightly ahead, his head tilted, his entire being focused on the subtle currents of sound I couldn't hear. I could almost see him manually filtering out the Labyrinth's background psychic scream, narrowing his focus down to the immediate hundred feet or so around us.

"It's like a radar, but made of whispers," he finally murmured, his voice a low hum in the stagnant air. "I can hear the scrape of chitin on coral. The drip of water. Nothing close. For now."

A relief. It meant we wouldn't be blindsided by a Scavenger leaping from underneath us like Sunny had been. Small victories.

"An Azure Blade," I whispered, more to myself than to him, my eyes scanning the eerie red walls. "That's the first thing I want to claim here. A real Memory, not just this." I hefted the Unshadowed Crucifix. It was powerful, but it felt... borrowed. An Azure Blade would be mine.

A sudden, damp chill seeped through my naked heel and foot. I shivered, the cold and the clammy moisture a constant, unpleasant reminder of where we were. It sparked a thought.

"Hey, Sassy," I said, keeping my voice low. "You're made of shadow, right? Can you, I don't know... make things? Like clothes?"

He glanced back, a flicker of amusement in his dark eyes. "Shadow Shaping. A basic application of the Hanged Man's authority. In theory, yes. I am... not particularly proficient yet. The results may be... minimalist."

"Minimalist is better than hypothermia. Give it a shot. Just a simple cloak or something."

He nodded, stopping for a moment. He held out a hand, and the shadows around his feet seemed to stir, flowing up his arm like liquid darkness. They pooled in his palm, churning and coalescing. It was a slow, deliberate process, like watching a spider carefully spin a web. After a moment, he was holding a jet black cloth and he handed it to me.

It was a simple, hooded cloak and a set of form-fitting underclothes, the robe matching his own. They were cool to the touch, not with the damp cold of the Labyrinth, but with a neutral, soothing coolness. As I pulled them on over my gear, the shivering stopped instantly. The shadow-cloth was surprisingly light and moved without rustling, perfect for stealth.

"Whoa," I said, running a hand over the impossibly smooth material. "This is... actually really good. For a novice."

"Do not get used to it," he said, though I caught a hint of pride in his mental tone. "More complex shapes are currently beyond me. And it is still just concentrated shadow. It will not stop a blade."

"Doesn't need to. It just needs to stop me from freezing my ass off. Thanks." It was a small thing, but in the soul-crushing gloom of the Labyrinth, a small comfort felt like a major triumph. We were adapting! Take that, Nightmare Spell, Dream Realm!

The walk continued on uneventfully for some more minutes. Whether it was my luck or not, we seemed to have landed in a section with few inhabitants, but I knew they would be a few. The Starlight Legion wasn't just a fancy name: they were a literal legion, with probably hundreds of members at one point. I couldn't remember if Nightmare Creatures had the ability-or the physique-to reproduce, nor how many were Corrupted here, but I wasn't keen to find out. Actually, what were the Legion doing here? The Seven Heroes committed suicide to fuel to Artificial Sun, but why was their Legion scattered here, rather than in the Dark City? Hmm, very strange now that I think abut it.

"Trouble ahead" Sasrir suddenly spoke out.

Sasrir went rigid beside me, his hand snapping up in a silent signal to stop. The casual air vanished, replaced by a predator’s stillness. "Thirty meters ahead. Around the next bend. Something... feeding."

My grip tightened on the Unshadowed Crucifix. "Plan?"

"I go first. You hang back. Be ready with the light."

I nodded. It was the smart play. He was the scout, the ambusher. I was the artillery. As he melted into the shadows on the wall, becoming a two-dimensional smear of darkness, I focused on the Memory in my hands. I could feel its potential, a dormant sun waiting to be unleashed. With my current strength, I couldn't access its true, demigod-level wrath—that required a blood price I wasn't willing to pay yet. But I could channel a lesser echo of its power, the powers of a Sequence 7 Solar High Priest, for just a meagre tribute of blood.

Creeping forward, I peered around the jagged coral edge.

The scene was grotesque. A Carapace Scavenger, its beetle-like shell glistening wetly in the dim light, was hunched over another of its kind. The rending and wet chewing sounds were nauseating. Cannibalism. Charming. It was completely focused on its meal, unaware of us.

A patch of darkness on the ground near it shifted. Sasrir, in his shadow form, flowed across the ground like spilled ink, impossibly fast and silent. He reached the shadow cast by the feasting abomination and didn't hesitate. He didn't emerge; he simply lunged into the creature's own shadow.

The effect was instantaneous and horrifying.

The Scavenger's shadow on the coral wall suddenly writhed and bubbled like boiling tar. The beast itself stiffened mid-bite, a choked gurgle escaping its maw. Then it shrieked, a sound of pure, agonizing torment that echoed off the narrow walls. Thick, putrid black blood began to seep from its eyes, its mandibles, its joints—every orifice it had. It flailed wildly, claws scraping furrows in the hard coral, crashing into the walls in a blind frenzy. The struggle was violent but short-lived. After a dozen horrific seconds, its movements became jerky, then ceased entirely. It collapsed onto the remains of its meal, utterly still.

At the same moment, a familiar, coldly efficient notification appeared in the corner of my vision.

[You have defeated an Awakened Beast: Carapace Scavenger.]

[You have received a Memory: Azure Blade.]

The shadow pooled beneath the dead creature for a moment before flowing back across the ground and rising to form Sasrir next to me. He looked... pleased, if moderately drained.

"Efficient," he remarked, glancing at the corpse. "The Hanged Man's Pathway has its uses."

I gaped in shock for a moment before the sight settled in. "Jesus Christ, you just slaughtered that thing in seconds?!"

"My Shadow form allows for soul attacks," Sasrir reminded me. "It takes more out of me than you might think, but as long as it's not much stronger than an Awakened Demon then I should be able to Curse it through its' own shadow. Still, attaching myself for too long can cause Corruption: if I can't beat it in twenty seconds, I need to detach and escape. Thankfully, most things here lack the ability to actually harm me in that state."

"Still, that's bloody amazing" I praised, and Sasrir allowed himself a faint smile . 

I looked down at my hand and summoned the Memory I had just gotten, the staple weapon for any Sleeper in the Forgotten Shore-the Azure Blade. Since Sasrir was counted as an Echo by the Spell, his kills were also mine. "Fetch the Soul Core and start cutting the better bits of meat. I want to check this baby out."

Sasrir scoffed at my selfish command but did as bid, forming a dagger from shadow and beginning to cut huis way through the dead monster's body for the glimmer of light. Paying him no mind, I admired the beautiful blade and the milky starlight contained within, reading the description gleefully. My first true Memory, earned by myself!...Well, by Sasrir technically, but he was just another me, right?

[Memory Name: Azure Blade.]

[Memory Rank: Awakened.]

[Tier: I]

[Memory Type: Weapon.]

[Memory Description: [On this forgotten shore, only steel remembers.]

{Enchantments: Wishing Star, Milky Blade]

[Wishing Star Description: Lights up when pointed in the direction or in the vicinity of your targeted wish.]

[Milky Blade Description: Blade grows stronger when light is shun upon it, including starlight and moonlight.]

"Did we get the abilities in the novel?" I called out to Sasrir, reading the Runes in contemplation.

"Not that I recall, though maybe Guilty three just...forgot to put them in. I don't think there was ever a Memory or Echo that lacked Enchantments entirely, right?"

"Well, maybe Sunny just received a dud," I shrugged. "Anyways, this sword isn't too bad at all. It can serve as a glowstick so long as my desires are strong enough, and the light from the Crucifix can improve it. Should make things easier for fighting and exploring. Now let's see if we can get another for you to use. While you shadow weapons deal soul damage, you're still just a Dormant, so this will still be useful."

"Alright-ah, found it!" Sasrir pulled his arm back, wrenching out a fistful of gore and blood, with a small and glimmering crystal held in his fist. A Soul Core. 

We weren't like Sunny, for whom Soul Cores were useless. We filled up our Soul Core the same as standard Awakened, and so we needed to scavenge from the dead after each fight. 

"Alright, let's get moving," I said, sheathing the Azure Blade at my hip. Its cool weight was a comforting promise of power. "We're burning daylight, and this place is only going to get more active."

Sasrir nodded, wiping his shadow-made dagger clean on the Scavenger's carapace before it dissolved back into darkness. He tossed the glistening Soul Core to me. I caught it, feeling a faint pulse of warmth as my Demon-Tier Soul Core absorbed its energy. The progress was infinitesimal, a single drop in a vast ocean, but it was progress nonetheless.

"We need a plan beyond 'wander and hope we don't get eaten,'" I muttered, my survivor instincts kicking in. I looked around the twisting coral corridors. "The Wishing Star enchantment. Let's test it."

I focused, pouring my intent into the Azure Blade. My wish wasn't complex: Safety. A defensible location. I held the blade out flat on my palm. I didn't bother asking it to lead me straight to the Dark City, such a thing would be beyond a mere Awakened Memory of the First Tier, but settled for something smaller.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, the milky starlight within the blade seemed to swirl, coalescing towards one edge of the blade. It glowed slightly brighter, and the blade itself tilted ever so slightly, pointing down a specific fork in the path to our left.

"It works," I said, a grin spreading across my face. This changed everything. We weren't just blindly lost. We had a compass.

"A compass that points toward vague concepts," Sasrir pointed out, ever the pragmatist. "'Safety' could mean a dead-end cave with one entrance. It could also mean the lair of a much larger predator that has eaten all the competition."

"Hey, optimism, remember?" I chided, though I knew he was right. The enchantment was a tool, not a guarantee. "We'll be careful. You scout ahead in shadow form, I'll follow with the compass. We move fast, we stay quiet, and we avoid anything bigger than us."

It was a simple plan, but in the Crimson Labyrinth, simple was best. With a shared glance, we fell into our roles. Sasrir melted into the shadows on the wall, becoming a silent sentinel moving ahead. I followed, my grip tight on the Azure Blade, its soft glow pointing the way. We were no longer just survivors; we were hunters, however inexperienced. And we had a direction now. I could use the Enchantment in bursts to slowly make my way out of the Labyrinth, towards the Bright Castle...where I would have to put up with a savage tyrant wielding a Transcendant Echo and a hundred madmen for loyalists. Yes, I sighed, Gunlaug was going to be a problem. Not that I had any intention to challenge the man, and in fact, planned to work my way up as one of his lieutenants. Still, casual brutality was something I deemed irredeemable, and how much exactly I could ignore, even I didn't know. 

"Worry not about Bright Castle, Adam, just focus on the present" Sasrir spoke from within my mind. "And keep your heart focused: the Enchantment is flickering."

I corrected it as he instructed, paying attention only to my immediate surroundings and the present. After what felt like thirty turns but could have been only ten, we came to a mound that spiralled upwards. I didn't recognise it as anything, but it seemed to be a place where we could rest. It was high enough to allow us to spot any approaching monsters, but not nearly high enough to escape the Dark Sea, so we couldn't stay here during the night. "Seems your sword can only point to immediate solutions" Sasrir remarked, manifesting beside me. I nodded thoughtfully, glad to have figured it out so soon. "Well then, let's rest for a bit for your to get back your energy, then start hunting any stragglers or loners."

The small hill we’d claimed as a temporary lookout was a jagged tooth of crimson coral, offering a sweeping, sobering view of the Labyrinth’s scale. From up here, the moving shadows below were clearly Scavengers—some in skittish packs, others solitary hunters. We watched their patterns for a long moment, two predators sizing up the competition.

"That one," I pointed with the Azure Blade toward a lone figure shuffling slower than the rest, its movements slightly off-kilter. "Looks like it's lagging. Easier pickings."

"Isolation is its own weakness," Sasrir agreed, his voice a low hum in the settling quiet. "The blade will guide us."

I focused my intent on that specific Scavenger, and the milky light within the Azure Blade swirled and brightened along one edge, pulling insistently toward a specific canyon mouth. "Got a lock. Let's move."

The hunt was methodical, almost clinical. The Wishing Star enchantment led us on a direct path, bypassing dead ends we would have wasted precious minutes on. We cornered the lone Scavenger in a narrow fissure. It barely had time to turn before Sasrir flowed into its shadow. The familiar, gruesome process unfolded: the choked shriek, the seep of black blood, the sudden collapse.

[You have defeated a Dormant Beast: Carapace Scavenger.]

No Memory this time, just another faintly pulsing Soul Core. Sasrir retrieved it while I kept watch. "Three down. We're getting the hang of this."

"Efficiency is key," he remarked, tossing the core to me. "Their numbers are their greatest weapon. Removing them while on their own is the optimal strategy."

We repeated the process twice more, falling into a seamless rhythm. It was on the return climb up our lookout hill that I saw it. The sun was beginning its slow descent, casting long, distorted shadows across the labyrinth. But one shadow didn't move. It was too regular, too geometric.

"Sasrir. Look." I pointed toward a high plateau in the middle distance. A stark, dark silhouette stood against the fading light. A statue.

"Sanctuary," I breathed out, the word itself a wish. I held up the Azure Blade, telling it my new desire, and it dutifully pointed the way. My Essence was quite drained by this point, so I turned it on and off intermittently to avoid too much expenditure.  

"We can make it before full dark if we move with purpose."

The journey was a focused trek, not a panicked run. We used the Azure Blade's guidance to choose the fastest route, scrambling over obstacles with the practiced ease our months of training had granted us. We reached the base of the plateau as the sun dipped low, painting the sky in shades of deep orange and violet. The statue loomed above, its back to us, a monolithic guardian of dark, featureless stone. I still couldn't see which Hero it belonged to.

"Sunset's in less than an hour. Up we go."

The climb was steep but manageable. The stone was rough and offered plenty of handholds. About halfway up, my boot slipped on a loose fragment, sending a shower of tiny pebbles skittering down the face. I grunted, re-establishing my grip.

"This is taking too long," Sasrir stated flatly. Before I could reply, his form dissolved into a patch of living darkness that flowed onto the statue's surface. I felt a strange solidity wherever I placed my hands and feet next; the stone itself seemed to grip me, offering perfect purchase. It was like climbing a ladder instead of a cliff face.

"Show-off," I muttered, but I didn't complain. With his help, I scaled the remaining distance quickly and hauled myself over the edge onto the flat top of the plateau just as the last sliver of sun vanished. True darkness fell, deep and absolute, but we were safe atop our stone sentinel. I looked down across the Coral Labyrinth is in all its' horrific glory, and watched the last rays of the sun drip away, hiding behind the horizon. Then came the black waves, the churning darkness born from the death of an unholy angel. "Wonder if such a thing will be born if Nephis ever dies" I spoke idly, watching the process of the land being swallowed once again.  

"I believe it would be closer to a Godgrave situation, where blazing heat will randomly descend from the heavens" remarked Sasrir. 

"Huh. Wonder if that Nephilim served the Goddess of Stormy Seas then."

"I believe the Dark Sea is more "Dark" than "Sea" denied Sasrir. "The water is merely how it presents itself: the true nature of this thing should align with the True Darkness spilt from the Unholy Titan during the Age of Heroes. Maybe the Shadow God or Nether have a connection with it, with both of them controlling the Underworld."

Before long, the water had reached only twenty meters below us, swishing against the rock with choppy waves. Sasrir enveloped us both in a covering of shadows, and we lay down to sleep. "First real night in the Dream Realm," I muttered.

"With monster meat for breakfast in the morning" Sasrir added. 

Despite everything, I felt like maybe things wouldn't be so bad. …Hell, the feeling that had been bugging me hours earlier was finally gone as well.

Chapter Text

Ever the late sleeper, I awoke to the smell of smoke and cooking meat. It was a bizarre, almost surreal sensation in the middle of the Crimson Labyrinth.

Blinking the sleep from my eyes, I saw Sasrir crouched over a small, contained fire he’d made from some dried, brittle coral. Skewers of tough-looking Scavenger meat were propped over the flames, sizzling faintly. "Morning," I grunted, pushing myself up. The shadow-cloth clothes were still perfectly comfortable. "Since when do you cook?"

"Since I acquired taste buds and a functional digestive system," he replied, not looking up from his work. "Just because I don't need to eat to survive doesn't mean I want to miss out on the... local cuisine." He turned one of the skewers. "It's a new flavour. I'm curious."

I couldn't help but laugh. "You're a weirdo, you know that?"

The scene was almost peaceful. The sky above was a soft, hazy orange, the constant whisper of the Labyrinth a low background hum. "Kind of tranquil, in a messed-up way."

"Don't get used to it," he said, but there was no real edge to it. He handed me a skewer. The meat was charred on the outside and surprisingly palatable, if a bit gamey. We ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes, just watching the strange sun climb in the sky. Once I’d finished, curiosity got the better of me. I walked over to the edge of the plateau where the statue's head should have been.

It ended in a jagged, brutal stump of stone—decapitated. A post-mortem act of vengeance from the Crimson Terror, according to the lore. "Alright, let's see which unlucky hero we're bunking with," I mused, leaning carefully over the edge to peer down the statue's broad back, looking for any identifying marks on the stonework below. "My money is on the Knight," Sasrir called from behind me, still tending his fire. "Sunny found him first, and we seem to be carving the path he would walk. Statistically, it's probable." "Maybe," I said, squinting. "Or it could be the Slayer. That would be fitting, considering my company."

I leaned a little further, trying to make out the details carved into the stone shoulders. "Come on, give me a clue... a symbol, a weapon hilt, anything..."

It couldn't be the Knight of course, because that would mean we were near the Ashen Barrow, with the Soul Devourer Tree, but that thing couldn't be seen for miles. It wasn't the one where the First Lord vanished to either, that was near the Hollow Mountains. So...the Priestess? The Builder? Which Statue was the one wandering around the Crater again? Damn, my brain was too fuzzy to remember.

"Loose robes, a dagger held close to the chest, the other hand on its hip. The robes look like they're made of flowing shadow," I summarized for Sasrir. "No other markings."

Sasrir studied the statue for a moment. "The hidden blade and the posture suggest a single purpose. This is the Slayer."

"An assassin," I said, the name making our lofty perch feel a little colder. "Charming."

"His choice of statue implies a high vantage point was a professional necessity," Sasrir noted. "It remains a sound tactical decision for us."

"Right. Tactics." I walked back to the fire. "Let's just hope our luck is better than his targets'."

I had just sat down when Sasrir looked at me and asked, "Well? Are you going to go after the Moonlight Shard?"

The thought made me freeze-of course! Each Statue wasn't just decoration, it marked the location of an Oath Key: and the terrible monster that guarded it. "Merely a Fallen one" Sasrir reminded me. "With the Unshadowed Crucifix and myself, we might just be able to kill it. The Slayer was guarded by living weapons, yes? At least that's the impression I got from Quiet Dancer. The Sun Pathway is excellent at dispelling poltergeists and wayward souls."

"You actually want to hunt down a Shard Lord?" I asked with a short laugh, tempted and half terrified at the thought. "Alright, so you can kill an Awakened monster easily enough, but you yourself said your Shadow Curse won't work on anything above that Rank."

"I can still slow and delay it," he said, "plus all my weapons deal soul damage, even if small. It might be driven into a shock-induced coma long before we actually kill it."

"I don't know..." I hesitated, teetering between greed, desire and mortal fear. 

"Adam" 

Sasrir looked me dead in the eyes and spoke, his voice calm as a lake. "We must take risks to survive. What reason would Gunlaug have to take us in otherwise, to allow us to climb his ranks until we can influence the stage that is this land? When Nephis arrives, do you intend to be just another corpse she steps across on her self-righteous crusade against the Spell? Who do you hope will save you?" He leaned in closer now.

"No one will. Only me, and only yourself."

I stilled, my mind wheeling as it tried to deny his words. 'I don't need to take this risk!' I argued.

'Yes you do. Gunlaug won't place any importance on you otherwise. How else will you impress him, show the Unshadowed Crucifix? That tyrant won't allow the existence of another Transcendent Memory, not after his own made him king. We can't use that, what other cards do we have to play?'

I couldn't tell whether the thoughts were mine or bleeding over my Sasrir. My body instinctively rejected facing such a terrible foe, since the novel had hammered it into me time and time again the discrepancies between Ranks. 'Yet, that didn't stop them, did it?'

...yes. If Sunless, that mangy dog with Stockholm Syndrome, and Nephis the IQ Burner could break G3's own system, why couldn't I? I didn't even belong here for Christ's sake, I was practically...an error.

...No, I was a Visionary. 

......Or was it the Hanged Man?

..........No, none of that. I was....

Or... or....

ę̸̢̢̨͕̤̮͈͖̱͖̦̻͈̭̬̫̟̮̖͓̠͚̻̩͎̻͈̰̬͖̪̮̰͉̀͛́̍͌̋̍̈́̋́r̵̨̡̢̭̣͓̙̣̬͎͎̫̳̘͉͖̯̻̻̟͍̮̺̟̒̇̉̾̂̂̑̾͆̍̆̉̓̀͒̔̌̄̎̈́͑̏̑̓̈́̓̊̀͑̇̀̈́̋͝͝ͅȓ̸̢̛̖͙̱͑̔́̐̃̀̍̓̀͂̔͌͒̒̐͑̈́̌̏̆̑͘͘͝͝o̷̯̩̝̳̞̙͍̜̺͈̖̱̳̩̿̎̓̊̃͌͜ͅr̶̛̛̬̣̠̙͈̳̦̯̥̐́̔̇̈̌̀̌͊͒́͌̏͗̒̐͛̓̇͛̐̽̍̓̂̊͊͆̇̍̒͐̉͐̀̈͊̔̐͌̏͘̕ ̸̢̡̛̺͖̣̯̪̤̰͇͎̱̫̲̺̲̗͚͚̪͉͖͙͚̳̣̭͔̗̣̤̳̭͔̻̮̬̠̙͖̲̖̻͙̓̃̈́̅̓͌̈́̒͐̈͗͂͌͒͆̑̓̆͐͋͊͛̊́̓̅̇̊̽̄͌̂̎͛͂̒̋̀̎̔̚̕̕͘̚̚͠͝ȩ̵̫̖̺͎͙̝̝̹̦̗͎̣͕̘̘̝̣̼͇̒̂͜͜ŗ̶̡̡̨̛̛͍͈͉̻͙͓̣̲̥͎̙̬̳̯̫̜͕͉̱̫̙͎̅̇̓͌̾̌͗̉̾̉̌̎͋̄̓̿̃̄̎̍̇̎̒̾͑͛̓̂͆̽͛̊̕̕̕͝͝͝͝͝ͅr̴̡̢̢̬͙̣̲͓̻̱͖͇͔̲͍͔̩̤̮̫̪̯͉͚̉͛̐̑̃̒̅͛͛̃͊͑̔̏͒̊͗̌̅̌̆̋̍̒͛̍̎̊̆̊̓̑̓̊̽͋͂̋̐̐́͛͊́͜͠ơ̷̡̩̪̘̱̼̯̥̘͓̺͙͚͈͓̲̥̩̘͖̮̩͎̱̣͂̅̅͆̃͑̆͊̚͜r̵̨̧̨̛̜͎̫͖̬̲̠̗̖͓̱͙̪̣̬̱̘̜̻̟̳̱̗̺̪̗͓̝̣̜̝͉̘̦̪͕͖̗̮̗͉̖̓͆͐̃̀̓͒̈́̊̐̎̚͜͝ͅ ̶̧̡̠͍̺̲̟̭̺̳̲̱̞̥͔̦̭͔̥͍͉̭̣̣̪͎̙̦͓͙̜͚̫͎͔͈̼͖̟̼͍̱͍͚͉͚̓̎͑͆͂̈́̊͛̅̂̽̎͊̈́̈́̏̑́͑͌͗̆͊̀̉̄̄̋̐͘̚͜͝͝ͅe̵̜͇̞̜̱̳̗̻͓̟̼̜̜͚͔͑͆̎̔̍̍̈͜͠ͅr̷̨͖̘̖̭̤̯̱̪̥̩͖̺̞̭̺̠̲̤̙̹͓̜̗͕͙͔̈́̓̃̓̋̉́̋̑̊̂͑̈̈́̈͊͒̏͒̇̇̓͛̒͜͝ͅr̶̨̨̛̮̫̺͕͉̥̀̒͒̓͗̊̈́͂̿̋́̄͋͛̿́͗͒͑̾̈̓͌́̄͐̒̒̔́̈́̓̑̅͒̋̋͆̈͌͠͝͝͝ơ̵̛͈̹͌͊̃̀̍͋́̆̆̀̈̓̏͒̈́̔̒̉͂̒̓́̂̄͐̎͛̀͛̚̕r̶͙͚̹̭͓͈̬̦͕̥̤̱͖̰̻̲̜̫͉͚̦̭͗̂̾̄̓̑͆̌̆̂͌̋̔̿͌͑̌̓̕͝͠

"ADAM!"

The voice was followed my a painful slap, jolting me out of...whatever the hell that was. I looked up in shock, nursing my reddened face, to see Sasrir kneeling only afoot away, concern etched into his face. "What the hell happened to you? You started zoning out, then your eyes rolled up and you began convulsing on the spot. Nothing I did except for the slap could get you out of it."

"I...I don't know" I confessed, rubbing the bridge between my eyebrows. "My thoughts just became static, and everything faded away. But..." I took a deep breath. "I've decided you're right, we have to bend the board to our will if we want to survive here. We're outsiders, and the rules of this land have no purchase on us. This," I held up the Unshadowed Crucifix, "is the best proof, as are our very bodies."

Sasrir stared in silence for several seconds before nodding and moving back. In that case, let's start hunting while we still have the majority of the day behind us. Grab onto me, I'll bring you down." With that, he transformed into a shadow layer again, and I found purchase in his folds. That sounded wrong, actually...

We swiftly moved down the Statue and began to circle around its' feet, looking for anything that stood out. Sunny described it as a glade full of broken swords and weapons, so it shouldn't be too hard to find. Lo and behold, after close to two hours and spreading out our search radius with the Azure Blade's help, we spotted it.

The glade was less a meadow and more a grim, metallic graveyard. Dozens—maybe a hundred—rusted and broken steel weapons were thrust into the hard ground like headstones, a silent testament to countless Legionnaires that had presumably followed the Slayer and his Cohort to bring back their sun. And at the very back was the guardian we had to slay.

It wasn't a creature in any normal sense. It looked like someone had taken an entire weapons factory and smelted it into a single, horrifying mass of jagged steel, twisted edges, and broken blades. It vaguely resembled a monstrous, golem version of the Iron Throne, hunched over and utterly still. It seemed inactive, dormant.

But Sasrir's face was set in a deep scowl, his body tense. The constant, maddening whisper of the Labyrinth was clearly worse here, concentrated around this... thing.

"A Fallen Monster. Use the Crucifix," he ordered, his voice tight. "Buff us. Now."

No arguing. I summoned the Unshadowed Crucifix, its weight solid and comforting in my hands. Focusing my will, I channelled not its destructive power, but its supportive light. A soft, golden radiance spilled from the relic, washing over both of us. I felt a surge of strength and clarity, my senses sharpening. Next to me, Sasrir let out a sharp breath as the holy energy likely dampened the worst of the psychic static screaming in his head.

The Unshadowed Crucifix, I had found out, was a pure Sequence 4 Characteristics-meaning, it lacked all previous Sequences. It could still use the powers, of course, but if I had Envisioned Aucusces as a Saint then he would be stronger than this Memory. Still, it would do the job here.

Sequence 9-Bard: A melodious and clear tune vibrated from the Crucifix, causing the glade to rustle as the various blades, and the monster at the back, began to stir. 

Sequence 8-Light Supplicant: A golden glow settled on both me and Sasrir as the blessing took effect, instantly easing his expression as the negative influences were blocked out, and his shadow seemed to grow darker

Sequence 7-Solar High Priest: As the majority of the blades in the glade had now unearthed themselves, and the steel golem in the back had turned its' face-a real nightmare, that-I quickly recited a quick prayer, directly boosting Holy damage and defence.

As a result of stacking three buffs from progressive Sequences, the spikes on the Crucifix suddenly surged and impaled my right hand. A wave of dizziness overpowered the pain as it felt like all the blood in my arm was drained away instantly. Funnily enough, the process was quite similar to the Radiance: while still present, the Essence drain was actually less than the blood cost.

Sasrir waved his hands and a scimitar of shadows appeared in one, while a jambiya knife, but with a more elongated blade, appeared in the other.

He rolled his shoulders, a predator readying itself. "Good. Let's see what a blessed shadow can do to a pile of scrap."

The fight erupted not with a roar, but with the shriek of grinding metal. The glade, a moment ago a silent graveyard, became a whirlwind of rust and sharpened steel. The unearthed blades shot toward us, faster than any Dormant Beast had a right to be.

Sasrir met the charge not with a stand, but with a fluid, disorienting dance. One second he was a solid form, a scimitar of solidified shadow parrying a frenzied spear; the next, he was a smear of darkness on the ground, flowing under a sweeping axe only to solidify behind it and drive his merlin dagger into its hilt. He was a phantom, blurring the line between man and shadow.

He used the environment masterfully. A wall of pure darkness erupted from the base of a coral pillar, blocking a volley of daggers. Spikes of shadow shot up from the ground, impaling a charging sword and holding it writhing like a pinned insect. He yanked a massive, shadowy maul from the air and brought it down on a mace, not cutting it, but bludgeoning it into the dirt with sheer, concussive force.

But it was a defensive battle. The shadows were a shield, a distraction, a tool for control—not for destruction. His weapons, for all their soul-damaging properties, simply couldn’t find purchase on the animated metal. They scraped and sparked, knocking the weapons back, stunning them for a moment, but failing to break them. The sentient blades were too fast, too numerous, and unnervingly coordinated. They came from all sides, harrying him, testing his defenses.

A flicker of hesitation, a shadow form that solidified a fraction of a second too slow, and a rusted short sword darted in, slicing a deep gash across his shoulder. Another blade, a wickedly hooked falchion, caught his leg as he phased, drawing a line of dark blood. Within minutes, his dark clothes were torn and slick with it. He was bleeding from a dozen shallow cuts, his movements growing just a hair less precise.

Yet, he was learning. He couldn't break them with force, so he targeted their movement. He wrapped tendrils of darkness around a flail, tangling its chain and sending it crashing into a broadsword. He solidified shadow in the joints of a suit of animated armor, locking it in place long enough for him to deliver a powerful, two-handed shadow-smash to its helmet. The helmet crumpled, and the armor clattered to the ground, inert.

His first real kill was a desperate one. A rapier, blindingly fast, had slipped past his defenses and was aiming for his throat. Sasrir didn't block it. Instead, he embraced it, his form dissolving into shadow and flowing *up* the blade itself, against its momentum. The shadow engulfed the hilt and the space around it. There was a sound like a high-pitched, shattering crystal, and the rapier exploded into a thousand motes of silvery light that winked out of existence.

He’d found the key. He couldn't break their bodies; he had to overwhelm their animating spirit directly with his own shadowy essence.

He repeated the tactic twice more, at great cost. To consume a cleaver, he had to take a brutal kick from a nearby animated greave that cracked a rib. To devour a war scythe, he left himself open to a slash across his back that would have severed the spine of a mortal man. Each victory was announced by that same sound of shattering glass and a shower of dying light. Four blades destroyed.

But the cost was too high. He was slowing, his breaths coming in ragged gasps I could feel echo in my own chest. And we had run out of time. Despite the buffs I had stacked, he was surrounded on all sides by foes and his shadows lacked the physical presence to shatter them properly.

The ground began to tremble. The great hunched form at the back of the glade, the monstrous amalgamation of a thousand weapons, was moving. It uncurled with a deafening screech of tortured metal, its faceless head—a mess of fused daggers and axe-heads—turning toward us. It took a step, then another, each footfall shaking the earth. It wasn't fast, but its progress was inevitable, a glacier of sharpened death. The remaining lesser weapons scattered, pulling back to give their master room.

Sasrir stumbled back to my side, his shadow-scimitar flickering weakly. Blood dripped from his fingertips onto the crimson coral. He looked from the approaching golem to me, his expression grim.

"The small ones were just the welcome party," he panted, his mental voice strained. "The real fight is here. The Crucifix... now would be a good time for that 'demigod-level' wrath you mentioned."

"Ah fuck," I muttered to myself before applying the Horror Immunity buff at the cost of another few drops of blood. I would need to eat an entire Scavenger's worth of meat to recover from the blood loss.

"Fire of Light!"

At once, the dull and mottled bronze cross peeled back a layer, not quite revealing the golden sun I knew lay beneath, but still teasing at its' existence. A curtain of warmth and radiance shot out, covering the entire glade. Sasrir had had the sense to flee the second I spoke, coming up behind me and out of the sun's wrath. It was the smart thing to do, based on what happened next.

The Light Flames burst into existence out of nowhere, covering the closest monsters before they could react. A terrible shriek shook the glade, making my eardrums vibrate, but it died down after several seconds. Where a dozen sentient blades had been, there were now only bubbling, silvery pools of strange, liquefied steel, hissing as they cooled on the crimson coral. The Spell’s notifications tried to flash at the edge of my vision—kills, a Memory—but I violently shoved the awareness aside. There was no time.

Because the Golem was still standing.

The holy fire had hit it, yes. The outer layer of its monstrous body glowed a fierce, angry orange, the steel turning semi-liquid for a moment before cooling back into a new, jagged shape. It hadn't melted; it had been tempered. Angered. And with a speed that was utterly horrifying for its size, it had lurched forward to deliver a killing blow that would have pulverized me.

Sasrir, now standing slightly ahead of me with two more shadowy tentacles lashing out from his form to whip against the Golem’s leg in a futile but furious retaliation, had been the only thing between me and a messy end. "The light!" he shouted, his voice strained. "It's disrupted!"

He was right. The brilliant, protective field generated by the Unshadowed Crucifix had flickered and died with my near-death experience and the break in my concentration. And into that newly darkened gap, the remaining sentient weapons flowed like a tide of rust and sharpened death. They had been held at bay by the holy radiance, but now they saw their opening.

The Golem took another earth-shaking step forward, its faceless head of fused blades seeming to fixate on me. The lesser weapons—a storm of animated daggers, swords, and axes—swarmed around its legs, a protective, buzzing escort for their master. We were no longer just fighting a monster; we were fighting the entire glade.

Sasrir backpedaled, his form flickering between solid and shadow as he desperately tried to re-establish a defensive perimeter. A wall of darkness shot up, blocking a cluster of throwing knives. A spike impaled a leaping short sword. But for every one he stopped, two more took its place. He was being overwhelmed, his movements growing more frantic, the cuts on his arms and torso bleeding freely.

Sasrir lacked the regeneration of a Rose Bishop: my Sun Pathway abilities could accelerate his recovery, but only after we had escaped danger. Cursing yet again, I forced my entire hand down of the Crucifix and dragged it across. The blood flowed out easier than it should, drawn by the illuminating light slowly becoming more prominent. 

Sequence 6-Notary: "God says light and shadow are more effective, God says metal and steel are weakened!"

The effect, in fairness to the blood price paid, was immediate. The Steel Golem instantly froze and stuttered, as the already somewhat-cooled metal suddenly cracked and warped, its' heat capacity lowered to be less than the remaining temperature inflicted upon it. At the same time, the speed of the flying weapons dimmed to a noticeable degree, and Sasrir managed to strangle the life out of six straight after he realised this. Seeing that more than half the blades remained though, I bit my lip until it bled (the blood flew off my chin and into the Crucifix) I made up my mind and shouted towards Sasrir.

"You focus on the Golem, I'll handle the minions!"

He paused and look at me in concern, my skin already paler than healthy and posture wavering. Still, he trusted me and didn't argue, instead crafting a magnificent war hammer from shadow and swinging it directly at the Shard Lord's kneecap. The metal didn't shatter, though it did warp with an ominous groan, causing the monster to tilt. It seemed it still hadn't recovered and adjusted to its newfound state of weakness. 

When Sasrir turned his back on them, the sentient blades hadn't focused on him, but rather turned their attention to me. I didn't know whether it was their intelligence singling me out as a bigger threat, or maybe they didn't care about the Steel Golem. It was only a Monster, not a Tyrant, so these weren't it's actual Minions, just fellow residents. Regardless, I was now faced with around seventy bloodthirsty blades.

Churning my Soul Cores, I made the risky decision of going all in-I poured two whole Cores worth of Essence into the Unshadowed Crucifix and then, with one fluid motion, stabbed it through my hand. It punctured the flesh and bone with ease, sticking out the other side, and the pin nearly made me collapse on the spot. Still, the effect had been achieved. For while my Memory preferred blood as the price to operate, it still accepted Essence on the side. With me pouring so much into it, the Memory went into overdrive and I managed to offset the blood price enough to avoid hypovolemic shock. 

"Sequence 5-Priest of Light: Purification Halo!"

For comparison between this and the Sequence 7 ability, this blast of light was like turning on your phone after just waking up, to having a flashbang stabbed into your eyeballs and the pin being pulled. An ocean of light spread out around me in 360-degrees, sweeping up everything around me. Sasrir and the Steel Golem weren't spared either, as he let out a scream through gritted teeth as the light scorched his back. He had positioned himself well though, and it was the Golem who caught the most of it, his entire back steaming and flowing off his like water. 

The Monster still seemed to be alive though, and its' blows were no les dangerous. Due to its' inorganic nature, perhaps only destroying the soul core directly would kill it. But I had no such problems back on my side.

All seventy of the living weapons had been hit by the light, and sixty five had been erased from the face of the earth. They were only Awakened Beasts after all, and the Priest of Light was definitely at the higher end of Ascended. The Spell poured down praises on me, and I actually got four more rewards ,but the price had finally caught up to me and I could no longer stand. Worse still, five of the Nightmare Creatures were still alive, albeit half-melted. I gave one last look over to Sasrir, seeing him drive his scimitar right through where the heart would be on a normal Human, before my legs gave out ad my vision followed.

Chapter Text

Consciousness came to me suddenly and without warning. One second there was nothing—a blank, empty void—and the next I was just… here.

Wherever here was.

My head was full of static. Trying to remember how I got here was like trying to grab smoke. I had a flash of… a glade? Rusted metal? A searing light? The memory dissolved before it could fully form, leaving behind only a vague sense of panic and exhaustion. I couldn’t hold onto a thought for more than a few seconds before it just… slipped away.

I was standing. That was the first solid fact. My feet were planted on a surface, but it wasn’t ground. It was… a sea. But not water. It was this impossible, shifting expanse of turquoise and lime green, like someone had mixed tropical ocean colors with neon acid. It was semi-translucent; I could see down into its depths, where the colors swirled into darker, unknowable shades. A distant, hazy bottom was visible, miles below.

And running through it were rivers of pure, liquid light. They coiled and twisted like rainbows on spilt oil, shimmering with every color I could name and a few I couldn’t. They moved with a purpose, these rivers, flowing in currents I could feel more than see.

I looked up. There was no sun, no sky like I knew it. It was like looking up at a ceiling made of a veiled, gossamer cloth, with those same impossible rainbow hues filtering through from some immense light source above. It was beautiful and utterly terrifying.

Mist pooled at the edges of this… place, thick and obscuring, hiding whatever lay beyond. But it thinned the closer it got to me, like I was my own little pocket of clarity. Within about ten feet of me, the mist just vanished, as if repelled. And in that fog, at the very limits of my vision, I saw things. Shapes. Vague, humanoid shades that flickered into existence for a heartbeat—a figure reaching out, a face contorted in a silent scream, a running form—only to dissolve back into the colourful haze a second later.

“What the…” I mumbled, my voice sounding small and lost. The words didn’t echo. They just got swallowed by the immense, silent weirdness of it all.

I was standing on a psychedelic ocean under a veiled rainbow sky, surrounded by ghostly glimpses in the mist, and I couldn’t remember how I got here. This was, without a doubt, a new kind of problem. 

Right. Okay. Standing here gawking wasn't getting me anywhere. I picked a direction at random—toward where one of those rainbow rivers seemed brightest—and started walking.

Or, I tried to.

My legs moved, my feet pressed down on the strangely firm, colorful surface, but nothing changed. The shimmering river stayed exactly the same distance away. I stopped, turned, and marched decisively in the opposite direction, toward a particularly thick bank of mist. Same thing. I could have been on a treadmill. The fog maintained its perfect, ten-foot bubble around me. The haunting figures within it flickered and danced, never getting clearer, never getting further away.

A jolt of pure, cold panic shot through me. I was trapped. Stuck in this silent, insane postcard.

But the panic didn't get a chance to take root. It was there, a lightning bolt of fear in my chest, and then… it was just gone. Snuffed out. Not like I calmed myself down. It was like an invisible hand just reached in and flipped a switch off.

The shock of that was even worse than the panic. What the hell was that? I tried to summon up the fear again, to feel anything about this terrifying situation, but it was useless. A blank, emotionless wall had slammed down inside my head. I couldn’t feel anything. Not frustration, not curiosity, not dread. I was just… a camera recording this bizarre scenery, with all the emotional depth of a rock.

A weird, nagging itch of familiarity tickled the back of my mind. This feeling… this cold, absolute neutrality… I knew this. I’d felt it before. But the thought was like a fish in murky water—I could see a vague shape, but the moment I tried to focus, to grab it, it vanished into the haze clouding my memories.

So I just stood there. On a sea of impossible colors. Under a veiled, rainbow sky. In a bubble of perfect, enforced calm. Waiting for something, anything, to happen. Waiting...

-

-

-

-

How much time passed, I didn't know, but suddenly the sea began to experience change. It could have been just a few minutes or maybe years, I couldn't tell the passage of time, and my memory was one blank tape of film. I knew I was a person, the noun of it, but my name and identity were lost. A general sense of oppression had begun to take root in me at some point, pressing down through the mental block in my head, causing a cold and empty feeling to begin swallowing me up inside. I would have panicked, had I been allowed to, but I was stuck in detached observation mode. So, the changes in the sea were welcome, even if it meant getting devoured by some colossal fish thing. 

It wasn't that, though. Instead, what I came across was...an island. 

A stark, pure white against the vibrant turquoise and lime. An island. It was a bleak, minimalist thing, utterly barren, composed of a substance that looked like a cross between fine white sand and polished marble. The only features were a circle of slender, upright stones—like fingers pointing at the veiled rainbow sky—and a series of intricate, swirling symbols etched into the ground between them.

This was definitely the source. The hum was a physical pressure here, a steady pulse that resonated in my bones and pushed the water away from it.

My own emotions were still locked down tight, a distant curiosity buried under layers of unnatural calm. There was no fear, only a blank, procedural need to investigate. I stepped onto the white shore. It was cool and smooth underfoot. I moved toward the central pattern, my mind a quiet, empty room.

I knelt, my shadow falling across the nearest etching. The symbols were impossibly complex, geometries that hurt to look at for too long.

The moment my fingertips, more on instinct than intent, brushed against the cool white stone, the symbols ignited.

A soft, white light bloomed from the grooves, not a violent explosion but a rapid, overwhelming unfurling. It wasn't just light; it was a torrent. A flood of… everything. Emotions that weren't mine—a sudden, sharp grief, a burst of irrational joy, a deep-seated envy—slammed into me. They were followed by fragmented thoughts, whispers of conversations I’d never had, and memories of places I’d never seen. A marketplace smelling of spices, the feel of cold rain on a stone balcony, the weight of a child’s hand in mine.

It was too much, too fast. It was like someone was hammering another's life into my skull. My knees gave way and I slumped to the ground, a low groan escaping my lips. My head throbbed, scrambling itself while trying to accommodate the knowledge, the sheer pressure of foreign consciousness pouring in. My vision swam, the white island and the colourful sea tilting crazily.

No. Too much. Off. Turn it OFF!

It was a primal, desperate thought, a plea from the core of whatever was left that was me. And somewhere deep inside, a switch flipped. A mechanism I never knew I possessed engaged with a soft, mental click. It was like the slamming of a bulkhead, sealing off the flood and allowing me to force the rest of the noise out my my ears. It took a few seconds longer for me to stand though.

I lay there for a long moment, panting, my forehead pressed against the cool, white stone. My mind felt raw, scoured. Most of the deluge was already gone, my brain having automatically junked the vast majority of the data to protect itself. But a few pieces, like the most vivid fragments of a dream upon waking, remained for a few seconds.

A name: Elara. 
A place: The Dark City
And underpinning it all, a profound, aching sense of longing. A deep, homesick yearning for a warmth and a safety that felt galaxies away.

The clarity was fleeting. The cold, analytical part of my mind, the part that had just saved me, identified these fragments as non-essential. Emotional artifacts. With a quiet, internal sigh that wasn't really my own, they were scrubbed away, deleted from my short-term memory like corrupt files. The echo of the feeling vanished, leaving behind only the sterile knowledge that something deeply personal had just been erased.

Then the island shuddered.

A network of hairline cracks appeared in the white marble-sand. With a low, grinding rumble, the entire landmass began to sink into the colourful sea, dissolving at the edges. The monoliths tilted precariously.

Adrenaline, real and sharp and mine, finally broke through the numbness. I scrambled backward on my hands and knees, then launched myself into a stumbling run. I threw myself off the dissolving edge just as the last of the standing stones was swallowed without a splash.

I landed on the resilient surface of the sea, the impact jarring my knees. I turned back, heart hammering against my ribs—a feeling that was terrifying and exhilarating in its familiarity.

The island was gone. The sea was perfectly calm, showing no sign it had ever existed. I was alone again, adrift in the silence. But now the silence felt different. I had been violated, scraped empty, and then saved by a part of myself I didn't understand. And the only traces of what I’d found were the ghost of a feeling I could no longer remember, and the cold, empty space where it had been.

Yet something had been triggered, or maybe my time in solitary was up: the veil covering the sky parted, and light fell through, descending onto me. Closing my eyes at the brightness, I felt the world shift and fall away around me-or rather, felt myself ascend higher. Before I was completely pulled through the veil however, I forced my eyes opened and took in the full realm I had been trapped in. The sea seemed to stretch forever, and I saw what was possibly other islands dotted around it, some pure and white, others blackened and overflowing polluted filth into the sea. On the very horizon of my vision, I noticed what seemed like a large gathering of white islands, but then...I saw it.

It wasn't part of the sky. It was suspended in the space between, a silent observer. A grotesque, greyish-white object that looked like a monstrous fusion of a human brain and a galaxy, all convoluted folds and swirling, nebulous matter. And floating directly in front of this thing was a single, massive pair of eyes.

They were golden, with vertical reptilian pupils. And they were utterly, terrifyingly emotionless. They weren't looking at the sea or the islands. They were simply observing. Taking in all of it with a cold, dispassionate gaze. This thing was the overseer of this entire insane dimension.

A cold that had nothing to do with temperature shot down my spine. My ascent halted. I just hung there in the air, staring.

And as I stared, the eyes moved.

The vertical pupils contracted minutely, and then the entire orbs rotated with a slow, deliberate precision until they were fixed directly on me.

The moment its gaze locked with mine, it felt like a thunderclap inside my skull. A psychic storm of pure force ripped through my soul and my mind. It wasn't an attack of rage or malice. It was worse. It was the indifferent, overwhelming pressure of an ocean depth applied directly to my consciousness. The pain was instant and indescribable—a white-hot agony of being known, being measured, and being found infinitesimally small by something vast and ancient.

I would have screamed, but I had no air. I would have convulsed, but I was frozen in its gaze.

And as the pain threatened to shatter me completely, information was forced into my mind. Not a flood this time, but a single, sharp, precise injection. It wasn't a memory or an emotion. It was a cold, hard fact, a fundamental law of this place etched directly onto my being:

Psychiatrist

Main Ingredients:
The fruit of the Tree of Elders and a pair of eyes from a Mirror Dragon.

Supplementary Ingredients:
50 millilitres of Mirror Dragon's Blood, 15 grams of Tree of Elders Bark Powder, 10 drops of Foxglove essential oil and 9 strands of infant hair.

Hypnotist

The words weren't in any language; they were the concept itself, branded into me.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the pressure vanished. The eyes turned away, dismissing me, returning to their passive observation of the sea below. The connection was severed.

The release was so abrupt I almost fell out of the air. The ghost of the pain echoed in every nerve ending, a deep, psychic ache. But beneath the pain was that new, unshakable knowledge. I knew where I was. And I knew I had been seen.

I didn't wait for another look. I turned my face upward and willed myself to ascend faster, desperate to put as much distance as possible between me and those golden, judging eyes. I had to get out. Now. And when I was embraced by the veiled sky of colour, I couldn't deny the deep-seated relief I felt.

*****************************************************************

Consciousness returned slowly, like a fog reluctantly lifting. The first thing I was aware of was a dull, all-over ache, a deep-seated exhaustion that felt like it had sunk into my bones. I was lying on something hard and cool—the familiar stone of the Slayer’s statue.

The second thing I saw was Sasrir.

He was sitting a few feet away, his back against the stone, idly spinning a dagger between his fingers. It wasn't one of his shadow weapons. This was a real, physical blade, beautifully forged from a dark, starlit ore that seemed to drink the faint light. He noticed my eyes were open the moment I managed to pry them apart.

He didn't startle. He just stopped spinning the stiletto, set it down carefully, and moved over to a small, dimly burning fire pit he’d built. He speared a piece of cooked meat with a sharpened stick and came to kneel beside me.

"Don't try to move," he said, his voice low and even. "Just eat."

His arm slid behind my shoulders, helping me lean forward just enough. Every movement felt jarring and wrong, like my spine was disconnected from the rest of my body. I was a puppet with cut strings. He brought the meat to my lips, and I took a small, tentative bite. It was gamey and tough, but warm. I managed a few more bites in silence, my jaw feeling stiff and unfamiliar.

The question must have been blazing in my eyes because he didn't wait for me to try and form words.

"The Golem is dead," he stated, matter-of-factly. "I managed to shatter its core after your light show weakened it. We got the Shard."

He gestured with his chin toward the beautiful stiletto on the ground. "That's it. The Midnight Shard. A useful tool."

He fed me another piece of meat before continuing. "You, however, pushed too far. The blood loss and Essence drain sent you into systemic shock. You've been out for four days."

*Four days.* The thought tried to form, but it was slippery and hard to hold onto.

"I've been nursing you," he continued, his tone clinical, as if reading a report. "Feeding you protein-rich meat from the Scavengers we hunted. I also shattered every Soul Core we had and channelled the raw Essence directly into you to accelerate your body's natural healing processes."

He paused, and a flicker of something that wasn't quite annoyance crossed his features. "I also... bled myself on the Crucifix. It seems our connection allows my vitality to supplement yours when channelled through the Memory. It was... inefficient, but it appears to have worked."

He looked at me, his dark eyes assessing. "Your body is recovering. Your mind, however, seems to have taken its own trip. You've been... elsewhere. Muttering things that made no sense. About a sea of colors and... eyes."

He fed me the last piece of meat. "The important thing is you are back. Now, rest. We are safe for now. The hard part is over."

I did so silently like a good patient, feeling the genuine concern and worry Sasrir had for me despite his calm and collected exterior, along with...guilt?

'Ah yes, of course he would guilty. He was the one who talked me into going after the Midnight Shard after all, he probably blames himself.'

I gave him a weak, reassuring smile and closed my eyes. The thing I had experienced while I slept was surreal to even think about, but I wasn't so muddleheaded anymore to not know what had just transpired. I had, somehow, entered the Sea of Collective Subconsciousness, also known as the Mind World for short, where every sapient  being is represented as an Island and the collective deeper ego of Mankind was the Sea. The Sky was a Spiritual veil that led to the Spirit World, and the entrance/exit for those not of the Visionary Pathway. Then that would make the bizarre godlike thing at the end...

Biting my lip at the thought, Sasrir put his hand on my shoulder. "What did you see in there?" he asked directly, blunt but worried. 

"I think...I just had a face-to-face with the Visionary Uniqueness" I confessed, causing Sasrir's eyebrows to furrow and then widen. "You talked with it?!"

"No, no, God no," I waved my hands to explain myself. "I was stuck in the Mind World while you were nursing me, and my ego kept being bled from me by the Sea. After walking for some time, I found a Mind Island and I guess I tapped into it, because I felt like I experienced the entire life of someone. Shortly after, I was called back here, but on my way out I saw a creature that was a mix between a brain and a galaxy, with the golden Dragon eyes of a Hypnotist. After locking gazes with it...I think I got the Potion formulae for Psychiatrist and Hypnotist from it."

"...Well, that does align with what happens in the story with Klein" Sasrir admitted, but he was still watching me suspiciously. "Anything else?"

I took a shallow breath, focusing on relaying the facts, keeping the lingering, indescribable terror of that gaze locked away. “It gave me the formulae. For the Visionary Pathway. Sequence 7, Psychologist. And Sequence 6, Hypnotist.”

I recited them flatly, the knowledge surfacing in my mind with cold clarity:

Sasrir absorbed the list, his expression unreadable. “Interesting. A direct download from the Uniqueness. Efficient.” He then voiced the obvious, practical problem. “But these ingredients… ‘Tree of Elders’? ‘Mirror Dragon’? Do such things even exist here? This isn’t the world these potions were designed for.”

As he said it, the information in my head… shifted.

It was instantaneous. The names of the flora and fauna didn’t change, but their definitions did. The knowledge rewrote itself, adapting to the new reality.

“They do,” I said, the new understanding settling in. “But not like that. Not anymore.” I focused, reading the updated entries now burned into my memory. “The ‘Tree of Elders’ is a Gloomwood Mangler, a ‘Mirror Dragon’ is a Reflective Wyrm,  the ‘Illusory Chime Tree’ is a Whispering Madness Bloom, while the ‘Mind Dragon’ is a Thought-Devourer."

I looked at Sasrir, a plan forming from the cold, logical part of my mind that was now running the show. “The formulae have adapted. The core components are the same, but the sources are creatures of the Dream Realm. And we have the perfect tool to harvest them without the risk of spiritual contamination.”

I tapped my chest where the Unshadowed Crucifix was stored within my Soul Sea. “We use this. Its purifying light can incinerate any lingering corruption or madness from the materials as we extract them. We can make these potions. We can advance.”

A slight frown creased my brow. “There’s just one problem. I know the names it gave me… but I don’t actually recognize the Nightmare Creatures they correspond to. I know what we need to hunt, but I have no idea where to find them.” I let out a short, frustrated breath. “We’re going to need a bestiary. We’ll have to wait until we get back to the Waking World and get our hands on a proper Academy monster encyclopaedia.”

"Alright then...now onto the most important part: why the hell is the Visionary Uniqueness inside your soul?"

I was quiet for a long moment, the pieces finally clicking into a terrifying, coherent whole. The answer had been in front of us all along, written plainly in our status screens. We just hadn't understood what it truly meant.

"I think... I am the Visionary Uniqueness," I said, the words feeling both absurd and utterly true. "Not just a holder of it. I am it. Brought to life, given a human form and a human consciousness. Just like the actual Adam from the story was."

I met his dark eyes, seeing my own realization reflected back at me. "Our powers were sealed, reduced down to the level of a starting Sequence. My Flaw, 'Justice'... it's not a flaw. It's the Godhood of the Uniqueness itself, the cold, absolute logic of a divine function, forcing its way to the surface and grappling with my... my original self. My humanity."

The theory unfolded with a dreadful clarity. "If I'm right, then the more Sequences I climb, the more I awaken the true nature sleeping inside me. The influence of the Uniqueness will only deepen. The Flaw will become less of a 'flaw' and more of... my default state. My humanity will be the thing that's flawed, the inconvenient noise in the system."

It explained everything. The vague, constant discomfort I'd felt since arriving in the Dream Realm—it wasn't just fear. It was the Uniqueness stirring. Spirituality, Essence, was more potent here, and it was revitalizing the divine spark at my core, making it stronger, more restless.

"And that blackout... right before we fought the Golem," I continued, a cold knot forming in my stomach. "When I called myself an 'error'. That was it. That was the Visionary Uniqueness,  briefly conflicting with the mortal self-identification layered on top of it. A tiny, fleeting identity crisis between what I was made to be and what I was born as."

I let out a slow breath. "The Curator didn't just give me a Pathway, Sasrir. He didn't just give me a cheat code. He made me a God in a mortal coil. And our Attributes... they've been telling us the whole time." I could almost see the runes in my mind's eye: [Uniqueness of Visionary] and [Flame of Divinity]. How could mere Sleepers possess such things, before we had even properly become Dormants, before passing the First Nightmare?

"We're not just Sleepers with fancy Aspects. We are Uniqueness' made flesh. We are Gods, dressed up to be human."

Sasrir went perfectly still. The usual sardonic glint in his eyes vanished, replaced by a deep, unsettling stillness. The revelation didn't just surprise him; it seemed to fundamentally shake his understanding of his own existence. He was silent for a long time, the only sound the faint crackle of the dying fire.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, stripped of its usual dry mockery, and carried a weight I'd never heard before. It was dark, serious, and edged with a sliver of something that sounded dangerously like fear.

"Then what about me?"

The question hung in the air, heavy and cold. He wasn't looking at me anymore; he was staring at his own hands, as if seeing them for the first time.

"Will I also be eroded by—" he cut himself off, correcting the phrasing with a grimace, "—or rather, reclaim the Divinity of the Hanged Man Pathway?"

He finally looked up, and his expression was stark. "That doesn't spell well for me, Adam. The Hanged Man's divinity isn't... cold logic. It's not a function. It's sacrifice. It's enduring endless pain. It's madness borne from ultimate suffering. It's the meaning of suffering in life."

He stood up, pacing a short, tense line on the stone. "You speak of your 'Justice' becoming your default state. What becomes my default state? Eternal agony? The compulsion to bear the sins of the world? A bottomless hunger for sacrifice?" He stopped, turning his dark gaze back on me. "The Hanged Man's Uniqueness isn't something you 'awaken' into. It's something you are consumed by."

The truth of it hit us both. My path was one of becoming an increasingly distant, calculating god. His was one of becoming a vessel for a specific, terrifying kind of torment.

"You don't know that!" I cut across him. "The True Creator is an irregularity, and "He" was more or less stable during the Solomon Era anyways, only descending further into depravity after losing all "His" anchors and followers. If I can fully come into my Psychiatrist powers, keeping you stable should be completely doable. Don't give up just yet, we still have possibilities left to us. And most of all, we're still Human now. We can still feel, still make ugly decisions, still love and care and protect what we know. Don't be so willing to throw that all away just yet."

Sasrir looked at me in deep silence before sighing and sitting on the ground. "Alright. Alright."

After Sasrir conceded, I suddenly didn't know what to say next, an awkward bubble forming around  us. After several seconds of no one saying a word, Sasrir spoke up first. "So...now knowing what awaits us at the end of the road, and our true natures in this world, do you think you can manifest the Uniqueness physically? Like a King of Angels or True Deity?"

I frowned and didn't answer straight away, instead focusing on my hand. After nearly thirty seconds, a grey mist began to seep from my skin, and a brain-like object suddenly appeared in my hand. The Uniqueness, or a decorative representation of it, at least. Seeing that Sasrir didn't collapse screaming and then explode, I figured it lacked any Godhood or knowledge wand was just a sculpture. "Kind of ugly looking" Sasrir commented in front of me, and I agreed with him in my head. The next second, the Uniqueness exploded into a puff of mist and when it cleared, the brain had become a feather quill.

"Now that's more like it!" I laughed at the iconic sight, twirling the quill daintily between my fingers. Sasrir looked on in amusement before closing his eyes and also putting on a concentrated look. Under my expectant gaze, his shadow suddenly wiggled and grew bigger, before for more heads popped out, two on each side of the original. "The five-headed shadow, the Uniqueness of the Hanged Man Pathway from the novel" Sasrir acknowledged with a glint of recognition. 

"Not going to change it?"

"Into what? I think this fits quite well for now, maybe I'll do so later."

The cheery talk washed away the remnant stress and anxiety built up, and I decided to voice something I had been thinking of for a while. "Hey, actually, I have something to say. I mentioned I fond a Mind Island while randomly exploring, right? Well, I also saw a very large gathering of them near the end too."

Sasrir narrowed his eyes. "You think..."

"I think that was the Dark City."

Chapter Text

Another dawn bled its hazy light over the Crimson Labyrinth, but my mind was still trapped in the revelations of the night before. The idea wouldn't let me go. I was the Visionary Uniqueness brought to life. It was the only thing that made a twisted kind of sense.

I’d asked the Curator for the Lord of the Mysteries power system. I’d wanted the pathways, the sequences, the whole deal. But he hadn’t just grafted the system onto this world’s rules. He’d gone to the source. In that cosmology, the Uniqueness was the pathway. It was the concentrated authority, the divine spark. The potions and characteristics were just lesser applications. Safety measures for mortals to handle a fraction of that power without going instantly, catastrophically insane.

Madness is the origin of everything, insanity is the only constant. The thought was cold and clear in my mind. The powers themselves were a byproduct of touching that madness. Since we weren’t advancing by drinking potions made from other beings, we had to be drawing power directly from the source. We were sipping from the divine tap, and our Aspects were the safety doors that kept us from being obliterated. It explained our bizarre Flaws that felt more like fundamental natures than drawbacks,

My musings were interrupted by a slight wince from Sasrir. He was tending the fire, but he was moving gingerly, using his left hand to adjust the skewer of meat. His right hand was wrapped in a neat bandage made from torn strips of shadow-cloth.

The sight of it was a punch to the gut. “Your hand,” I said, my voice rough with guilt.

He glanced down at it as if he’d forgotten it was there. “A minor inconvenience. It seems the full extent of my Flaw is… precise.”

The memory of the fight with the Golem rushed back—the desperate, brutal move of stabbing the Unshadowed Crucifix through my own palm to fuel the Purification Halo.

“It happened when I did that,” I stated, the pieces clicking together. “When I impaled my hand.”

He gave a short, confirming nod. “A direct, intentional physical wound. The Flaw interpreted it as ‘harm’ and manifested a sympathetic injury. The pain was… quite sharp.”

But then another realization dawned on me, a crucial distinction. “But the bloodletting before that… when I was just feeding it drops of blood for the sequences… you didn’t feel that, did you?”

“No,” he confirmed, his dark eyes meeting mine. We were both thinking the same thing, dissecting the mechanics of our cursed bond with cold, analytical precision. “The Flaw, ‘Scapegoat’, appears to have a specific trigger. It doesn't share states of being, like simple blood loss or Essence depletion. It only activates upon the detection of direct, inflicted harm. A cut. A burn. A psychic shock. The Memory consumed the blood directly from your body; the process itself couldn't be replicated onto me. The impalement, however, was a clear and distinct act of damage.”

It was a small, grim piece of knowledge, but in a place like this, it was everything. We were learning the intricacies of our Flaws. Mine was the slow erosion of my humanity by divinity, which had yet to really make itself apparent. His was to physically share my suffering though, to never forget the pain of mortality. We were a perfect, messed-up set.

“I’m sorry,” I said, the words feeling inadequate.

“Don’t be,” he replied, his tone matter-of-fact. He flexed his bandaged hand slightly. “It was a necessary action. And now we understand the mechanism better. Knowledge is survival. Next time, if you need to mutilate yourself for power, perhaps give a warning. I’d prefer to brace myself.”

There was no malice in it, just a dry, form of self-deprecation that was somehow worse than anger. He’d taken a part of my injury without complaint because that was his function. His purpose. The Hanged Man’s nature, already asserting itself.

I looked from his bandaged hand to the bleak, coral-strewn horizon. We had discussed some more about the Forgotten Shore, and the lone Mind Island I had discovered. It was either a resident that had gone too far and gotten lost, or another new Sleeper like us, summoned here in the solstice. Either way, we had no way of finding them, and whether we would meet while on the way to the City comes down to pure luck. Speaking of, we had also started talking about our plans for the City, and the Lord of Bright Castle. 

"The Dark City," I began, breaking the quiet. "It will be the start for us to change everything."

Sasrir nodded, his bandaged hand resting on his knee. "The Lord of the Dead is a Fallen Tyrant. A serious step up from a Fallen Monster."

"But we have the ultimate counter," I countered, a flicker of grim excitement cutting through my lingering fatigue. "The Unshadowed Crucifix. Its purifying light is kryptonite to anything death-attribute or shadow-based. That Golem was tough, but it was just metal. The Lord of the Dead is a walking manifestation of the very thing my Memory is designed to annihilate. We have a much greater shot than anyone else ever could."

"The objective, then, is not just survival," Sasrir stated, his voice taking on that cold, analytical tone that meant he was planning. "It is acquisition. We kill the Lord of the Dead and claim its Shard. But that is only one."

"Right," I said, the plan unfolding like a map in my mind. "The Builder's Statue. The Sunlight Shard is there. We get that, too. I can't remember exactly how Seishan gets her hands on it in the story, but if we're there first, it doesn't matter. We take it."

"Three out of the seven Shards," Sasrir calculated. "Almost a majority. Even if we cannot secure the Zenith Shard from Effie, that would be enough. We would control the narrative when Nephis, Sunless, and the Witch arrive. We wouldn't just be survivors; we would be the reigning power on the Forgotten Shore."

The thought was intoxicating. We wouldn't be reacting to their story. They would be stepping into ours.

"Escaping without Nephis is off the table anyways," I said, and Sasrir gave a curt nod of agreement. "We cannot best the Crimson Terror without her. But that doesn't mean we just let her trample through and burn everything down around us. We control the board. We decide the terms."

"And there are… personal benefits," I added, a harder edge entering my voice. "The Lord of the Dead drops the key to access Weaver's Mask. A Divine Memory for obfuscation and fate-weaving. Essential for anyone who knows how this story is supposed to go and wants to change it. And the Black Knight in the Dark City Cathedral… its Ruby Core. If we can kill it, that core could be the key to evolving Saint. We wouldn't just be powerful ourselves; we'd have the tools to build something lasting."

Sasrir was silent for a moment, processing the sheer scale of the ambition. It was audacious. Reckless. But for the first time, it felt possible. We weren't just two Sleepers trying to scrape by. We were something else, something more, with the tools and the knowledge to carve our own destiny out of this nightmare.

"A ambitious plan," he finally conceded, a slow, sharp smile touching his lips. It wasn't a nice smile. It was the smile of a predator looking at a full grazing field. "But the logic is sound. Control the Shards, control the Shore. Let the destined heroes play their part on the stage we set."

He looked out towards the labyrinth, towards where we now knew the Dark City waited. "Then we should not keep the Lord of the Dead waiting."

****************************************

Once again, we used the Azure Blade to point the way. Now that we knew the rough direction of the Dark City, al I had to do was ask the Blade to find the best route south-west repeatedly, slowly making our way through the Crimson Labyrinth. It was after using the Enchantment [Wishing Star] for possibly the tenth time that I was suddenly struck by an oddity. "Wait a minute, weren't Memories supposed to be intuitive, and not have their abilities plainly spelt out?" Beside me, Sasrir also stiffened.

"You're right..." he said slowly. "Sunny could only do so because of Blood Weave changing his eyes, attuning them towards Fate. But you could do it from the start, with the Unshadowed Crucifix."

I pondered over the reason before asking tentatively, "Could it be our high level of Divinity allowed us to directly connect with Fate? Or is it a separate gift from the Curator?"

"Who knows?" he shrugged. "I doubt we'll find out anything soon, maybe if you devour Blood Weave you will be able to spot any differences. Anyways, that would explain why we never learned the capabilities of the Azure Blade in the novel...if they haven't been altered as well."

"Nah, the Curator wouldn't make such a grassroot change. Sunny was probably just unlucky."

The journey was a brutal, two-day slog through a gauntlet of the Labyrinth's horrors. The Wishing Star didn't guide us along safe paths; it pointed the most direct route, which often meant straight through the territories of things that very much wanted to eat us.

The first day, we were set upon by a pack of Scavenger Demons—larger, smarter variants of the ones we'd faced before. These weren't just mindless rushers. They used pack tactics, with smaller, faster ones harrying us while a larger, brutish alpha tried to flank. Their claws seemed to drip with a numbing venom that made parrying a risky proposition. Sasrir's shadow-whips and my light-infused slashes from the Azure Blade eventually whittled them down, but it was a messy, exhausting fight that left us both with new scratches and a deep respect for the local wildlife.

That afternoon, we had to skirt a vast, stagnant sinkhole where giant, pulsating leeches—Dormant Beasts the Spell identified as 'Soul Sappers' after Sasrir sniped one of them—lurked just beneath a film of oily water. They didn't attack directly, but they emitted a low-frequency psychic drone that made concentration difficult and threatened to lure us closer to the water's edge. We moved quickly and quietly, Sasrir's own mental defences straining against the invasive hum, his powers as a Listener working against him here.

As dusk approached on the first day, the shrieking started. A flock of winged demons—'Gloom Shrikes'—spotted us from above. They were Awakened Demons, each the size of a large dog, with leathery wings and beaks that could punch through coral. Their true weapon, however, was their cry: a piercing shriek that disoriented prey and left them vulnerable to diving attacks. We were forced to take cover under a coral overhang, fending them off with bursts of light from the Crucifix and precise strikes from Sasrir's shadow arrows until they lost interest.

We camped that night in a high, narrow crevice, cold and in utter darkness. Lighting a fire was out of the question; the glow would be a dinner bell for every abomination within miles, especially the unspeakable things we could sometimes hear moving in the deeper, flooded parts of the chasm below us. We took turns on watch, listening to the distant, haunting sounds of the nightmare realm. We each got enough rest anyways, though our nerves were a bit spent by the sunrise.

The second day brought an even greater challenge. The path led us through a narrow canyon, and blocking it was a nightmare made flesh: a 'Coral Crawler' I would find out later-a Fallen Devil. It was a monstrous, multi-segmented thing with sixteen barbed legs that allowed it to skitter across the vertical walls with horrifying speed. Its main body was a bloated sac, and from its front, a proboscis-like mouth lined with rotating teeth extended and retracted, dripping a corrosive slime that sizzled on the coral floor.

A direct fight would have been suicide. Its armour was too thick, and its mobility was insane. Instead, we used the environment. While I used the Azure Blade to draw its attention, Sasrir flowed into the shadows on the canyon wall, manifesting spikes of solidified darkness to impale its legs and slow it down. It wasn't about killing it; it was about creating an opening. We scrambled and dodged, finally squeezing past it through a crack it was too large to follow, leaving the enraged creature shrieking behind us.

We fought and avoided a dozen other minor threats, but by the end of the second day, we had nothing to show for it but fatigue and depleted Essence. No new Memories, no helpful Echoes. Just the grim satisfaction of survival and the unwavering pull of the Azure Blade, leading us ever deeper into the heart of the nightmare. The Dark City was close. We could feel it—it had to be. 

I had managed to use my four new Memories I had gotten previously as well, from the Living Weapons. They were a short sword, spear, hammer and katana, all with the same Enchantments and descriptions, making them not particularly useful to me, but Sasrir seemed to enjoy using them, perhaps to preserve Essence and not having to make his own weapons every time.

[Memory Name: Steel Memento]

[Memory Rank: Awakened.]

[Tier: I]

[Memory Type: Weapon.]

[Memory Description: The Slayer preferred to work alone, but she had many admirers regardless. They followed her path in life, just as they did in death.]

{Enchantments: Slaying Blow]

[Slaying Blow Description: The closer a target is to death, the stronger the blows from this weapon.]

It wasn't too bad an Enchantment, and it meant your attacks would only grow stronger over time during a battle, but for someone with limited DPS like me, it just wasn't very valuable. Sasrir was a much better fighter, so I gave three of them to him and kept the short sword for myself since it was the lightest and simplest to use.

***********************************************

The third day dawned not with light, but with the sound of scraping bone and guttural snarls. We’d been cornered in a dead-end canyon by a horde of nightmares I mentally dubbed ‘Bone-Breakers’. They were massive, hairless things, all bunched muscle packed onto a canine frame, but with no eyes—just smooth, scarred skin where eyes should be. Their heads were crowned with a single, hammer-like plate of thick, bony armor, and they used it like a battering ram, charging in a blind, terrifying frenzy.

“Left flank!” Sasrir’s voice was a sharp crack over the noise. He was a blur of shadow, his form dissolving to avoid a charge that would have pulverized stone, then solidifying to drive a shadowy dagger into a creature’s leg. It screeched, more in fury than pain, the dagger doing little more than annoying it.

“They’re too armored!” I shouted, parrying a lunge with the Azure Blade. The impact jarred my arm to the shoulder. The Wishing Star enchantment had turned of, instead the blade glowed with the power of the Milky Blade, boosted by the Artificial Sun in the sky directly above us. We had tried to escape, but this horde was blocking the only exit. “We can’t fight them all!”

“Then we don’t!” Sasrir snarled. He pointed a shadowy tendril upward. “The wall! It’s our only way!”

The canyon wall was jagged and steep, but climbable. It was also swarming with more of the shark-dogs, scrambling up with a terrifying, blind agility. Despite their heavy and brutish appearance, they climbed with the skill and agility of mountain goats.

It was a desperate, vertical race. We climbed faster than I thought possible, fueled by pure adrenaline. Claws scraped just inches below our boots. The creatures would launch themselves from the wall, their hammer-heads smashing into the coral where our hands had been a second before, sending shards of razor-sharp debris raining down. I had cut myslf easily a dozen times, and each sting was accompanied by a muted grunt from Sasrir as he suffered my mistakes as well.

“Go, go, go!” I yelled, hauling myself over a ledge. Sasrir flowed over the edge a second later, and we didn’t stop. We ran, the enraged snarls and the sound of crumbling coral echoing behind us. We didn’t stop until the sounds faded into the general hum of the Labyrinth, our lungs burning, our muscles screaming.

I collapsed against a coral pillar, sucking in great, ragged gulps of air. Sasrir leaned beside me, his form flickering slightly with the effort of maintaining solidity.

“By the Spell…” I panted, wiping sweat and grime from my face. “What the hell were those things?”

“Evolution’s mistake,” Sasrir rasped, his voice strained. “Perfectly designed to be a pain in the ass.”

I let out a weak, breathless laugh. It was either that or scream. We were battered, drained, and from what I could see, no closer to our goal.

It was then that Sasrir, ever the vigilant one, straightened up. He was facing in the opposite direction to me, back to back and so he saw what I didn't.

“Adam,” he said, his voice low and steady. “Look.”

I pushed myself up, following his gaze. And there it was.

Rising above the jagged, crimson skyline of the labyrinth was a colossal statue. It was a woman, her features worn smooth by time and the elements, but her posture was one of serene grace, one hand extended as if in blessing or offering. Even from this distance, the sheer scale of it was humbling.

“The Saintess,” I breathed, the words barely a whisper.

Sasrir nodded, a sharp, satisfied gesture. “The novels described her statue standing as a silent guardian near the city’s edge. We’re here.”

The two-day nightmare of a journey, the constant fights, the close calls—it all condensed into that single moment. The Wishing Star had delivered. The tension of the frantic flight melted away, replaced by a new, colder kind of pressure. The weight of what came next.

“The Dark City,” I said, the name feeling heavy on my tongue.

“And more importantly,” Sasrir added, his dark eyes fixed on the distant, serene stone face, “what sleeps beneath it. The Lord of the Dead is close. I can almost taste the decay on the air.”

We stood there for a long moment, side-by-side, catching our breath not just from the run, but from the sheer magnitude of our arrival. We’d made it.

The colossal statue of the Saintess loomed in the distance, a silent sentinel marking the edge of our goal. The adrenaline from our narrow escape was fading, leaving behind the grim reality of our next move.

"We're here," I stated, the words hanging in the air between us. "The question is, what now? Do we try to enter the City first, or do we go straight for the Lord of the Dead and the Starlight Shard?"

I looked at Sasrir. In most things, especially tactical decisions, I deferred to him. Despite the Visionary Pathway being orientated around the mind, Sasrir's tougher and more gritty mental view helped him think further ahead based on risk and reward. And this time, he desired the Starlight Shard.

"Arriving early doesn't get you an award, and our foundation is still lacking a bit. You need some proper armour to survive here, and we don't have the dexterity to make anything proper from the carcasses of the monsters we've slain. So getting that Cloak will be the priority for now. Rest up a bit, then we'll go kill ourselves a Fallen Tyrant."

Chapter Text

Despite his bold words, Sasrir planned out our assault with extreme meticulousness. In the novel, the Bone Tyrant was slain thanks to Nephis' overwhelming fire power, which we can substitute for the Unshadowed Crucifix, but it still required Kido's poison grinding it down for several weeks first. Sasrir's shadow weapons would be useless against the bone projectiles, and they lacked the strength to break them, but distracting and stiffening it for several seconds at a time should be possible. Since I would probably have to tap into the Priest of Light powers, or maybe even Unshadowed, I spent four whole days hunting for the meatiest Nightmare Creatures I could find and gorging myself, attempting to get my body as ready as possible for the strain to come.

The Soul Cores were also a welcome bonus, though the effect was still so miniscule. It took Nephis three, four months to become a Demon so it would probably take me just as long to become a Devil. On the other hand, Sasrir felt like he was about a fifth of the way to becoming a Monster, so that was good. 

My body felt like one giant bruise. Every muscle ached from the frantic climb and flight from the Bone-Breakers. My mind kept circling back to the fight with the Golem, to the terrifying dizziness of sudden, massive blood loss. I needed a reservoir. Every bite was a potential drop of lifeblood I could afford to lose later. I made a small pile of the cooked meat, wrapping it in more strips of shadow-cloth Sasrir provided—a grim emergency ration for after the fight.

Then, I turned my attention to the Unshadowed Crucifix. I held it in my hands, feeling its familiar, comforting weight. But this time, I was trying to understand the valve. I focused on the slightest trickle of intent, causing a single drop of blood to well up through broken skin and being absorbed. The spikes remained dormant. I pushed a little more, visualising the Sequence 8 prayer. A faint, almost imperceptible warmth spread from the Memory into my hands, but no spike pierced my skin. It was a minuscule draw, a sip of Essence, not the lifeblood price.

It was frustrating, imprecise work. The Memory wasn't a machine with a calibrated gauge; it was a relic that responded to need and sacrifice. I couldn't find a perfect "off" switch or a precise "drip" setting. The best I could manage was a slightly better sense of the threshold—the exact moment a request shifted from a simple Essence expenditure to requiring a blood price. It was like learning the tension point on a hair trigger. It wasn't much, but in a life-or-death moment, that sliver of forewarning might be the difference between survival and bleeding out.

My progress on the Pathway front was non-existent. I’d cycle through the Spectator and Telepathist abilities, feeling the enhanced clarity, but the feeling of progression, of "digesting" the potion, was utterly absent. The Acting Method required interaction, understanding, and manipulation of others. Out here, there was no one to read, no one to listen to, no social currents to navigate. Sasrir didn't count. His mind was a mirror of my own, a closed loop. Trying to practice telepathy on him was like trying to hear an echo of my own shout. It told me nothing new. True progress, I realized, was locked behind the gates of the Dark City and its inhabitants.

Sasrir’s predicament was equally perplexing. The Hanged Man Pathway’s Sequence 7 was 'Shadow Ascetic'. We’d assumed the 'Ascetic' part was the key. But what did that mean out here? He was already living in utter deprivation. He slept on stone, ate only for fuel, and was surrounded by constant danger and discomfort. He endured the psychic whispers of the Labyrinth without complaint. How much more ascetic could one get? Did it require meditation? A vow of silence? The 'Shadow' part of the title was straightforward—he could manipulate darkness with ease. It was the philosophical core of 'Ascetic' that eluded us. Was it merely endurance? Or was it the embrace of suffering itself? The latter thought was deeply unsettling.

He spent the day in quiet contemplation, his form often dissolving into a pool of shadow that seemed to drink the light around it. Occasionally, he’d solidify, a new, slightly more refined shadow weapon appearing in his hand for a moment before dissipating. He was honing his control, but the fundamental understanding of his role remained just out of reach.

As the artificial sun began to dip, casting long, distorted shadows across the coral, a sense of grim finality settled over us. We were as ready as we could be. We were rested, fed, and had a slightly better grasp of our tools. The gaps in our understanding—how to advance, the true nature of our Flaws, the exact price of power—were still gaping chasms, but we couldn't wait for answers to fall into our laps.

Sasrir looked at me, his expression unreadable in the fading light. "Ready to face the Lord of the Dead?."

I nodded, sheathing the Azure Blade. The Wishing Star enchantment wasn't needed now. We knew where we were going. "Then let's not keep it waiting."

We shouldered our meagre supplies—my packet of meat, the Crucifix, our Memories—and began the final approach. The Saintess' statue grew larger with every step, marking the spot where we might die, or become one step closer to seizing our own Fates. One of the good things about this fight, we had reasoned, was that we could deal some damage and then retreat. The Bone Tyrant could heal itself by drawing upon the millions of skeletons in the catacombs, but the Unshadowed Crucifix would burn away its' soul, not just the body. If we could deal a certain amount of damage, retreat, and then come back after recovering, we could wear it down and then finish it off. 

We weren't looking for a single confrontation like we had against the Steel Golem: that had been cocky foolishness. Take the easy route, the simplest route, the least painful route...Without an audience, we didn't need to be heroes or put on a show. 

*****************************************

The journey to the Saintess's statue took longer than we’d hoped. About six hours. The most direct path was completely blocked by a massive coral shelf that had given up and collapsed. Typical. We had to backtrack and find a way around, which felt like adding insult to injury.

We did run into a trio of Scavenger Demons lurking in a side tunnel. They never stood a chance. Before they even knew we were there, Sasrir just… melted into the shadows around them. One second they were sniffing the air, the next, three shadowy blades erupted from their own darkness, and they just dropped. Clean, quiet, and efficient. No fuss.

"Show-off," I muttered as he reformed beside me, not even breathing hard.

"Efficiency is its own reward," he replied, his mental voice dry. "And it saves us the trouble of listening to them screech."

By the time we finally reached the base of the Saintess's statue, the artificial sun was already halfway down the sky. The long, deep shadows of the labyrinth were stretching out, making everything look even more sinister.

"Well, this is cheery," I said, looking up at the colossal stone woman. Her artisticaly carved body was now cloaked in darkness, making her look mournful instead of peaceful. "Feels like we're being watched."

"We are," Sasrir said matter-of-factly. "By everything. But the shadows are deep here. That works in our favour."

We were both still feeling pretty full of energy—well, as full as you can feel in this place. No point waiting. The deeper shadows would only help Sasrir.

"Alright, hitch a ride," I said.

He didn't need to be told twice. His form dissolved into a living darkness that flowed up my legs and torso, settling across my back and shoulders like a second skin. It was a seriously weird feeling. Cold, but not unpleasant. Just… there.

"Listener powers are active," his voice hummed directly in my skull. "The whispers here are… old. Full of grief. Be ready."

Finding a way in was the next headache. The base of the statue was a mess of collapsed coral, jagged rock, and what looked like sealed-up entrances. We spent a good twenty minutes circling it, poking at cracks, trying to find an opening that wasn't just a death trap.

"Could really go for a 'X Marks the Spot' right about now," I grumbled, shoving a loose piece of rubble with my boot.

"Perhaps ask your sword for a map next time," Sasrir quipped back. "It seems amenable to requests."

Finally, we found a narrow crack, half-hidden behind a fallen coral column. It was just wide enough to squeeze through if I turned sideways. Not exactly inviting.

"Ladies first," I said.

"After you," he shot back. "I'm already comfortable."

Grinning despite myself, I squeezed into the crack. It opened up after a few meters into a proper tunnel. And that's when the atmosphere changed completely.

We were in the catacombs.

The air was instantly different. Thick. Stale. It smelled of dry dust and something else… something ancient and cold. Like old bones left in a desert sun. Which, I guess, was exactly what it was.

The walls weren't coral anymore. They were rough-hewn stone, dark and damp. And the ground… the ground wasn't solid. It was a carpet of bones. Ankle-deep in some places. They crunched and shifted with every step I took. It was impossible to be quiet. The sound echoed faintly in the cramped space.

Skulls stared out from the walls, set into niches. Femurs and ribs were piled like firewood. It was endless.

"Cosy," I whispered, my voice sounding way too loud. "They really went for a theme, didn't they?"

"A theme of death," Sasrir observed, his tone clinically interested. "It is… thorough, if nothing else. This should be where the original denizens buried all the sacrifices for the a Crimson Sun, yes? They must have slaughtered tens of thousand over the years."

We walked. The tunnels wound and twisted, branching off into darkness. There were no markers, no signs. Just more bones, more dust, more silence. It felt like we’d been walking for an eternity, going in circles. My boots kicked up little clouds of bone dust with every step. The only light came from the faint glow of the Azure Blade, which made the shadows dance in a seriously creepy way.

After about ten minutes of this, my patience was gone. This was ridiculous.

"I'm done," I announced, stopping in the middle of a junction where four identical tunnels met. "We could be down here for days. We're wasting time."

"The essence cost is not insignificant," Sasrir warned, knowing exactly what I was thinking.

"It's a cost I'm willing to pay to get out of this bone-filled nightmare," I said, pulling the Azure Blade from its sheath. I focused my will, pouring my intent into it. *The Lord of the Dead. The shortest, safest path. Take us there.*

The Wishing Star enchantment flared to life. The milky light within the blade swirled violently before coalescing along the edge, pointing decisively down the left-hand tunnel. A noticeable pull of Essence flowed from me into the blade. Not a huge amount, but a constant, moderate drain. Worth it.

"Lead the way," I sighed, following the pointed tip.

The blade didn't steer us wrong. Within minutes, the character of the tunnels changed. The piles of bones got deeper. Thigh-deep in places. We had to wade through them. The skulls in the walls seemed to be watching us more intently.

Then we saw it. An archway up ahead, larger than the others. It wasn't made of rough stone. It was carved from something dark and polished, like obsidian. The bones here weren't scattered; they were arranged. Stacked into grim pillars flanking the entrance.

The Azure Blade’s light died down, its job done. The pull on my Essence stopped.

We stood at the threshold. The air coming from the archway was freezing cold. It carried a silence so profound it felt like a physical pressure.

"This is it," Sasrir's voice was a whisper in my mind, all traces of wry humour gone. "Its' lair."

I reached out and placed my free hand against the cold stone of the archway. We’d touched the Saintess's statue outside. We’d survived the journey. We’d navigated the catacombs.

Now, it was time to reap what we’d come for.

"Alright," I breathed, my grip tightening on the Unshadowed Crucifix hidden within my soul. "Let's go say hello."

Stepping into the chamber, I saw the hole in the roof where the Saintess' hand had fallen through, into the circular chamber with columns of bones engraved in the walls and faded murals depicting their owners. And in the very middle was the fearsome Tyrant, the Fallen Shard Lord, the Lord of the Dead. With only one step, I was already beginning to regret my decision. Sunny had described the fight as one or two moves away from total death, and that was with Nephis, Kai, Effie and Seishan, not to mention ten of the best Hunters in the Forgotten Shore and Kido's poison. But then I reminded myself-we weren't here to kill it in one go. We had multiple attempts, so long as I avoided being hit myself. 

Bit like Dark Souls, really. 

No more talk. No more planning. It was time.

The moment we crossed the threshold into the vast, bone-filled chamber, I moved. My mind clicked into a cold, focused state. I called upon the Unshadowed Crucifix, and the familiar weight settled into my hands.

"Sequence 9: Bard," I whispered. A clear, resonant tone vibrated from the cross, a single pure note that echoed through the cavern. The mountains of bones around us rustled and shifted in response, disturbed by the holy sound.

"Sequence 8: Light Supplicant." A soft, golden glow settled over me like a mantle. Next to me, I felt Sasrir’s presence solidify slightly as the blessing dampened the oppressive, deathly aura around us.

"Sequence 6: Notary," I declared, my voice ringing with authority I didn't truly feel. "God says light is stronger here! God says shadow is sharper here! God says bone is brittle and weak!"

The effect was immediate. The air itself seemed to sharpen. The golden light around me brightened. Across the chamber, the massive pile of bones that was the Lord of the Dead shuddered. A deep, grinding rumble echoed from within it.

That was our cue.

Sasrir detached from my shadow in a silent, liquid motion. He didn't make a sound as he flowed across the floor, a patch of living darkness slinking through the deeper shadows cast by the piles of bones. He was going for its own shadow, a vast, distorted blot on the far wall.

The Tyrant took notice. Not of Sasrir, but of me. The light from the Crucifix was a beacon in its dark domain. An insult. A challenge. The central mound of bones heaved upwards, forming a crude, gigantic torso. Skulls clicked into place for eyes. Arms of fused femurs and spines formed, slamming down on the ground with a sound like cracking stone.

It was focused entirely on me. Perfect.

I saw Sasrir reach its shadow. His darkness began to merge with it, seeking to seize control, to lock the abomination in place.

That’s when it noticed.

A psychic roar of pure fury blasted through the chamber. It wasn't a sound; it was a pressure in the brain. The Tyrant hadn't seen Sasrir—it had *felt* him. Violating its space. Tainting its essence.

It forgot about me for a second. One of its massive bone arms swung not at me, but at its own shadow on the wall. At Sasrir.

Thirty jagged bone spears tore free from its form and shot downward, impaling the spot where the shadow lay. They hit the stone floor with devastating force, shattering on impact and sending shards of razor-sharp bone flying everywhere.

But they hit nothing. Sasrir, as a pure shadow, was untouchable by physical attacks. The spears might as well have been attacking a drawing.

My opening.

I raised the Crucifix high. "Light of Holiness!"

A concentrated beam of pure, searing sunlight lanced from the relic and struck the center of the bone mass. The effect was instantaneous and vicious.

The Lord of the Dead didn't scream. It *screeched*. A soul-shivering sound of absolute, agonizing pain that felt like it was flaying my mind. The holy light wasn't just burning it; it was erasing it.

Where the beam struck, the bones didn't burn or blacken. They simply… dissolved. Turned to fine, white ash that drifted away on an unseen wind. A huge chunk of its chest and part of one arm just vanished.

But the cost hit me a second later. A cold, draining sensation shot up the arm holding the Crucifix. It tingled violently, then went completely numb, like I'd slept on it wrong. I glanced down. The skin was pale, almost grey, the color drained from it. I’d paid a price for that shot.

Still, it was better than last time. I was still standing. I was still conscious.

The Tyrant’s pain-fueled retaliation was swift. A dozen tentacles of woven ribs and vertebrae shot out from its body, whipping through the air toward me, trying to crush me into paste.

I threw myself backward, hitting the gritty floor and rolling behind a mound of skulls. The tentacles smashed into the pile, sending bones and dust exploding into the air.

"Okay, new plan! Chip damage!" I yelled to no one in particular.

I scrambled back, putting more distance between us. I focused on smaller, controlled bursts. I didn't need another mega-blast. I just needed to keep it distracted, keep it burning. I sent out fist-sized projectiles of fiery light, aiming for its "face," for the joints of its limbs. Each one sizzled as it hit, burning small holes and cracks in the bone armor. It was like trying to melt a glacier with a lighter, but it was something. It was keeping it focused on me.

Meanwhile, Sasrir was forced to disengage. Trying to hold a creature of such pure death in its shadow form was risking his own corruption. He flowed back, solidifying a dozen feet away from the thrashing monster.

He didn't waste a second. His hands moved in a blur, weaving shadows from the air around him. A bundle of small, viciously sharp daggers formed in the air before him. They weren't meant to break bone. They were needles. Soul-needles.

With a sharp gesture, he flung them forward. They flew silently, unerringly, and sank into the Tyrant's form not with a physical impact, but by simply phasing into the spaces between its bones.

The result was different. The monster didn't screech in pain. It… *stuttered*. Its frantic movements seized up for a full two seconds. A full-body tremor wracked its frame. The soul damage wasn't massive, but it was a profound shock to its system. A stunning, neural overload.

The bone tentacles trying to dig me out of my cover went slack.

It was a tiny window. But in a fight like this, a window was everything.

I popped up from behind the skulls, the Crucifix already aimed. "Keep it busy, Sassy!" I shouted, pouring more Essence into another, smaller blast of purifying light.

The fight had begun. And for the first minute, at least, we were still in it.

In order to win, I needed to keep hitting the same spot over and over again, until I had melted straight to its' core. And so, I kept dodging, only taking pot shots when I felt I could afford them. My preparatory feasting had done its job, and the feeling of weakness was less than before, but my "ammo" was still limited. Sasrir was lucky in this fight: compared to the Golem, the Lord of the Dead had no real way of dealing damage to him so long as he remained a shadow. Once he felt he had recovered enough, he dove right back in and started wrestling with its' shadow again.

Once he did, I dropped another pillar of light on the same spot as least time, or rather, slightly to the left. This time, a portion of the bones that made up its body directly collapsed and disjointed, causing me to further focus my attacks. A mistake.

The bones that had fallen off, the ones I had dismissed, vibrated and shot at me before I could react. It was my instinct that saved me, causing me to drop down, but one still pierced through me shoulder and another clipped my side, breaking a rib. The one in my shoulder damn near pinned me to the wall however, and I heard a painful grunt from Sasrir, the only acknowledgement of the pain he suffered. Seeing my precious blood running down the white bones, I grit my teeth and raised the Crucifix higher. The loose blood flowed towards it, and I acted through the pain even as it threatened to make me black out. 

"Purification Halo!"

A less concentrated but wider spread of holy sunlight erupted, smashing against the separated bones and destroying all of them. It singed the Lord of the Dead all over too, but by now it had recalled enough material to start repairing itself. Seeing this, Sasrir decisively fled back, picking the wounded me up and slinging me over his shoulder. Just before fleeing through the door, he glanced back and threw a shadow spear he'd condensed. It struck the Tyrant in the same area as mine had, causing another painful groan and more spasms. One last "fuck you" to the bag of bones, probably. 

This time, I didn't lose consciousness, though a part of me wished I had. The good thing about the bone spears was that they were almost too sharp for their own good, making the wound a clean hole and not dragging on any flesh. The Crucifix would stop any infection, but Sasrir made sure to wrap me up nice and tight, and fed me some of the preserved Scavenger meat. It took over two hours for feeling in my arm to return, though there was still a lag in movement from my thoughts. 

"Not bad for a first attempt," I said with a small grin.

"At least we have gathered some more combat data. Perhaps, I can stay back with you and throw spears or daggers from afar to chip away at its' soul, and also protect you at the same time. I don't believe the skeletons lying around can be used to repair anything other than its' body, so doing this three of four times more shoulder be enough to kill it."

"Heh, just like how we finished off Gravelord Nito, right?"

"Except that took you two hours and three different loadouts before you remembered that Undead are weak to Divine and just bashed him with a Heavy Fire weapon."

"hey!" I protested. "That wasn't my fault, it was like three in the morning and I was sleep deprived!"

"Sure thing, you were just tired, and not at all struggling against one of the easiest bosses in the game."

I glared at him silently for several seconds before bursting out into laughter, though I had to stop after my shoulder flared up. As we both look back down to where the Lord of the Dead resided, I wondered how long it would take to kill him. And what we would do after entering the Dark City.

Chapter Text

The first day was a lesson in humility. We’d gone in bold, maybe a little cocky. We came out bloodied. My shoulder screamed with a deep, throbbing pain where the bone spear had punched clean through. Sasrir moved with a slight, almost imperceptible stiffness, a sympathetic echo of my wound. We’d hurt it, sure. Melted a decent chunk off its chest and given its soul a few good jabs. But it was still in there, deep in that chamber of bones, already pulling from the endless supply around it to rebuild. We’d barely made a dent.

The second day, we were smarter. Warier. Sasrir’s new plan was the way to go. He stayed by my side, a solid, dark presence. No more risky shadow-merging. Instead, he became an artillery platform. Spears and daggers of condensed shadow flew from his hands, streaking across the chamber to hammer into the Tyrant’s form. Each hit made the monster flinch, a stuttering spasm of soul-deep pain that gave me the openings I needed.

I was more conservative with the Crucifix. No more grand, Essence-draining pillars of light. I used precise, surgical beams. I focused on the same spot, the weak point we’d created on the first day. A blast here, a searing cut there. Chipping away. Eroding. It was slow, tedious work. The Tyrant learned, too. It started using the scattered bones as shields, intercepting my shots before they could hit home. It was a grim, exhausting game of cat and mouse, fought in a tomb.

We left that day tired, but not broken. We’d taken no new injuries. We’d worn it down a little more. The cavity in its chest was deeper. The bone around the edges was blackened and brittle. Progress.

The third day was a grind. A war of attrition. We fell into a grim rhythm. Sasrir’s endless volley of shadowy artillery. My focused beams of light. Dodge the retaliatory spears. Duck the sweeping limbs. The Tyrant’s movements were slower now, more sluggish. Its psychic roars held more fury, but less force. We were winning. Slowly, expensively, but winning.

We retreated before we were truly exhausted. Before we made a mistake. We left it there, in its crumbling bone cathedral, weaker than it had ever been.

Back at our makeshift camp, under the indifferent gaze of the Saintess’s statue, we tended to our wounds. The feeling was finally returning to my arm, though a strange numbness lingered. Sasrir handed me a strip of dried meat.

"Three more attempts," he stated, his voice calm. His assessment was clinical. "Perhaps four. Its soul is fraying. My attacks are having a cumulative effect."

But then what?

The question hung in the air between us, heavier than any bone spear. Killing the Lord of the Dead was just the key. It unlocked the door. It didn't tell us what was on the other side.

The Dark City waited. A place of survivors, of factions, of humans twisted by decades of nightmare. Of Gunlaug, the tyrant of Bright Castle. Of secrets we’d only read about.

We were getting stronger. We were learning how to fight this world. But were we learning how to live in it? My Pathway was stagnant without people to observe. His asceticism was a riddle without a teacher. In the days we had spent fighting the Shard Lord, we had come up with a possible theory for how to progress Sasrir. He had properly grasped the method of a Listener, and should have done the same for a Shadow Ascetic, but not for a Secret Suppliant. In our own theories, we believed the Acting Method should be similar to a Seer's: being respectful towards higher entities, engaging with higher entities, and pleasing higher entities.

The problem was, there was no creature capable of safely answering our summoning's. They were either all dead or mad, and inviting the latter was asking for trouble. However, Sasrir came up with a possible roundabout-using the Shadow Summoning and combining it with the Ritualistic Magic to beseech a creature from the Underworld or Shadow Domain to come up. Our attention was preoccupied right now, but we decided to give it a try after killing the Bone Lord. And that happened not too long after.

The final assault began not with a roar, but with a shared, silent glance. We knew the drill by now. Sasrir took his position, a pillar of swirling darkness amidst the bone-strewn floor. I raised the Crucifix, its familiar weight a comfort. The golden light of the Light Supplicant bloomed around us, a defiant sun in the oppressive dark.

Sasrir’s hands moved in a blur. He wasn’t throwing single daggers anymore. He launched volleys. Dozens of sharp, dark needles streaked across the chamber. They peppered the Bone Tyrant’s form, each one a tiny shock to its system. The massive creature shuddered under the relentless soul-deep assault, its movements growing slower, more clumsy.

This was our signal. I focused, pouring my will into the Crucifix. A beam of searing, concentrated sunlight lanced out. I didn’t aim for a new spot. I aimed for the deep, blackened cavity we had burned into its chest over the past two days. The light struck true, sizzling against the brittle, charred bone.

The Tyrant recoiled with a psychic shriek of pure rage. It retaliated on instinct, summoning a storm of bone shards. They flew toward me, a blizzard of sharpened death. But I was ready. I ducked and weaved, the movements now practiced. Most of the shards clattered harmlessly against the coral pillars behind me.

Sasrir didn’t let up. While the Tyrant was focused on me, he changed tactics. The needle-volleys ceased. From the shadows at his feet, a larger, more substantial weapon began to form. It was a spear, long and wicked, woven from solidified darkness and pure malice. He hefted it, waiting for his moment.

The monster, frustrated, tried a new approach. It slammed a massive, bone-fused fist into the ground. The impact shook the entire chamber. From the point of impact, a wave of sharpened ribs erupted from the floor, racing toward Sasrir. He simply dissolved into shadow, letting the attack pass through him harmlessly, before solidifying again, spear still in hand.

Its attention was split, its energy flagging. This was our chance. I sent another precise beam of light into the cavity. This time, a large chunk of blackened bone cracked and fell away, revealing a faint, pulsing glow deep within. We were close. So close.

The Tyrant seemed to sense its impending doom. It began to gather the bones around it, pulling them in to form a thick, protective cage over its exposed core. It was trying to heal, to seal itself shut again. We couldn’t let that happen. All our work would be for nothing.

“Now, Sasrir!” I yelled, my voice echoing in the vast space.

He didn’t need to be told twice. He took two running steps and hurled the shadow spear with all his strength. It phased through the air, striking the newly formed bone armor, and sank directly into the glowing core within.

The effect was instantaneous. The Bone Tyrant froze. Its psychic presence, a constant pressure of hatred and fury, suddenly hitched. Then, it let out a sound I’d never heard before—a deep, grinding, final death rattle that seemed to come from the very bones around us. The cage of bones it had been building around its core shattered, falling apart uselessly.

The core was exposed again, pulsing erratically. It was now or never. I poured my will and Essence into the Unshadowed Crucifix. I didn’t just ask for light; I demanded it.

A single, brilliant pillar of pure sunlight descended from the ceiling of the cavern. It wasn’t a beam from me. It was an orbital strike, called down from the heavens. It slammed directly into the exposed, glowing core.

There was no scream this time. Just a silent, intense flash of light that filled the entire chamber. When it faded, the core was gone. Vaporized. The massive bone body that was the Lord of the Dead lost all cohesion. It collapsed into a lifeless, ordinary pile of bones, no different from the millions of others in the catacombs.

Silence fell. The only sound was our ragged breathing. Then, the cold, familiar voice of the Spell echoed in my mind, clear and triumphant.

[You have defeated a Fallen Tyrant: Lord of the Dead.]

[You have received a Memory: Starlight Shard.]

It was over. We’d actually done it. I sank to my knees, exhaustion finally washing over me. Across the chamber, Sasrir stood amidst the settling dust, a faint, satisfied smirk on his face. We had our prize.

**********************************************

The trek wasn't a far one, since the Saintess marked the outskirts of the City, but we had to progress far slower. In the Labyrinth, the most common foe was the Carapace Scavenger, only an Awakened creature, while the City itself was rife with Fallen abominations waiting behind every corner. Starting from the outside meant we would have to run, fight and hide our way in. 

The moment we left the relative openness near the statue, the Dark City closed in on us. The air grew thicker, heavier. It was no longer just the smell of salt and coral. Now, it was dust, rot, and a cold, metallic tang that stuck in the back of the throat.

The first thing that struck me was the silence. It wasn't the empty silence of the Labyrinth. This was a watchful silence. A held breath. We moved down what might have been a main thoroughfare, now a canyon of crumbling, pitch-black stone. Buildings leaned precariously over the street, their windows like empty, dead eyes.

We didn't get fifty feet before Sasrir froze, his hand snapping up. He pointed a sharp gesture to a side alley. I ducked into the shadows without question. A moment later, a hulking shape shambled into view. It was a Fallen Beast, bigger than any Scavenger we'd faced. Its flesh was bloated and grey, and it dragged a leg made of fused, broken bones.

This was the new normal. The monsters here weren't just Dormant or Awakened. They were Fallen. Stronger, smarter, and infinitely more dangerous. We waited, pressed against the cold stone, until the creature's shuffling footsteps faded.

Our progress became a tense, stop-start crawl. We’d move quickly from one piece of cover to the next—a collapsed wall, the skeleton of a rusted vehicle, the doorway of a hollowed-out shop. At every corner, we’d stop. Sasrir would listen, his head tilted, filtering the city’s whispers. I’d peer around, my Spectator’s eyes scanning for movement in the deep shadows.

The city itself was a corpse. Everywhere was ruin. Houses had been torn apart from the inside out. Streets were buckled, as if something massive had burrowed beneath them. We passed a plaza where a great fountain now held only dust and shattered statues. This wasn't just a city that had fallen. It had been slaughtered.

And then there was the Corruption. It was harder to see than in the Labyrinth, but you could feel it. A greasy film on the stone. A faint, violet sheen in the darkest corners. A sense of something fundamentally wrong seeping up from the ground. This place wasn't just dead. It was infected.

We couldn't avoid every fight. A pack of sleek, six-legged predators with needle-filled maws cornered us in a dead-end street. There was no running. Sasrir’s shadows became a whirlwind of defensive spikes and lashing whips, holding them back. I focused the Crucifix’s light, not to kill, but to blind and disorient. We fought in frantic, brutal silence, not daring to make a sound that might draw something worse. We won, but we were left panting, new scratches stinging on our arms.

Another time, a creature that was little more than a floating, diseased cloud drifted across our path. It emitted a low hum that made my teeth ache and my thoughts slow. We didn't even try to fight it. We just ran, scrambling through broken buildings until the horrible sound faded.

We learned to read the signs. Piles of fresh bones meant a recent hunt. Strange, phosphorescent fungi growing on walls indicated a high concentration of Corruption. The faint sound of scraping stone often meant something was moving just out of sight.

The Azure Blade’s Wishing Star was useless here. My desire was just to survive the next five minutes. The enchantment glowed constantly, a dull, confused light. The entire city was a threat. It had no single direction to point.

Hours bled together. The hazy sun above the coral ceiling did little to light the deep streets. We were always in shadow. The Starlight Shard’s gentle glow was a comfort, but also a risk. I kept the cloak pulled tight, hoping its Night's Concealment would help us blend into the gloom.

We were insects scuttling through the ruins of a giant's home. Every sound was a potential death sentence. Every shadow could hide a predator we had no hope of fighting. This was the Dark City. Not a place to conquer, at least not for us, but a place to endure. And we had only seen its outskirts, a singular path forward. The real heart of the nightmare, the Crimson Spire, still lay ahead of us.

We found a building that was less of a ruin and more of a compact stone box, with only one narrow entrance. It felt defensible. Or at least, as defensible as anything got in this graveyard. Once Sasrir had confirmed it was empty, we slipped inside and blocked the doorway with a collapsed piece of the ceiling.

The silence inside was a relief, but it was short-lived. The constant, low-level dread of the city just outside the walls was a pressure you couldn't escape. I slumped against the cold stone, the Starlight Shard’s warmth a small comfort. Sasrir took up a position by the blocked entrance, a silent sentry.

"The Cathedral," I murmured, more to myself than to Sasrir. "It's supposed to be near the centre. A massive structure, taller than the others. Black stone, with spires that look like grasping fingers."

Sasrir gave a slow nod, his eyes closed as he listened to the city's nocturnal sounds. "A fitting landmark for this place."

"That's where the Black Knight is," I continued, the memory sharpening. "A Fallen Devil. And it's guarding Weaver's Mask." I patted a small, cold lump in my pocket—the ornate bronze key we'd retrieved from the Tyrant's remains. The key to claiming the Mask. Theoretically.

The problem was the gap between theory and reality. The Black Knight wasn't some mindless beast. In the story, it took a coordinated assault from some of the strongest Sleepers on the Shore to bring it down. Nephis, Caster, Effie, Sunny...

"We would need Gemma," I said, the words tasting like ash. "We would also need Seishan. But it's just us."

Sasrir opened his eyes. "You have the Crucifix. It is strong against shadow and death."

"It is," I conceded. "But the Knight is a Fallen Devil. We just spent five days killing the Bone Lord, which was one Tier higher but also far stupider, and that was with a perfect counter and a hit-and-run strategy. This Devil is faster, smarter. And determined in guarding its prize. We can't wear it down over a week. It'd be a straight fight. In its own territory, bolstered by True Darkness."

I let out a long, weary breath. "I'm not saying it's impossible. But with just the two of us? It's a suicide mission. We'd need… we'd need an army. Or at least a few heavy hitters."

The dream of just waltzing in and claiming the Divine Memory was crumbling. We had the key, but the door was guarded by a monster we had no business challenging. Not yet. Maybe not ever, without the allies the story had provided Sunny.

"So, we adapt," Sasrir stated, his voice cutting through my doubt. "The Mask is not our only objective. When the time is right, we reassess. The Mask isn't going anywhere for the next two years, and even if we don't have it by the time Sunny shows up, he can't get it either without the key."

He was right, of course. But sitting there in the dark, the weight of the key in my pocket felt less like a treasure and more like a taunt. We were so close to one of the greatest tools in this world, and yet it might as well have been on the moon. The Dark City was already teaching us its first, hardest lesson: knowing where the treasure was buried didn't mean you were strong enough to dig it up.

The deep, unnatural silence of the city pressed in on our little stone shelter. The adrenaline from the day's close calls had finally faded, leaving behind a bone-deep weariness that was more mental than physical. The Starlight Shard was a cosy blanket, but it couldn't keep out the chill of the place.

Sasrir remained by the blocked entrance, a statue of shadow. He didn't need sleep, not like I did. His watchfulness was a constant, low hum in the back of my mind.

"Well," I muttered, shifting to find a slightly less uncomfortable position against the wall. "Day one in the big city. Definitely lived up to the hype."

"It was… eventful," his mental voice replied, dry as dust. "A marked improvement over the scenic views of the Labyrinth."

I let out a weak chuckle that died quickly in the stagnant air. "Tomorrow, the Castle." The words hung there, heavy with implication. Bright Castle. Gunlaug's domain. The heart of the power structure here, such as it was. We'd have to be smarter than today. More careful. We couldn't just skulk through the streets forever.

"We'll figure it out when we get there," I said, more to convince myself than him. "Scope the place out. See what we're dealing with."

"A sound strategy. Assuming what we are 'dealing with' does not decide to deal with us first."

"Always the optimist," I sighed, closing my eyes. The image of the hulking Fallen beasts and the eerie, corrupted streets flashed behind my eyelids. It had been a day filled with the kind of adventure you don't put on a postcard. The deathly kind.

But we were still here. We'd survived the first day. And we would survive many more to come.

Sleep came fitfully, haunted by dreams of silent, watching streets and the feeling of being hunted. But it came. Tomorrow was another day in the nightmare. We'd deal with it then.

Chapter Text

The air in the narrow alley was a cacophony of screams, clashing steel, and bestial roars. Sasrir was the eye of the hurricane, a vortex of calculated violence. His two curved swords, wreathed in shifting darkness, moved with a fluid, brutal precision that was terrifying to behold. He wove between four desperate attackers, his movements a lethal dance that was as much about positioning as it was about killing.

A man with a blood-rusted cleaver lunged, only for Sasrir to sidestep and use his momentum to parry a thrust from a second assailant. The third, a woman with twin daggers, found her attack blocked by the flat of his other blade, the impact numbing her arm. The fourth hung back, his face pale as he tried to coordinate the three Echoes that gave the gang their fleeting confidence. Two of their comrades already lay dead on the cobblestones, their blood a slick, dark stain.

The Echoes were the real problem. A hulking beast of jagged, animated stone slammed a fist where Sasrir’s head had been a second before, cratering the wall. A flickering, insubstantial spectre wielding a ghostly blade darted in from his blind spot, forcing him into a desperate contortion to avoid a disembowelling strike. The third, a pulsating mound of acidic ooze, spat a glob of corrosive venom that sizzled against the ground near his feet, filling the air with a toxic smell. The humans, seeing their spiritual allies press the advantage, surged forward with renewed, panicked vigour.

I didn’t enter the fray directly. My role was different. From the mouth of the alley, I watched with the dispassionate clarity of a Spectator. The stone Echo was powerful but slow, a battering ram. The blade-spectre was fast but fragile, an assassin. The ooze was a tactical hazard, area denial. Sasrir was managing them, but he was being contained, hemmed in by the combination of physical and spiritual pressure. It was time to break the flow.

I raised the Unshadowed Crucifix, feeling the familiar, comforting thrum of power within it. I didn’t need a grand gesture; a focused application of will was enough. “One problem at a time,” I muttered, sighting down the length of my arm. A beam of pure, searing sunlight, thicker than my thigh, lanced across the alley. It struck the flickering blade-spectre directly in its ethereal core.

The effect was instantaneous and devastating. The creature emitted a silent, high-frequency shriek that was felt more than heard, a psychic spike of agony. Its form contorted, the ghostly blade dissolving first, before the entire spectre unravelled into a shower of fading, harmless motes of light. The psychic backlash from its destruction made the dagger-wielding woman stumble, a line of blood trickling from her nose.

[You have slain an Awakened Monster: Spirit of Avarice]

The sudden loss of their fastest Echo sent a visible wave of disorientation through the attackers. Their coordinated assault, fragile to begin with, shattered. The man with the cleaver hesitated for a fatal half-second, his eyes darting to where his Echo had vanished. That was the opening Sasrir had been waiting for. He didn’t roar or shout; his violence was silent and efficient.

He dropped low, under a wild swing from the cleaver-wielder, and his leading sword swept out in a horizontal arc. It wasn’t aimed at the man’s body, but at his ankles. The shadow-forged steel cut through bone and tendon with a sickening crunch. The man screamed, collapsing in a heap, his cries adding to the din. Sasrir was already moving, using the falling body as a momentary shield against the stone Echo’s next lumbering blow.

The woman with the daggers, enraged and terrified, screamed a curse and lunged at his exposed back. She never saw the reverse grip, the blade pointing backward like a scorpion’s tail. Sasrir didn’t even fully turn; he simply thrust backward, the curved sword sinking deep into her stomach. Her scream cut off into a choked gurgle as she folded over the blade, her eyes wide with shock. He kicked her body free, yanking his sword back in a spray of blood.

Two opponents remained, plus the two Echoes. But the fight had gone out of them. The man who had been hanging back, the one directing the Echoes, looked from his two dead friends to the cold, implacable killer before him. The panic on his face was absolute. He met the eyes of his last remaining companion, and a silent understanding passed between them: survival was all that mattered.

They turned and ran, scrambling over rubble and ignoring the moans of their ankle-less comrade. The stone Echo remained to hold us back, but the acidic ooze was recalled.

“Leaving so soon?” Sasrir’s voice was a flat, cold statement, devoid of mockery but full of menace. He didn’t chase them. Instead, a dagger of solidified shadow coalesced in his palm. He took a single, practiced step forward and hurled it. It wasn’t a throw of rage, but of precision. The shadowy blade streaked across the alley and buried itself to the hilt in the back of the slower man’s thigh.

The runner screamed, his leg buckling beneath him. He crashed to the ground, clutching the dark, smoking dagger protruding from his muscle. His companion, the Echo master, didn’t even break stride. He vanished around a far corner, the sound of his frantic, fleeing footsteps echoing briefly before being swallowed by the city’s oppressive silence. The stone Echo gave a roar and charged at him, but a beam from me melted through its torso, and Sasrir crushed its head with a shadow hammer.

An abrupt, ringing silence fell over the alley. The transition from chaotic violence to utter stillness was disorienting. The only sounds were the wet, ragged gasps of the man with the severed ankles and the pained, terrified moans of the one Sasrir had pinned to the ground with his shadow dagger. The air was thick with the stench of blood, voided bowels, and ozone.

I walked forward, my steps deliberate and unhurried. The Starlight Shard’s gentle glow seemed obscenely cheerful in the scene of carnage. Sasrir stood immobile, his chest rising and falling steadily, his dark eyes scanning the rooftops for any further threat. He had already moved on; the fight was over, the survivors were a logistical problem, not a combat one. At the same time, he causally brought his sword down on the man with no feet, finishing him off through the back of the head.

I stopped a few feet from the moaning man. He was trying to crawl, his fingers scrabbling at the blood-slick cobblestones, leaving smeared red trails. The shadow dagger pulsed faintly, holding him fast. I crouched down, the fabric of my cloak pooling around me. He flinched away, squeezing his eyes shut as if I were a monster from his deepest nightmares.

I reached out, not to touch him, but to gently tilt his chin up with a single finger. He trembled violently at the contact. I wiped a speck of someone else’s blood from my cheek with my other hand, then gave him a wide, warm, and utterly terrifying smile.

“Hi there,” I said, my voice light and conversational, a stark contrast to the scene around us. “Rough day, huh? My name’s Adam. It’s a real pleasure to meet you.”

*******************************************

The hazy sun of the Dream Realm did little to warm the chilling silence of the Dark City's central districts the next morning. We packed up our meager camp in the stone hut, the memory of the previous day's close calls a fresh reminder to stay sharp. The Starlight Shard felt like a second skin now, its gentle warmth and the subtle boost to my attributes a constant comfort against the pervasive gloom.

"The monster traffic has lessened," Sasrir observed, his voice a low hum in the quiet street. He was right. The frantic, predatory energy of the outer ruins had given way to a more watchful, controlled stillness. "We are approaching a territory that is actively patrolled and cleared."

"Or we're just lucky," I replied, stepping over a pile of rubble that had once been a wall. "But I'll take it. I've had my fill of six-legged needle-mouths for a lifetime."

We moved with a cautious but steady pace, the ruins around us gradually showing signs of recent activity. Not the mindless destruction of monsters, but the deliberate passage of people. A path had been cleared through a particularly dense collapse. A few hundred yards later, we found the first corpse.

It was a man in rugged, practical leathers, not unlike the ones we'd seen on the Hunters in the Academy bulletins. He was sprawled on his back, a gaping wound in his chest. His eyes were wide and vacant, staring at the bruised sky. A few feet away, the corpse of a Fallen beast—a twisted thing with too many legs—lay dissolving into black ichor.

"Pathfinders," Sasrir stated, nudging the dead creature with his boot. "They scout ahead, clear routes. This one met something he couldn't handle."

"Or someone," I added, my Spectator's gaze noting the clean, precise nature of the killing blow. It looked more like a weapon than a claw. We found two more bodies over the next hour, each telling a similar story of violent ends. The message was clear: the real danger here wasn't just the environment, but the other inhabitants.

We fell into an easy, grim banter as we walked, a way to keep the oppressive atmosphere at bay. "You know," I said, "for a divine incarnation of shadow and sacrifice, you're a surprisingly picky eater."

"I have taste buds, not a garbage disposal," his mental voice retorted dryly. "That last Scavenger demon tasted of rot and despair. I prefer my meals with a hint of terror, not existential dread."

I chuckled. "Noted. I'll try to find something more gourmet next time. Maybe a Fallen beast marinated in its own fear?"

"See that you do."

Our banter was cut short as we approached a wider, crossroad-like intersection. Sasrir, who had been walking slightly ahead, froze. "Presences. Up ahead. Human. Six of them."

Without another word, his form dissolved into a patch of living darkness that flowed to my legs, becoming one with my shadow. I adjusted the Starlight Shard, making sure its glow was subdued, and rounded the corner.

There they were. Six figures, standing in a loose group as if they’d just finished a conversation. Three of them wore a distinct, matching leather uniform, marked with a symbol I didn't recognize—a spiralled pattern of lines. They stood with a casual authority. The other three were rougher, dressed in scavenged gear, their eyes constantly scanning the surroundings. They had the look of thieves and cutthroats. 

One of the uniformed men, a fellow with a disarmingly warm smile and friendly eyes, stepped forward. "Well, hello there! A new face! Don't see many solo travellers this deep in the city. Name's Kael." He spread his hands in a peaceful gesture. "You look a little lost, friend. Are you..one of the new arrivals?"

My Telepathist powers, always passively active, flared to life. The surface of his thoughts was a placid lake of friendly concern. Welcome, stranger. You look tired. You look alone. But beneath that, like piranhas circling in the deep, were other thoughts. Soft clothes. No visible wounds. Fattened calf. Perfect. Lure him in. Is he alone? Check the shadows.

"I am," I said, keeping my voice neutral. "Showed up in that godforsaken labyrinth of death over there, spent the last few weeks fighting my way over-well, more like running and hiding. Of course, this city is also a hellhole."

Kael's smile widened, before he winced in "sympathy" and shook his head. "A hellhole indeed! And a particularly confounding one at that. We call this place the Dark City, and the region itself is the Forgotten Shore. Not many people successfully reach the City alive...you're one of the lucky ones."

Then, his voice changed. "It's not safe to wander alone. We're headed back to the Bright Castle. Safety in numbers, you know? Gunlaug's protection extends to all who contribute." The words were inviting, but the subtext my power picked up was a predatory glee. Take the bait. Come with us. Easy to corner in the side alleys. That cloak looks valuable.

Another thought, sharper, from one of the rough-looking ones: Let's just jump him now. He's alone.

I took a subtle step back, my hand drifting slightly closer to where the Azure Blade was sheathed. "Gunlaug? Who's that?"

"Ah well, it's the name of the boss here. He's...strong, but also heavy-handed. Actually, I won't kid you, he's a bloody-fisted tyrant, but he keeps the peace and keeps them away, so there's not much people can do about him."

"If he's so bad, why don't others just get rid of him?" I asked with an innocent blink. "Surely you can just gang up on him even if he's strong, right?"

Despite his malicious ulterior motives, Kael gave an honest laugh at that, and even the people behind him cracked a smile. "Sorry kid, I don't mean to insult you. It's just, well how do I put this-Gunlaug has a Transcendent Memory on his person, a golden armour that can also shift into weapons. I don't know how educated you are on the Spell, but a Fourth Rank armour and weapon? Yeah, he can singlehandedly kill every survivor in the Forgotten Shore. Numbers only mean so much, especially against sheer overwhelming power like that."

"Anyways," his focus came back to me. "I didn't hear an answer?"

"Sorry," I said, keeping a straight face. "I don't mean to be rude, but I'd feel more comfortable going on my own. This part of the City seems safer anyways."

Kael's friendly mask slipped for a fraction of a second, his eyes hardening. The piranhas in his mind surged to the surface. "Now, that's not very smart, friend." His tone lost its warmth. "The city has a tax for passage. Call it a toll for the paths we've cleared. That nice cloak of yours will do. And that trinket in your hand." He nodded toward the Crucifix I was subtly clutching.

The other five began to fan out, slowly, cutting off my retreat. The trap was sprung.

"Sorry," I said, with a tight smile. "I'm a bit behind on my taxes, already owe enough in the Waking World as is. I don't suppose you'd give a new face like myself a freebie?"

The answer was six blades being summoned into existence.

I turned and ran. Not in blind panic, but with a specific direction in mind: back toward the narrow, defensible alley we had passed moments before. I heard their shouts and the pounding of their boots as they gave chase, their friendly façade gone, replaced by the snarls of hunters.

I burst into the alley, skidding to a halt in the centre. They poured in after me, six against one, confident in their victory. Kael was at the front, his smile now a vicious grin. "Nowhere to run now, fresh meat. Now give us what you have, and we'll let you walk out of here with no flesh missing—"

He never finished his sentence.

The shadow I cast on the wall next to him detached itself. Sasrir flowed into existence with the silence of a nightmare, his form solidifying between Kael and the man behind him. His hands were already moving. A curved sword appeared in each, and in one fluid motion, he drew the left blade across Kael's throat and plunged the right into the heart of the second uniformed man.

It was so fast, so utterly unexpected, that there was no sound. Just a wet gurgle from Kael and a soft sigh from the other as they collapsed. The remaining four skidded to a halt, their faces a perfect canvas of shock and terror.

The third uniformed man fumbled for the sword at his hip. Sasrir didn't give him the chance. He took a step forward, and as he did, the sword in his right hand dissolved into shadow and reformed into a heavy, spiked maul. He swung it in a short, brutal arc, catching the man squarely in the temple with a crack that echoed sickeningly in the confined space. The man dropped like a sack of stones.

Thirty seconds. That was all it had taken. The friendly greeting, the chase, the ambush. From a seemingly helpless victim to three corpses on the ground. The remaining three thugs, the hired muscle, stared at the carnage, then at Sasrir, who stood calmly amidst the bodies, his dark eyes already fixed on them. Their courage, which had been based on overwhelming numbers, evaporated. The fight was just beginning, but for them, it was already over.

**********************

The man on the ground, whose name we learned was Jarek, whimpered as Sasrir calmly stepped over his dead companion to begin methodically searching the bodies. The sound of Sasrir’s quiet efficiency—the rustle of fabric, the clink of discovered coins or trinkets—was a grim counterpoint to Jarek’s ragged breathing. The initial, cheerful façade of Kael and his crew was now a distant memory, replaced by the cold reality of blood-soaked cobblestones.

I kept my crouch, my friendly smile never wavering, though it likely looked more like a predator baring its teeth to Jarek. "Now, Jarek," I began, my voice still deceptively light. "That was a very unpleasant welcome party. Let's try again, shall we? But this time, you're going to do the talking. Start with Gunlaug. Tell me everything you know. His mood, his routines, the strength of his guards, the layout of Bright Castle. Don't leave anything out."

Jarek's eyes darted from my face to Sasrir’s looming figure and back again. Terror was a potent truth serum. "He-he's the king!" he stammered, spittle flying from his lips. "The Lord of Bright Castle! No one challenges him! He has an army! They have Memories, powerful ones! He sits on a throne and judges everyone who enters!"

It was all grandiose, fear-filled generalities. "Specifics, Jarek," I chided gently. "How many guards at the main gate? What are their shifts? Where does he sleep?"

"I don't know! I swear!" he cried, clutching his bleeding leg. "I'm not one of them! I just... I ran errands! I got in because my friend, Kael..." he gestured feebly at the corpse with the slit throat, "...he was a Hunter. He vouched for me! I just live in the outer barracks! I've never even been to the inner keep!"

This was disappointing. We'd caught a small fish, not a key to the castle. "The survivors on the Outskirts, then. The ones not under Gunlaug's thumb. Where are they? How do they survive?"

Jarek shook his head, confused by the line of questioning. "The Outskirts? That's a death sentence! The Corrupted roam freely there! Only the mad or the desperate live there!"

"Fine. Rumors, then. The Seven Statues. The Lord Shards. What have you heard?" I pressed, watching his face closely. This was the real test. If he knew anything concrete about the Shards, it would mean the information was more widespread than I'd thought.

Jarek's brow furrowed in genuine confusion, mixed with his overwhelming fear. "The... the statues? The old heroes? They're just landmarks! Cursed places! No one goes near them except the crazy Pathfinders, and half of them don't come back! Lord Shards? I... I don't know what that is! Is it a type of Memory? A new rank?"

His ignorance was a relief. The true significance of the Shards was still a well-kept secret, known only to the very top tiers like Gunlaug and maybe the most established Legacy cohorts. This fool was just a grunt.

It was then that a spark of defiance, born of sheer desperation, flickered in his eyes. "You're dead," he hissed, his voice gaining a shred of venom. "You hear me? Dead! Kael was one of Gemma's scouts! He's Gunlaug's champion! When he finds out you killed him, he'll tear you apart with his bare hands! Your only chance is to let me go! I can tell him it was a monster attack! I can smooth it over!"

I almost felt sorry for him. He was trying to play his only remaining card, but he had no idea how worthless it was. "Gemma?" I repeated, feigning thoughtfulness. "Big man? Power of regeneration? Don't worry about him. We'll have a chat soon enough."

My dismissal of his threat seemed to confuse him more than frighten him. But then I asked the question that truly broke his understanding of the situation. "What about Seishan? And Effie? Where do they usually operate? Are they working together yet?"

Jarek's jaw went slack. The terror in his eyes was suddenly mixed with pure, unadulterated bewilderment. "How... how do you know those names?" he whispered. "You're new! You just got here! Effie's a wild woman and Seishan never leaves the Castle! Who are you?"

I just smiled wider. "I'm a guy who asks questions. And you're a guy who's not answering them. Seishan. Effie. Tell me what you've heard. Now."

He babbled, the coherence of his story breaking down under the cognitive dissonance. "Seishan, she leads the Handmaidens, the girls. She keeps them safe, stops them being raped. Apparently she's some sort of Legacy, but I don't know the Clan. Her Aspect...it fucked with her skin, but that's all I know."

"And for the Beast Woman... she lives somewhere in the City, no one can track her down. She fights with her fists and teeth, like an animal! No one works with them! They're freaks! Dangerous freaks! Especially Effie, Gunlaug put a marker on her, anyone who teams with her gets the axe."

His information was, again, a mixture of exaggerated rumour and half-truths, but it confirmed their presence and their general territories. That was enough for now.

Sasrir finished his grisly task, returning to my side with a small, cloth-wrapped bundle. He had retrieved a few coins, a serviceable-looking dagger from one of the thugs, and most importantly, Kael's leather jacket, which bore the spiral insignia. It might grant us passage, or at least a second glance instead of an immediate attack. The worst thing about fighting fellow Awakened was the fact everything of value was stored in the Soul Sea and vanished upon death.

He had told us all he knows, which is little more than street gossip and the fears of a small man.

I nodded slightly, still looking at Jarek. The man was sobbing quietly now, broken by the interrogation and the sheer surreal horror of his situation. He had expected to rob a helpless newcomer and had instead stumbled into something far beyond his comprehension.

"Thank you for your cooperation, Jarek," I said, standing up. The friendly smile finally left my face, replaced by an expression of cold neutrality. My Flaw, Justice, assessed the situation dispassionately. He was a would-be robber and murderer. Leaving him alive was a risk. He could report our descriptions, our capabilities. He was a liability, and definitely deserving of death.

But he was also pathetic, broken, and knew nothing of real value. Killing him now would be efficient, but it served no greater strategic purpose beyond immediate convenience. It was… excessive.

"Let him go," I said to Sasrir.

Jarek's head snapped up, disbelief warring with a flicker of hope in his eyes.

Sasrir didn't question the order. He simply gestured, and the shadow dagger pinning Jarek's leg to the ground dissolved into smoke. Jarek cried out in a fresh wave of pain as the wound was freed.

"Run," I told him, my voice flat. "Go back to your barracks. Tell whatever story you want. But if you ever see me again, you won't get a second chance."

He didn't need to be told twice. Scrambling to his feet, clutching his bleeding leg, he hobbled away as fast as he could, not looking back. He vanished around the corner, leaving us alone in the alley with the dead.

I let out a long breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. "Well, that was informative."

Barely," Sasrir countered, handing me the bundle of loot. "We know the strong are where we expected them to be, and the weak are afraid. We learned nothing of substance about the Castle's defences."

"Maybe not," I said, pulling on Kael's leather jacket over my Starlight Shard. The insignia felt like a cheap disguise, but it was better than nothing. "But we confirmed that Effie is here and active. And we know that no one is expecting us. To them, we're just another piece of the nightmare. That's an advantage."

"And besides, we're not actually planning on raiding the Castle, remember? We're here to fight in, to take it down from the inside."

"By killing four of the Lord's men?" Sasrir raised an eyebrow. "Why did you let that scumbag go anyways? Who knows how much innocent blood he has one his hands?"

I just shrugged and didn't answer. I looked down the alleyway where Jarek had fled. The city seemed to swallow him whole. We had taken our first step into the human politics of the Forgotten Shore. It was, I reflected, just as treacherous and bloody as fighting monsters.

No wonder Nephis wanted to burn it to the ground.

Chapter Text

The coppery scent of blood was a stark trail in the stagnant air. A dark, uneven smear led away from the alley, painting a vivid picture of Jarek’s desperate, hobbling flight. We followed it for a while, a grim curiosity to see how far a man with a shadow-forged hole in his leg could get.

The trail eventually veered into a collapsed building, the bloodspots growing fainter before disappearing altogether amidst the rubble. He’d either found a hiding place to bleed out in, or someone had found him. Either way, he was no longer our problem.

Twenty minutes of cautious travel later, the character of the city shifted dramatically. The oppressive, watchful silence of the controlled districts gave way to a nervous, bustling squalor. This was the Outskirts.

It wasn't a place defined by ruins, but by desperation. The buildings here were patched with scrap metal and tattered cloth, their windows boarded up. Makeshift shelters leaned against crumbling walls, entire families huddled within, their eyes wide and hollow.

The air was thick with the smell of unwashed bodies, smoke from small, contained fires, and a pervasive sense of fear. This was where those who couldn't pay Gunlaug's "tax" for the safety of Bright Castle ended up. People scurried through the narrow, refuse-choked paths like rats, their gazes darting away the moment we made eye contact.

They were a mix of the broken, the desperate, and the dangerously cunning. We saw a woman trading a handful of rusted nails for a strip of dried meat, her hands shaking. A group of hard-eyed men watched us from a doorway, assessing the new arrivals for weakness or profit.

My Spectator's gaze took it all in, the sheer volume of human misery and survivalist calculation almost overwhelming. This was the reality of the Forgotten Shore. This was the human cost of Gunlaug's rule.

We moved through the crowded shantytown, the Starlight Shard's gentle glow and Kael's stolen jacket marking us as different.

The stolen jacket with its spiral symbol set their perceptions of us: we were Hunters, Gunlaug's people, and everyone knew it.

You could see the fear on their faces. People talking in small groups would shut up as we got close, turning away and trying to look busy. They moved out of our path quickly, not making eye contact. It was the kind of nervousness you see when a guard walks through a prison yard.

But fear wasn't the only thing. We got a lot of hard looks from teenagers leaning in doorways, their expressions pure hatred. This wasn't just dislike; it was the deep, bitter anger of people who've been pushed around for too long. They watched us like we were the reason their lives were so bad, and in a way, we were, just by wearing these jackets.

A few people looked at us differently, with a kind of cold calculation. These were the ones sizing us up, wondering if we were a way to get ahead. Maybe they thought they could bribe us, or get on our good side for some advantage. To them, we weren't just enforcers; we were a tool they might be able to use.

Wearing Kael's jacket was like holding up a sign. It told everyone exactly who they thought we were, and it made the whole crowded, dirty place react. We weren't just walking through the Outskirts anymore. We were part of the problem, and everyone was watching to see what we'd do next.

Sasrir didn't give a damn about people's reaction, but I felt a bit awkward myself. Still, I refused to show any sign of it, and kept walking with a cold face-the face of a killer. Granted, I was younger than most people here so that was hard, but the blood from the alley brawl was still on me, so I guess that was sufficient to deter the opportunists.

We shuffled through the packed shantytown, not pausing for a second as the hostile and fearful stares basically shoved us forward like an invisible hand. The grimy squalor of the Outskirts suddenly ended at a huge, empty no-man's-land separating the hovels from the base of the massive, dark-stone structure everyone called Bright Castle. Honestly, the name always sounded like a sick joke to me, given the whole gloomy, imposing vibe of the place.

A single, bored-looking guard was slumped by a seriously heavy-looking reinforced gate, looking about as energetic as a sleeping rock. He was a big guy, leaning all his weight on a dark stone spear like it was the only thing keeping him upright. His half-lidded eyes lazily drifted up as we got closer, his expression not changing one bit at first.

Then he noticed the spiral insignia on the jacket, and his whole lazy act dropped away in an instant. He straightened up with a grunt, his knuckles turning white as he tightened his grip on his spear. "Hold it right there, you two," he rumbled, his voice full of suspicion as he used his bulk to block the gate completely. "I don't know your faces, and that jacket sure doesn't belong to you." He scanned us up and down, his eyes narrowed into unfriendly slits, and this was exactly the kind of hassle we'd been hoping to skip.

I slapped on my best 'impressed and clueless new arrival' face, making my eyes go a little wide. "This old thing? We just got it, a lucky find after we survived two weeks of that hellhole to the north." I said, thumbing the leather like I'd just won the lottery. "We fought through the Labyrinth to get here, and someone said this jacket would be our ticket inside, that it would get us through the gate." I finished with a shrug, trying to look like a lucky idiot. "Guess they figured you'd recognize it and that would be good enough."

The guard just scoffed, a puff of air that showed exactly how impressed he wasn't. "Recognize it? I recognize it doesn't belong on your shoulders," he muttered, his pride clearly stung by the assumption he'd just wave anyone through. He looked me over again, his gaze lingering on the insignia with a mixture of distrust and pure ignorance. "So you're the new meat, huh? Well, congratulations are in order then, not many make it through without being torn apart and eaten." He leaned his weight back onto his spear, the picture of lazy arrogance, but his eyes stayed locked on us, making it clear we weren't going anywhere.

"So..." I drawled out. "Are you going to let us in?"

"Fine, you look harmless enough," the guard finally grumbled, though his eyes still held a flicker of doubt. "But nobody gets through this gate for free, you understand? The toll is one soul core for a day inside." He gave a lazy, superior smirk, looking from me to Sasrir. "That makes two, since you're a pair. Pay up, or turn around."

I just nodded, playing the part of the obedient newcomer. "Of course, we understand how things work," I said, keeping my tone respectful. Sasrir, ever the pragmatist, didn't hesitate and produced two faintly glowing shards from a worn pouch. The guard snatched them with a grunt, his routine inspection quick and practiced, holding the cores up to the dim light.

He pocketed the payment but still didn't move from the gate, his blocky frame remaining a solid barrier. His gaze, now sharp and rekindled with suspicion, locked onto me. "You never did answer properly," he said, his voice a low rumble. "Where'd a couple of fresh-faced newcomers really get a jacket like that, huh?"

I met his stare, keeping my expression neutral and my voice casual. "Found it on a corpse, out in the Dark City's edge," I stated plainly, omitting the crucial detail that I was the one who'd made the previous owner into that corpse. The guard studied my face for a long, tense moment, searching for a lie he couldn't quite find. With a final, dismissive grunt, he finally stepped aside, but the deep-set scepticism on his face made it clear his suspicions were far from settled.

"Keep yourselves out of rouble, don't go picking fights, yada yada. Oh, and look for a guy named Gemma-that jacket belongs to his crew, the corpse was likely a Hunter or a Pathfinder. He'll want it back, and you might get a small reward for doing so. Keep it, and you'll likely get  your teeth kicked in."

With a nod of acknowledgement, we stepped past him and into the Castle.

The castle was constructed from the same pristine marble as the arch at the hill's base, its form rising like a white mountain carved by human hands. Its central front tower was wide, featuring a tall, decorated gate and a grand staircase that descended to a vast stone platform. This platform served as the official endpoint of the road, creating a formal entrance.

Flanking the main tower, two slightly forward bastions stood guard, connected to the centre by elegant, arched bridges high above. Each of these bastions was accompanied by its own set of smaller, companion towers. This arrangement created a defensive, yet still graceful, front façade.

Behind this front line, the main keep reached even higher into the sky, its ambition almost challenging the distant, menacing Crimson Spire. A collection of smaller towers, spires, and various wings spread out, forming a complex but ultimately harmonious silhouette. The overall effect was one of incredible beauty, striking to the eye, yet it radiated a firm, secure stability. It felt less like a fortress for war and more like a serene, elevated sanctuary, a place built for a higher purpose than mere mortal dwelling.

It was a mortal dwelling though, one that has been and be drenched in blood. Still, that was two years from now, and nothing to do we us in the short term. We had bigger problems to deal with...like acquiring more Lord Shards and worming our way up the ranks. For yes, we were aiming to become Gunlaug's lieutenants, even if it meant replacing one of the current ones. Kido and Seishan were out, simply because Sasrir and myself couldn't replace their utility. Harus was also a no-brainer, so that left Gemma and Tessai. For scouting, Sasrir was far better than Gemma due to Shadow Travel and his ability to instantly kill any creature less than Fallen, but I had nothing to compare against the leader of the Guards, except for possessing two Lord Shards. 

Of course, Gunlaug wouldn't replace his old lieutenants simply because they were outdated: while I couldn't speak for the Guards, the Handmaidens, Hunters and Pathfinders were loyal primarily to their primarch and not Gunlaug himself. Replacing Gemma would lose him the respect from some of the Bright Castle's best fighters. No, we would have to provide definitive proof of our value exceeding the worth of a man with years of experience, relationships and connections. Frankly, I doubt even Nephis herself could have pulled it off. 

The corridor finally spilled us into a cavernous space, and the sudden noise was a physical shock after the tense quiet. Up to a hundred Sleepers were gathered here, a murmuring crowd trading and talking in the dim light. A few people near the entrance glanced our way, their eyes sharp, but they quickly looked away, dismissing us as no one important.

I let out a breath I didn't realize I’d been holding, feeling the knot in my shoulders loosen just a bit. This was the Memory Market, and its chaotic, living energy was a balm after the dead stone of the Labyrinth. I took my time, just soaking in the sight of other people, the simple relief of not being alone in the silence. It was a welcome sight, a strange mix of a frantic bazaar and a somber wake.

I could feel Sasrir’s presence at my back, a silent, watchful anchor. He was playing his part, looking casual, but I knew he was on high alert. His eyes, hidden in the shadows that flowed over his shoulders, would be coldly scanning every face, every potential threat in the room. Where I saw a crowd, he saw a landscape of hidden dangers, and I trusted his instincts more than my own sense of relief. As a Telepathist, I could also read intentions, but not with so many people around in one big blob of mental fluctuations. 

I moved forward, looking at the wares. Monster meat, bones, hides and other usable body parts were the majority, though quite a few stalls were used for gambling. Those actually selling Memories were rare, and I didn't spot Aiko or Stev the Jolly Giant anywhere. I was tempted to buy the Mantle of the Underworld off him, but I didn't want to blow our funds just yet. Even if he sold it at a discount due to being damaged, it was still priced at a hefty value.

Sasrir’s subtle watch shifted in another direction, where a group of more more visually inclined to rob me were leaning against a wall. When I leaned in to study a map of what seemed to be the eastern quadrant of the Dark City, he moved to block a seller with an overly-friendly smile. His silent language was clear: Enjoy the view, but don't forget where we are.

I finally stopped at a quiet stall at the edge, drawn to a display of simple, polished stones. "What are these?" I asked the old vendor. "No memories?" He smiled faintly.

"Noise absorbing stones, carved from some strange monolith that was present in the Castle years ago. Most of it was carved away and used throughout the years, but there are still a sizable amount that remain. The Pathfinders and Hunters use them, to block all sound and conceal themselves. It can also absorb light to some degree, best used around dusk though. One Soul Shard for three stones."

The price wasn't exactly cheap, but it wasn't entirely unfair either. If used right, one of these can net you a kill, and multiple could save your life in trapped in the City after dark. There was no price on your own safety, after all. 

That’s when I felt the change in Sasrir, a shift from alertness to pure focus. His voice was a low, urgent murmur in my ear. "We've drawn the wrong kind of attention." I followed his hidden gaze to a man in standard clothes, except his jacket was the same as mine-one of Gemma's underlings. He was standing perfectly still, watching the crowd like a predator...or rather, searching for someone in it. "Our time here is done. It's time to move." The brief respite was over.

I turned back to the vendor, who had witnessed our terse exchange upon spotting the Hunter and had his smile stiffen accordingly. "Any chance you would know who to give this," I gestured to my jacket, "Back to? Found it on a corpse, and it seems to signify something. Don't want to start any misunderstandings, you know."

The shopkeeper looked at me deeply for several seconds before sighing. "Go find a Handmaiden, they usually roam the halls around here cleaning up the place. She can direct you to someone higher up, or even take it off your hands directly. Don't worry, they're more trustworthy than the other groups. Their primarch runs a tight ship."

"You mean Seishan?" I "probed" curiously. 

The man nodded but said nothing more. Sasrir nudged me again, and with his urging we turned and tried to blend in with the crowd. Just before we passed through an exit on the opposite side of the entrance, I felt a sharp gaze lock onto my back. I left the room only a second later however, and didn't hear anyone give chase. Still, it seemed that one of the two we had let go had made it back and reported us. Sasrir seemed to realise that too, as he fell into step beside me. "Is this still going according to plan?" he asked in a low voice. I smiled and gently clasped the Unshadowed Crucifix hanging around my neck.

"You could say things are developing...reasonably." 

Chapter Text

We successfully found one of the Handmaidens the shopkeeper had mentioned, a relatively tall and pretty girl with red hair and freckles, dusting away at one of the cold, black marble walls. She tensed a bit upon seeing us approach, her gaze lingering with unease on Sasrir's shadow-cloaked presence. My own expression, one of pure and innocent intent, seemed to calm her down, acting as a necessary counterbalance to my companion's inherent menace.

"I was told you could help," I began, my voice soft to avoid echoing in the gloomy, high-ceilinged hall. "We'd like to return this." I gestured to the Hunter jacket with its spiral insignia. She eyed the garment with clear recognition, her freckles standing out against her suddenly pale skin. She nodded slowly, her previous task forgotten.

She agreed to take it off my hands, her movements efficient as she folded the jacket over her arm. "And your name?" she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper. "Adam," I replied, offering a small, reassuring smile. She didn't return it, her expression remaining solemn and professional in the castle's pervasive gloom. She then asked if we were staying in the castle, her eyes flicking between us. We confirmed we were, and she gave a single, sharp nod.

"Good. Then you'll be easy to find if there are... questions," she stated, her tone making it clear that questions were inevitable. "Please stay here while I bring someone." With that, she turned and walked away, her footsteps silent on the polished stone, the jacket seeming to absorb what little light remained in the corridor. Sasrir and I were left alone in the chilling quiet, the transaction feeling less like a resolution and more like the first step into a deeper web.

"We never got her name," Sasrir muttered, his voice a low rumble in the vast hall. I turned to him with a grin, speaking in a teasing tone to cut the tension. "What, afraid you didn't make a good impression?" He just deadpanned at me before turning silent, his shadowed form blending into the dark marble of the wall. We waited together for the girl to return, the oppressive stillness of the castle pressing in on us.

While Sasrir was as still as a statue, I found myself restlessly tapping my foot after only ninety seconds. I was never good at waiting, which was strange given my Pathway's affinity for patience and observation. "If I was Ouroboros instead, I could probably just stand here until the sun dies out," I mused aloud, causing Sasrir to look back at me. "What are you even talking about?" he asked, his voice flat.

"Just hear me out: that guy is even more of a statue than Saint. He's a typical horror movie villain, the slow shambling type that approaches menacingly but never actually does anything." I shook my head in mock disappointment. "I mean, how many times did Klein fool that guy? Killing Mr. Z in Backlund, escaping him in Calderon City, not to mention Will evading him for over a thousand years... bro was a fraud through and through!"

"The Fate Pathway isn't very good for taking the initiative. You have to let things come your way naturally," Sasrir countered, ever the pragmatist. "Or it's just a Pathway for frauds," I rolled my eyes, enjoying the pointless debate to distract from our situation. Before Sasrir could argue back, we heard footsteps approaching from the end of the hall.

The Handmaiden from before had returned, bringing with her two Guards and a Hunter - none of whom I recognized. Cannon fodder or extras then, nothing to be afraid of. They moved with the confident swagger of those who thought their affiliation alone made them intimidating. The black marble seemed to drink the sound of their footsteps, making their approach eerily quiet.

"You the ones who brought the jacket?" One of the Guards stepped forward and raised an eyebrow, looking over me with disdain but tightening his gaze upon seeing Sasrir. Clearly, he was the more imposing of our duo. His eyes narrowed as he took in Sasrir's shadow-cloaked form, while the other two fanned out slightly in a practiced manoeuvre.

"That would be correct, Sir," I answered calmly, my face betraying no sign of tension. And there really was none - I could kill these guys before they could even register they were dead. After taking down two Shard Lords and having three Soul Cores, the only one I needed to fear in this castle was the Bright Lord himself. The Hunter among them kept his hand near his weapon, but made no move to draw it yet.

The lead Guard studied us for a long moment, his eyes calculating. "Gemma will want to speak with you himself," he finally said, his voice losing some of its initial bravado. "You'll come with us. Now." It wasn't a request. I exchanged a brief glance with Sasrir, seeing my own thoughts reflected in his hidden expression. This was exactly what we wanted - and exactly what could get us killed if we handled it wrong.

"Of course," I said, keeping my tone neutral and cooperative. "We're happy to clear up any misunderstanding." The Guard snorted at that, but turned to lead the way. The Handmaiden had already melted away into the shadows, her part in this drama complete. As we fell into step behind them, I could feel Sasrir's awareness expanding, mapping exits and potential threats in the labyrinthine corridors.

The black marble walls seemed to close in around us as we moved deeper into the castle's heart. The air grew colder, and the crimson light from the Spire filtered through occasional high windows, painting bloody streaks across the polished floor. This was it - our first real test in the den of the lion himself. I flexed my fingers slightly, feeling the power coiled within me, ready if this meeting turned sour.

They navigated us through the cold, black marble halls, their footsteps echoing in the oppressive silence. We passed several other people moving in groups or alone, but everyone gave our little procession a wide berth. Their eyes darted away quickly, not wanting to be associated with whatever trouble we were in.

A few guards nodded greeting to our escorts and leered at us with clear schadenfreude. Their smirks said they believed we were being hauled in for punishment, which, to be fair, we might just be. I kept my expression neutral, storing their faces away for later; arrogance made people predictable, and predictable people were useful.

After winding through a maze of corridors that I meticulously mapped in my mind, the atmosphere began to shift. The sound of distant cheering and rhythmic thumping grew steadily clearer, cutting through the castle's usual gloom. The noise was a stark, living contrast to the deathly quiet of the administrative wings, a pulse of raw energy.

We arrived at the source: a massive gambling hall even more densely packed and raucous than the Memory Market. The air was thick with smoke, sweat, and the sharp tang of desperation. I caught a glimpse of a short, energetic girl in the centre of one crowd, cajoling other gamblers with infectious fervour. Before I could confirm if it was the Aiko from the novel, our Guard escort pulled us firmly towards a different, slightly quieter corner of the cavernous room.

And there, amidst the chaos, was Gemma. He was not a large man, but he carried a palpable aura of contained violence, like a coiled spring. He sat at a heavy wooden table, ignoring the riot around him as he calmly cleaned a vicious-looking dagger with a cloth. His eyes, sharp and calculating, lifted from his task and settled on us, and the world seemed to shrink to that single, assessing gaze.

Our escorts stopped a respectful distance away, one of them muttering, "Sir, the ones with the jacket." Gemma didn't respond immediately, his focus entirely on Sasrir and me. He finished wiping a non-existent speck from his blade, the motion slow and deliberate, a silent display of control. The din of the gambling hall faded into a dull roar, the space around our group becoming an island of tense quiet.

"So," Gemma began, his voice a low, gravelly thing that carried easily over the noise. "You're the new meat who's been wearing my colors." He leaned back, his eyes narrowing as he looked me over, then Sasrir. "You don't look like much. But then, the ones who survive the Labyrinth rarely do." He was probing, testing our reactions with a casual insult.

I met his gaze, keeping my posture non-threatening but not submissive. "We found it on a corpse," I stated plainly, repeating the same story. "We were told it belonged here. We're just here to return property." Gemma's lips twitched in what might have been a smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. He knew there was more to the story, and the fact that we were standing there calmly in front of him was its own kind of confession.

He gestured with his chin towards Sasrir. "Your quiet friend. What's his problem?" I glanced at Sasrir, whose shadow-cloaked form was utterly still. "He's not much of a talker," I replied. "But he's very good at listening." Gemma snorted, a short, harsh sound. "I bet he is. You two stick out like a sore thumb. A pretty-faced kid and his personal shadow-man." His assessment was blunt, but accurate.

Gemma finally sheathed his dagger, the sound a sharp click that seemed to finalize something. "You killed one of mine," he said, his tone conversational, as if discussing the weather. It wasn't a question. The Guards flanking us tensed, their hands drifting toward their weapons. This was the moment of truth, the precipice we had been walking towards since we entered the castle.

I didn't deny it. There was no point. "He attacked us first," I said, my voice still calm. "It was him or us. We chose us." Gemma watched me for a long, heart-pounding moment, his expression unreadable. The gambling continued unabated around us, a stark contrast to the life-or-death negotiation happening in our corner. He was weighing our value against the insult, the loss of a soldier against two potential new assets.

A slow, genuine smile finally spread across Gemma's face, though it was a cold, predatory thing. "I like that," he said. "No excuses. Just facts." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "A weak Hunter gets himself killed, that's on him. But killing one of my Hunters... that creates a debt. You understand how this works?" I nodded slowly. This was the deal, the bloody transaction I had sensed coming.

"The debt is paid one of two ways," Gemma continued, his eyes glinting. "I take your lives now, to balance the scales. Or... you work off the debt. You prove you're more valuable to me alive than that fool was." He let the option hang in the smoky air between us. It was the offer we had hoped for, the dangerous opportunity we needed to worm our way into the power structure of this place.

"We'd prefer to work," I said, without hesitation. Sasrir gave a single, almost imperceptible nod of agreement beside me. Gemma's smile widened. "Good. You start tomorrow. I've got a little pest control problem in the eastern ruins. You can be the bait." He waved a hand in dismissal, already turning his attention back to his dagger. Our escorts nudged us, and we were led away, leaving the Hunter primarch to his thoughts. We had passed the first test, but the real trial was just beginning.

From what little the story had given, Gemma didn't seem to be the worst of the Primarchs here in Bright Castle, but he had his own vices and would also side with his men over justice or morality. The fact Kael was already dead, and apparently not particularly well liked, was probably the reason we weren't attacked on sight. Instead, he intended to bleed us dry of any value. Whether he would let bygones be bygones after that, who knew?

"So," Sasrir spoke up lowly beside me, "Are you still planning to take his spot as the leader of the Hunters and Pathfinders? It would be better if you were Ouroboros after all, since luck meant you would never get lost. Medici would definitely be more suited than a weakling like you."

"You know Sassy," I sighed at him, "I noticed that whenever you're worried for me, you try to put me down with negative words, like you're hoping to dampen my spirits and rein me in. And while I appreciate your concern, it's not necessary-I can handle myself here."

"Just know your limits" was all he said in return.

A needless worry, by all accounts. After all, the first person a Spectator observes in none other than themselves. I knew exactly what I was doing, and what I would do in the future. Yes, it was all coming together now...I had already designed the first draft of my story, a little play I would prepare for the arrival of the main characters. But first and foremost...

"I need to burn that goddamn tree" I spoke grimly.

Chapter Text

The next morning found Sasrir and me waiting by the castle's heavy gate, the cold seeping through our clothes. A Handmaiden had delivered the terse message at dawn: our first trial run with the Hunters, a standard food-gathering operation. We stood in the lee of the massive wall, the perpetual gloom of the Forgotten Shore feeling heavier than usual. Below us, the shantytown was already stirring, smoke from countless small fires curling into the slate-gray sky.

The slum dwellers went about their desperate business, but their eyes constantly flicked toward us. Most of their fearful or hateful glances were focused on Sasrir, his shadow-cloaked form a natural magnet for suspicion and dread. I was largely ignored, which suited my current line of thought perfectly. "Think they'll be on time?" I asked, just to break the silence and maintain a façade of normalcy.

Sasrir didn't turn his head, his attention seemingly on the shifting crowd below. "Doubtful. Punctuality implies discipline. This feels more like a hazing ritual than a military operation." His voice was a low murmur, barely audible over the distant sounds of the Outskirts. He was probably right; Gemma was likely testing our patience as much as our combat skills.

I nodded, shoving my hands into my pockets against the chill. "So, standard procedure. Follow their lead, don't show all our cards, try not to get stabbed in the back." IThe real question wasn't about survival tactics, but about the mask I should wear for this performance.

Internally, I was pondering what persona to present. The quiet and unassuming one had its merits; it made you seem harmless, beneath notice, a piece of the background no one bothered to account for. People tended to speak freely around the unassuming, revealing secrets they'd never tell a perceived equal or threat. It was the persona I'd used with the guard at the gate, and it had worked well enough.

But there was also the allure of the mysterious and omniscient archetype, the one who speaks in riddles and seems to know more than they should. That could be a powerful tool for intimidation and control, making others hesitate to act against you for fear of the unknown. The downside was it painted a massive target on your back; everyone would be trying to uncover your secrets or prove you were a fraud.

Then there was the third option: powerful and arrogant. It was the most straightforward, projecting strength to deter challenges and command immediate, if resentful, respect. It was a persona that could short-circuit a lot of petty tests and posturing. The problem was, it also set expectations. If you presented yourself as a powerhouse, you had to deliver overwhelming force every single time, or the vultures would swarm.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Sasrir asked, pulling me from my internal debate. "You've been quiet for a while." I glanced at him, offering a wry smile. "Just thinking about the best way to make a first impression on our new colleagues." I gestured vaguely toward the castle behind us. "First days are always so awkward."

Sasrir let out a soft sound that might have been a laugh. "Just be yourself. I'm sure your natural charm will win them over instantly." The dry sarcasm in his tone was unmistakable. He knew the kind of "charm" I usually relied on ended with someone bleeding out on the ground. Being "myself" wasn't really an option here; the real me was a calculating and adaptable weapon, and that tended to make people nervous.

"I was considering the mysterious sage approach," I mused aloud, partly to amuse him and partly to hear the idea out loud. "You know, drop cryptic hints about their futures, maybe hum an ominous tune now and then." I gestured to his shadowy form. "I'd need a better costume, though. You've cornered the market on the menacing silhouette look."

"That would require you to actually be quiet," Sasrir countered, his head tilting slightly. "A challenge, I think. And you lack the necessary presence. You look like someone's younger brother trying to act tough." His assessment was, as usual, brutally accurate. My youthful features were a hindrance for that particular role; I'd just come across as a pretentious kid.

"So, powerful and arrogant it is, then?" I said, only half-joking. "Just swagger in, look down my nose at everyone, maybe pick a fight with the biggest guy there to establish dominance." It was a tempting, simple solution, the kind that appealed to the primal part of the brain that understood strength hierarchies. But it was also the most likely to backfire spectacularly.

Sasrir was silent for a long moment, considering it. "It would be direct," he finally conceded. "But Gemma would see it as a direct challenge to his authority, not just the grunts. You'd be forcing him to respond, to put you in your place publicly." He was right. Arrogance was a game you could only play from the top, and we were decidedly at the bottom of this particular ladder.

A group of four figures finally emerged from a postern gate, their movements coordinated and efficient. They were clad in similar leathers, each bearing the spiral insignia, though theirs looked worn and earned. This was our escort, our judges, and potentially our executioners if we put a foot wrong. The leader, a woman with a scar bisecting her eyebrow, looked us over with a flat, unimpressed expression.

"The new blood?" she said, her voice raspy. "I'm Kora. Try to keep up, and try not to get killed." She didn't wait for a response, simply turning and heading down the winding path toward the Outskirts. Her three companions fell in behind her, not even glancing back at us. The message was clear: we were an inconvenience, a burden to be tolerated.

As we fell into step behind them, I made my decision. For now, I would be quiet and unassuming, the eager-to-learn rookie. I'd watch, I'd listen, and I'd learn the dynamics of the group. I'd let Sasrir be the obvious threat, the one they all watched. And when the moment was right, when a demonstration of power was needed, it would come as a complete surprise. The mysterious and the arrogant could wait their turn. Survival, today, was about perception.

The group moved with a practiced silence, stalking through the corpse of the Dark City. We climbed over collapsed walls of strange, smooth metal and skirted around gaping holes that dropped into impenetrable darkness. The air was thick with dust and the scent of ozone, a permanent miasma clinging to the ruins.

After several minutes of this tense travel, one of the Hunters, a lanky man with quick eyes, fell back to walk beside us. "So," he began, his voice a low murmur, his gaze fixed on Sasrir's shadow-cloaked form. "What's the deal with your friend's... permanent cloud cover?" He gestured vaguely at the shifting darkness.

I offered a casual shrug, keeping my tone light. "It's his Flaw," I lied smoothly. "A real nuisance, but he's learned to live with it." I didn't elaborate, letting the common, understood tragedy of a Aspect's drawback do the work for me. Sasrir gave a single, grim nod from within his shroud, a perfect performance of silent confirmation.

The man, seemingly satisfied with this explanation, nodded sympathetically. "Rough deal. Name's Finn." He gestured ahead with his chin. "The one leading us, that's Kora. Her Aspect is 'Stone-Skin'. Makes her tough as rock, but slows her down a bit."

He then pointed to a wiry woman scanning the upper ruins. "That's Lyra. She's 'Far sight'. Eyes like an eagle, can detect ambushes from a mile away. It also increases her intuition. Doesn't do much in a straight fight, but she's saved our hides more than once."

"Finally, the big guy bringing up the rear is Roric," Finn continued, thumbing behind us. "His is superstrength. Not fancy, but he hits like a falling building." He then looked at me expectantly, a clear invitation for reciprocation. The unspoken question hung in the air: what could we do? What was our value to the team?

I decided to keep it vague and utility-focused. "I'm Adam. I can sense emotions," I said, which was technically true for my telepathic senses. "And Sasrir here can manipulate shadows." It was a gross oversimplification of his shadow-walking and assassination skills, but it fit the narrative of a scout. We were presenting ourselves as specialists, not front-line fighters.

Finn absorbed this with a thoughtful nod, filing the information away. He didn't press for more details, understanding the unspoken rule of not prying too deeply into another Sleeper's capabilities. In this world, your Aspect was your greatest weapon and your most vulnerable secret. Of course, it was highly likely that one of the two we thugs we met in the ruins had already reported Sasrir's shadow bending capabilities, but Finn played ignorant. He couldn't deceive my Telepathist eyes however. 

Our conversation lulled as Kora held up a clenched fist, bringing the group to an immediate halt. We crouched behind a shattered wall, the silence suddenly profound and heavy. Lyra, from her perch, made a series of quick hand signals, indicating movement two blocks ahead. The casual mood from moments before evaporated, replaced by a sharp, professional tension.

Finn gave us a final glance, his expression now all business. "Stay close, do what we say, and you might just make it back for dinner." He moved forward to re-join the others, his form blending seamlessly with the rubble. Sasrir and I exchanged a look, a whole conversation passing between us in an instant. The test had begun.

The creatures were a grotesque fusion of lizard and octopus, their forms a blasphemy against nature. Glossy, skinless bodies shimmered with a thin, translucent layer of epidermis stretched taut over bunched muscle. Each of their eight tentacles dripped a clear, sizzling fluid that ate tiny pits into the stone floor. They seemed to be pack creatures, sticking together in groups of seven or eight from what I had already seen previously, and had frightenedly vicious coordination skills. At the very least, they were more dangerous than the Bone Dogs in the Labyrinth.

Kora didn't hesitate, her voice a low, sharp command. "Flank left, avoid the acid! Roric, you're with me!" Her own skin took on a rough, granular texture, becoming the color of granite as she advanced. Roric let out a grunt, his muscles visibly swelling as he hefted a heavy, crude maul, his Brawler Aspect empowering his charge.

Lyra remained on a chunk of rubble, her eyes narrowed. "Two more circling from the right alley! Finn, intercept!" she called out, her Farsight providing a crucial overview of the battlefield. Finn acknowledged with a wave, nocking an arrow to his bow. He moved with a fluid grace, his Aspect likely enhancing his agility and aim.

Sasrir melted into the shadows of a collapsed doorway, his form disappearing from sight entirely. I stayed close to Lyra, playing my part as the non-combatant. She didn't even glance at me, wholly focused on observing the battlefield...or so it seemed. I detected the slight tensing in her shoulders as I approached, no doubt prepared in case I quite literally stabbed her in the back. Not that I intended to do so, of course.

Kora took the lunge head-on, the creature's tentacles whipping against her stone-hardened arms. The acid sizzled but failed to penetrate, though the force of the blows still drove her back a step. Roric used the opening, his maul swinging in a devastating arc that crushed one of the beast's limbs into pulp. A horrific screech echoed through the ruins.

From the right, the two other monsters emerged, skittering on a combination of claws and tentacles. Finn's bowstring thrummed, and an arrow sank deep into the eye of the lead creature. It recoiled, thrashing wildly, its corrosive blood spraying the walls. The second one ignored its companion and charged straight for Lyra and me.

Before I could even feign panic, a tentacle lashed out from the shadows of the doorway. It was Sasrir's work, a tendril of pure darkness that wrapped around the charging monster's leg, yanking it off balance. The creature stumbled, giving Finn the moment he needed to loose another arrow, this one punching through its gaping mouth.

The first monster, wounded and enraged, focused entirely on Roric. It ignored Kora's stone-skinned punches, instead wrapping its remaining tentacles around the Brawler's legs. Roric roared in pain as the acid immediately began eating through his leather greaves, the sizzling sound sickeningly loud. He struggled, but the creature's grip was like iron.

A shadow detached itself from the wall behind the beast. Sasrir materialized, his own dagger gleaming with a cold, non-reflective light. He didn't stab or slash. Instead, he simply reached out and touched the creature's slick, muscular back. The area under his palm instantly turned a necrotic black, the flesh withering and dying in a silent, rapid wave.

The creature convulsed, its grip on Roric loosening as its nervous system shut down. It collapsed, the unnatural darkness spreading from the point of contact until the entire monstrosity was a lifeless, withered husk with blood leaking from all orifices. While it looked bizarre, I knew it was just Sasrir playing up the theatrics. Looking down, his shadow had extended into the beast's and the blackness was just more shadow covering the body. However, it certainly had an effect on the others. 

Kora looked at him with undisguised weariness, while Finn seemed moderately disturbed by the way the monster died. Roric and Lyra remained unperturbed however, though I sensed a strange anticipation from the big guy. A stereotypical battle fanatic? Meanwhile Lyra just seems unfazed by cruelty. Either way, he had successfully planted a first impression in the minds of our teammates, who would hopefully pass on his skill level to Gemma. As for me?

I walked over to the closest and most intact corpse and summoned my Steel Memento, the sword I got from the Sword Glade when fighting the Golem. I began making cuts where the most meat was, my hands steady and eyes precise. Finn came over to me with a raised eyebrow upon seeing this, his mouth open. "You know how to cut meat?"

"I worked in a butchery when I was younger" I revealed, hands and mouth moving at the same time. From behind, Roric spoke up. "How old even are you kid?" 

I paused at that, wondering what answer to give. Fifteen-almost-sixteen years in this body, plus the twenty three in my previous life..."I'm eighteen" I decided, shrugging my shoulders casually. 

"What, didn't hit your growth spurt?" Kora snorted, but it didn't sound like she was calling me out, merely being prickly. After that, everyone else took their own corpse to butcher and dismember, packing the meat and usable bones into sacks seemingly made from monster hide. By the time we were done, almost everything besides the acidic tentacle had been used. "Kido likes to use them for regents, but most Hunters don't find bringing the back worth it" Finn explained when he saw me looking at them. "Ah right, you probably don't know who Kido is, she's the leader of the Artisans, a lieutenant like Gemma and Seishan."

"Do things usually go this smoothly?" I asked as everyone prepared to leave. The food gathered here was only enough to feed a little over a dozen people, so I presumed we would be heading back out after dropping our current load off at the Castle. Kora shrugged and began to walk back. "We pick our targets careful-a Pathfinder found that these things moved in here only two or three weeks ago, and we're experienced with hunting them. So long as nothing happens, we usually don't suffer anything other than minor wounds-"

My eyes widened at the sudden death flag that the woman had just dropped, but before I could say anything, a shriek loud enough to nearly burst my eardrums reverberated through the ruins. Looking up, everyone froze at the sight of a colossal and disturbing beast circling above us. Seeing it, I couldn't help but have the description from the novel flit through my head.

"A massive, winged creature with a pale body and black feathers stained by blood. When its terrifying beak was open, it reveals rows of sharp, needle-like fangs and a long red tongue. This monstrous creature that resembled a cross between a lion and a raven stretched its numerous limbs. Its body was pale as a corpse, while its head and chest were covered with dark feathers. It was massive in size, with muscles rolling like steel cables under the skin. It had two powerful hind legs and six more protruding messily from its wide chest, each ending with a set of deadly claws. It also possessed a long, jagged black beak."

"Shit" beside me, Sasrir cursed out loud, perfectly reflecting what everyone else was feeling. As we stood frozen in terror, the monster crashed down in front of us, beady eyes staring hungrily-straight at me. Swallowing audibly, I immediately summoned the Unshadowed Crucifix as Sasrir stepped in front of me and shielded my body with his own. The terse standoff continued for several seconds, before the Spire Messenger let out another shriek and pounced straight at us.

Chapter Text

My eyes widened at the sudden death flag the woman had just dropped, a casual remark that felt like a nail in a coffin. Before I could utter a single word, a shriek loud enough to crack stone reverberated through the ruins, freezing everyone in place. Looking up, we saw a colossal and disturbing beast circling above us, its form a blasphemous sketch against the crimson sky.

"A massive, winged creature with a pale body and black feathers stained by blood," the novel's description flitted through my mind in a panicked rush. Its terrifying beak opened, revealing rows of needle-like fangs and a long, lashing red tongue. This monstrous cross between a lion and a raven stretched its numerous, mismatched limbs, muscles rolling like steel cables under its corpse-pale skin.

"Shit," Sasrir cursed beside me, the word perfectly capturing the cold dread washing over our group. It was a Spire Messenger, a predator we were in no way equipped to fight. As we stood frozen in terror, the monster crashed down in front of us, sending shards of pavement flying like shrapnel. Its beady, intelligent eyes scanned us, landing and locking with a terrifying hunger—straight onto me.

I swallowed audibly, my throat suddenly bone-dry. There was no time for thought, only instinct. I immediately summoned the Unshadowed Crucifix, its familiar weight and warmth flaring to life in my palm. Simultaneously, Sasrir stepped directly in front of me, his shadow-cloaked form widening to shield my body with his own. The terse standoff lasted only a few heartbeats, the air thick with the beast's foul, metallic scent.

Then, with another ear-splitting shriek, the Spire Messenger pounced. It moved with impossible speed, a blur of pale flesh and dark feathers aimed directly at our position. Kora shouted a command that was lost in the roar of its charge, her stone skin bracing for an impact that would likely shatter her. Roric hefted his maul, a futile gesture against such overwhelming power.

Sasrir didn't flinch. As the beast's leading claws swept toward us, the shadows around him erupted. They coalesced into a solid wall of darkness, a shield that met the monstrous charge with a sound like tearing metal. The force of the blow still threw him back into me, and we tumbled together in a heap, the Crucifix flying from my grasp. The beast recoiled, shaking its head as if the shadows had stung it, giving us a precious second to scramble away. This was no longer a trial; it was a fight for survival against a nightmare made flesh.

I dismissed and then summoned the Crucifix again, thanking Guilythree for allowing such a thing to be possible, then steadied myself. Sasrir coughed up a globule of blood but didn't seem to have broken anything vital. "Can we kill it?" I asked in a low voice. 

"Are you out of your fucking mind?" was his response before he transformed into a shadow, wrapped around my thigh and pulled me away all in the blink of an eye. Where we stood, the mangled claw of the Spire Messenger slammed down into the old stone pavements. 

"The Unshadowed Crucifix can match Nephis for firepower but can't heal us, and using it would likely get you killed faster against this thing. We need to flee."

I took a breath and locked eyes with Kora across the street, my question going unspoken but still heard. "Roric, keep that thing distracted! Finn, try and put an arrow in its' eyes! Everyone else, stay on your feet and nimble-try and drive it off until you can escape!"

The big man took a deep breath as he heard that, but still bravely stepped forward to confront the twisted abomination.

I took a sharp breath, the air tasting of dust and ozone, and locked eyes with Kora across the rubble-strewn street. My question went unspoken but was clearly heard: *Do we fight?* Her jaw tightened, then she gave a single, sharp nod. "Roric, keep that thing distracted! Finn, try and put an arrow in its eyes!" she roared, her voice cutting through the creature's guttural hisses. "Everyone else, stay on your feet and nimble—we just need to drive it off until we can escape!"

The big man, Roric, took a deep, shuddering breath as the command settled on him. He looked at the twisted abomination, a being of nightmare and muscle, and still bravely stepped forward to confront it. His Brawler Aspect swelled his frame further, and he let out a defiant roar, slamming his maul against a chunk of masonry. The Spire Messenger's head swiveled, its beady eyes focusing on this new, noisy threat.

Finn didn't hesitate, nocking an arrow and letting it fly in one fluid motion. The projectile streaked through the air, aimed perfectly for the creature's left eye. But with a speed that defied its size, the beast twitched its head, and the arrow shattered harmlessly against its hardened beak. It was like trying to pierce solid rock. It let out a contemptuous shriek, a sound that promised a slow, painful death.

Ignoring the sting of the arrow, the Messenger lunged at Roric, its six forelimbs scything through the air. Roric met the charge, his maul swinging in a wide, powerful arc. The weapon connected with a sickening crunch against one of the beast's limbs, but two other claws raked across his chest. His leather armor tore like paper, and deep gashes welled with blood instantly. He grunted in pain, stumbling back but managing to keep his feet.

"Again, Finn!" Kora yelled, her own skin hardening to rough granite as she moved to flank the creature. She knew her strikes would be little more than annoyances, but she had to draw its attention from the heavily wounded Roric. She slammed a stone fist into the beast's feathered hip, the impact sounding like a hammer hitting a tree. The creature barely flinched.

Sasrir was a blur of motion, using the distraction to his advantage. He darted in from the beast's blind spot, his dagger aiming for the tendon at the back of one powerful hind leg. The blade bit deep, and black blood sprayed from the wound. The Messenger screeched in genuine pain this time, whipping its head around to snap at the fleeting shadow. But Sasrir was already gone, melting back into the ruins.

Its head swivelled, and those hungry eyes locked onto me once more. It took a single, earth-shaking step in my direction, completely ignoring Roric's weakened swings and Kora's pounding fists. The plan was falling apart. We weren't driving it off; we were just making it angrier. Cursing to myself, I held up the Crucifix and pressed my thumb against the top. Blood oozed from the skin and dripped down onto the Memory, causing the bronze covering to peel away and reveal a luminous blob of pure golden light underneath. 

Keeping Sasrir's warning in mind, I limited the power to a Priest of Light instead of an Unshadowed, and just the base of the Sequence 5. "Light of Holiness!"

A beam of true sunlight, not seen in the Forgotten Shore since the Nephilim fell from the stars, descended and struck the Spire Messenger straight on the crown of the head. A nauseating sizzling sound was born, and it smelt like rotten chicken had been cooked in gastric juices. When the light cleared, the Spire Messenger looked like a wax sculpture that had been held too close a candle for several minutes. However, the wound seemed to look worse than it was, because the monster let out another scream and then charged right at me.

It was then that Finn let loose another arrow, this one flying true and sticking into the right eye of the beast. It immediately toppled over in power, shaking its head and making noises that hurt mine. Panting heavily, I quickly gestured to the others and then began to run: while the beast was currently rolling around it pain, none of us had the confidence of finishing it off without suffering injuries, and the Messenger was writhing around too much for Finn to shoot his way to its brain.

Plus, the thing was still twice the size of a bus, so anyone who got close would be crushed by its frenetic scrambling.

Behind me, Sasrir materialised from the shadows and pulled me along. I saw Finn and Lyra following from the corner of my eye, but didn't spot Kora or Roric-perhaps they were on the other side of the Spire Messenger. After running for around ten minutes, we came to a stop under a crumbling wall, all taking our breath. I slumped to the floor, face pale as my body adjusted to the Crucifix's blood tax. Sasrir stood protectively by me, keeping an eye on Lyra and Finn near us.

After several minutes without anything chasing us, we finally relaxed and heaved a collective sigh. Once things had calmed down, Lyra turned to me and fixed her gaze of the Crucifix in my hand. "That thing...it's a Memory right? It dealt some serious harm to the Spire Messenger, what's its story?"

Thankfully, I already had a story thought up for this and wasn't flustered. "It's an Awakened Memory of the third Tier I got from my First Nightmare-it specialises in purifying and burning corrupted, and can support allies, but isn't very effective against Human foes."

The Spire Messenger was a Fallen Demon from what I remembered, so I had to emphasise that the Crucifix was "only" able to wound it because it was a counter towards monsters and not because it was actually stronger than Awakened. After all, nothing on the Forgotten Shore would drop something like this, and your First Nightmare was only meant to have enemies up to Awakened, though they can range from mere Beasts to a Titan in Class.

Lyra looked at me with scrutinizing eyes but didn't press me any further. Meanwhile, Finn had been checking out our surroundings for positioning and seemed to recognise where they were. "Alright, let's head back to the Castle...shit, we left the food behind when we ran."

"Our lives were more important," Sasrir shrugged and Lyra gave a grunt in agreement, but Finn was still annoyed. "Yeah well, now we need to make another trip before we're done. Sigh, hope Kora and Roric made it out alive..."

Picking myself off the ground, I grunted as my knees popped like an old man's. Sasrir gave me a mocking side-eye at the sound, and my mouth twitched. "In that case Seniors, please lead the way."

Chapter Text

The four of us moved quickly, sticking to the shadows of the crumbling city. We didn't speak, saving our breath for the run and listening for any sign of pursuit. The image of the Spire Messenger was burned into our minds, a fresh nightmare to fuel our pace. Every distant sound made us flinch, expecting that terrible shriek to fill the air again.

We finally saw the dark bulk of Bright Castle in the distance, a welcome if gloomy sight. The guards at the gate gave us a once-over, noting our ragged state and lack of supplies, but they waved us through without comment. We headed straight for the common area our group used, a dim hall with rough-hewn benches. I slumped onto one, the adrenaline crash making my hands shake.

An hour crawled by in tense silence. We just sat there, listening to the distant sounds of the castle. No one said what we were all thinking: that Kora and Roric weren't coming back. The mood was grim, the failure of the mission and the potential loss of two members hanging heavy in the air. Finn kept pacing, while Lyra stared blankly at the wall.

Just as hope was fading, a noise at the entrance made us all look up. Kora stumbled in, supporting a barely-conscious Roric. She was a mess, her stone-skin Aspect gone, revealing a face bruised and cut. Roric was worse; his left arm was gone just below the shoulder, the stump crudely cauterized. They were alive, but just barely.

Lyra and Finn were on their feet in an instant, rushing to their sides. "Thank God you made it!" Finn breathed, helping Kora lower Roric onto a bench. "What happened? Your arm..." Lyra's voice was tight with concern as she looked at the big man, who was pale and sweating. I stood up too, putting on my best look of shocked relief.

"We led it on a chase through the old canals," Kora rasped, her voice raw. "Roric bought us a chance to hide... cost him an arm." She looked at her missing limb, her expression a mix of pain and grim acceptance. I moved closer, my face a mask of feigned sympathy. "I'm just glad you're both alive," I said, my tone dripping with false concern. It was a necessary performance to seem like a team player. I didn't hate or even dislike the two of course, but I didn't particularly care for them either. If they were dead, I would probably feel worse, but they were just injured. Though Roric might be out of the job with that injury...

"We need to get them to the healers, now," Lyra said, all business again. Finn and I helped get Roric to his feet, supporting his immense weight as we moved. Kora leaned on Lyra, hobbling along. The walk to the infirmary was slow and sombre. We left them in the care of a tired-looking Handmaiden who knew her business.

An hour later, the four of us who were still whole regrouped. The mood was different now; the immediate crisis was over, but the mission was still a failure. "We still need that food," Finn stated, the pragmatism of survival overriding his worry. "We can't go back empty-handed." Lyra nodded in agreement, her jaw set.

"Where to?" Sasrir asked, his voice its usual low monotone. He seemed utterly unaffected by the morning's events. Finn pulled out a rough map. "Different sector. Further west. Should be safer." He didn't sound entirely convinced, but we all knew we had no other choice. We had to recoup our losses.

We set out again, the atmosphere heavy with unspoken thoughts. This time, our journey was even more cautious. Every shadow seemed to hold a new threat, and we moved like ghosts through the skeletal remains of the city. The confidence from the start of the first trip was completely gone, replaced by a weary vigilance.

The new area was less collapsed, the buildings standing more intact. It felt eerily quiet. Lyra took point, her Farsight constantly scanning the upper floors and side alleys. "Anything?" Finn whispered. She shook her head slowly. "Nothing moving. It's... too quiet." That was often a worse sign than seeing monsters.

The new area was less collapsed, the buildings standing more intact. It felt eerily quiet. Lyra took point, her Farsight constantly scanning the upper floors and side alleys. 

We turned a corner and found our obstacle. It wasn't a Spire Messenger, thank God, but it was disgusting. A massive, pulsating blob of flesh, like a giant meatball, blocked the entire street. Its surface was studded with dozens of punctured, milky eyes that oozed a thick, clear mucus. It had no discernible limbs, just a slow, rolling form that squelched as it moved.

"Ugh, a Glutton," Finn groaned, his nose wrinkling in distaste. "Just our luck." The creature seemed to sense us, its many eyes swivelling in our direction. It began to slowly, inexorably, roll toward us, leaving a trail of slime in its wake. It wasn't fast, but it was big enough to be a serious roadblock.

"Are we fighting this thing?" I asked, eyeing the oozing mucus with revulsion. Lyra nodded, notching an arrow. "We have to. It's blocking the only clear path to the site Finn marked." She let her arrow fly, and it sank deep into the creature's spongy flesh with a wet thwomp. The Glutton didn't even seem to notice.

Sasrir and I exchanged a look. This was going to be messy. He darted in, his dagger slashing a deep gash across its side. Thick, foul-smelling fluid welled up from the cut, but the wound began to close almost immediately. My own stabs with a sword were even less effective; the weapon just sank into its body and was hard to pull free.

The fight was less a battle and more a tedious, gruesome chore. We hacked and slashed, dodging its slow, crushing rolls and the occasional spurt of acidic mucus. It was like trying to fight a giant, angry pudding. Finn's arrows stuck out of it like pins in a pincushion, and only Sasrir's degenerative shadow weapons made the flesh roll and convulse with each attack.

After what felt like an eternity of this, the creature finally stopped moving. Its many eyes clouded over, and it deflated with a long, wet sigh, collapsing into a stinking puddle of goo and semi-digested matter. We all stood back, panting and covered in flecks of slime. The smell was unimaginable.

"Why even bother?" I asked, wiping my face with a relatively clean part of my sleeve. "These things aren't tough, but they taste absolutely terrible," Finn explained, retrieving his less-damaged arrows. "Most Hunters avoid them unless they're truly desperate. The meat's practically useless, and the smell gets into everything. They're one of the few Dormant species in the Dark City, and they only survive because all the other monsters dislike eating them as much as we do." He looked mournfully at one arrow that was too coated in gunk to save.

After giving the dissolving Glutton a wide berth, its stench still clinging to our clothes, we pressed on. Finn led us to a low, mottled stone building that seemed to have sunk partially into the ground. An odd, chittering sound emanated from within, a dry rustle that set my teeth on edge. Lyra held up a hand, her eyes glowing faintly as she peered inside.

"Feathered serpents," she confirmed, her voice a low whisper. "A whole nest of them. Dozens." Finn let out a low groan, rubbing the back of his neck. "Right. Nasty little things. Their gaze is a soul attack—look them directly in the eyes, and it feels like your mind is being shredded. We usually just avoid them." He looked at the building with clear distaste.

Sasrir, who had been a silent observer until now, finally spoke. "I can glide in as a shadow. Kill them without being detected." He stated it as a simple fact, not a boast. "They won't know I'm there until it's too late." Lyra and Finn turned to him, their expressions a mix of scepticism and hope. "You're sure?" Lyra asked. "One wrong move, and their collective screech will bring every predator in a five-block radius down on us."

Sasrir gave a single, slow nod. "There will be no screech." The confidence in his tone was absolute. After a brief, silent exchange, Finn and Lyra agreed. "Alright, shadow-man," Finn said. "Show us what you've got. We'll be right here, ready to slam this door shut if it goes sideways."

Without another word, Sasrir seemed to dissolve. The shadows at his feet flowed upward, consuming his form until he was nothing more than a darker patch in the dim light. This patch then slid silently under the gap in the crumbling doorway, disappearing into the chittering darkness within. I stood with the others, trying to look as anxious as they did.

The wait was tense. The only sound was the incessant, rustling chitter from inside the building. Finn had an arrow nocked, pointed at the door. Lyra's knuckles were white where she gripped her knife. I just listened, stretching my senses, but I couldn't detect anything from Sasrir—no sound, no shift in the air, nothing. It was as if he had truly ceased to exist.

After exactly five minutes, the shadow flowed back out from under the door, coalescing into Sasrir's form. He was pristine, not a drop of blood or a speck of dust on him. "It is done," he said, his voice flat. The chittering from inside the building had stopped. The silence was now absolute.

Finn stared, his mouth slightly agape. "You're kidding me. All of them?" Sasrir just looked at him. Lyra cautiously pushed the door open a little wider. The interior was dim, but we could see the twisted, feathered forms of the serpents littering the floor. Each one had a single, precise puncture wound at the base of its skull. There was no blood, no sign of a struggle. It was a masterclass in silent, efficient butchery.

"Well, I'll be damned," Finn breathed out, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Remind me never to get on your bad side." He clapped Sasrir on the shoulder, a gesture the shadowy figure endured without reaction. "Alright, let's move! This is a goldmine. Their feathers are valuable, and the venom sacs are worth a small fortune if they're intact."

We moved in quickly, the mood entirely transformed. The grim tension from the Glutton fight and the earlier Spire Messenger encounter was replaced by focused, profitable work. Finn and Lyra started the grisly task of skinning and harvesting, their movements practiced and efficient. They showed me how to carefully remove the iridescent feathers and extract the small, pulsating sacs from the serpents' jaws without rupturing them.

"See?" Finn said, holding up a perfectly extracted sac. "This little beauty can tip an arrow or a blade. The soul-shock isn't lethal, but it'll stun anything short of a Fallen for a good ten seconds. Gives you all the time in the world to finish the job." I nodded, storing the information away. It was a useful tool, one I hadn't considered before.

The work was messy, but it felt productive. For the first time since joining this group, we were accomplishing a goal without disaster or near-death experiences. The simple, mundane act of harvesting, of building a tangible resource, was a strange comfort. I played my part, the eager apprentice, asking questions and following their instructions to the letter.

"Not bad for a couple of newcomers," Lyra commented as she packed a bundle of pristine feathers into her pack. She gave me a appraising look, the suspicion in her eyes having lessened considerably. "You two might just work out after all." I offered a modest smile. "We're just trying to pull our weight."

Within twenty minutes, our packs were bulging with valuable materials. We had stripped the nest clean. As we exited the building, the quality of the light had changed. The oppressive, constant gloom of the Dark City was deepening, the crimson hue from the Spire above growing richer as the unseen sun began to recede. "Right on time," Finn said, hefting his heavy pack. "Let's not press our luck. Back to the Castle."

The return journey was swift and, for once, entirely uneventful. We encountered no more monsters, no more bizarre obstacles. The ruins were silent except for our footsteps. The success of the final leg of the mission seemed to have lifted a weight off all of us, even Sasrir, whose silence felt less menacing and more contemplative.

The guards at the Bright Castle gate gave our bloodied but heavily-laden group a nod of respect as we passed through. The look of schadenfreude from the morning was gone, replaced by a professional acknowledgment. We had returned successful, and in this place, that was all that mattered. We headed straight for the quartermaster's station to log our haul.

As the valuable feathers and venom sacs were counted and stored, I felt a small sense of accomplishment. It was a façade, of course, a single step on a much longer and darker path. But for today, we had played our parts perfectly. We had proven our utility, saved two seasoned Hunters, and secured valuable resources. As the castle's gloom enveloped us once more, it felt a little less like a prison and a little more like a base of operations. The game was afoot, and we were finally learning how to play.

Of course, the most important thing was making sure our value was appreciated by Gemma. Impressing him, and the big man behind him, was our end goal. Still, I enjoyed working with other people, and being able to talk to someone who didn't already know my mind like the back of his hand. As much as Sasrir dumbed himself down for me, our thought processes were still too similar to really feel like I was exchanging opinions and values with an actual separate person. He was me and I was him, after all.

I was snapped out of my thoughts by the sound of approaching footsteps. Looking up, I saw Gemma approaching me with Kora and Finn by his side. Glancing between me and Sasrir, he gestured for us to follow with his chin. As we walked down the blackened corridors, he started the conversation.

"Well, I heard the review of your mettle, and I can't say it was too shabby. That trinket you have on you, what's its upper limit?"

"Well, apart from blinding humans if aimed at the face, it can probably burst a hole through a creature made of shadow or corruption. If they're covered in scales or armour though it probably won't work as well" I lied smoothly, downplaying the power of the Unshadowed Crucifix but still within the bounds of usefulness. 

It seemed to work, as Gemma no longer paid attention to me and instead focused on Sasrir. "As for your, Mr Black, I'm much more impressed. Finn here told me that you dealt with a dozen Feathered Serpents by yourself in just a few minutes? Without even getting a scratch, at that."

"It was just type advantage" Sasrir deflected the thinly-veiled probing. "They have no way of hurting me so long as I remain in shadow form, though I have to materialise to harm them in turn." A lie, he could form weapons while still hiding, but Gemma didn't need to know that. Especially about the Shadow Curse.

Gemma surveyed him with narrowed eyes but didn't press any further. We had arrived at a room I recognised as being a hotspot for Hunters, and had a solid guess what was going on. Sure enough, Gemma swung the door open to reveal a row of beds and other teenagers scattered about. "Welcome to the Hunter's Quarters, where you will be staying for quite a while. In other words, congratulations of being hired. Any bed without a jacket on it is free, pick whatever one you like."

Chapter Text

A week bled into the next, the days marked not by a sun but by the grim rhythm of survival. Just because Gemma had hired us didn't mean he trusted us. We were on a long, invisible leash, our every move observed and our every decision weighed. The initial trial had ended, but the real test of our integration was just beginning.

Our world shrank to the hunting patterns of the Dark City. Each morning, we'd meet with Lyra and Finn, the four of us forming a new, tentative unit. The objective was always the same: secure resources, avoid the big predators, and make it back before the light fully receded. It was grueling, repetitive work, a brutal apprenticeship in the economy of this ruined world.

Sasrir was the faster learner, his instincts for terrain and threat assessment seeming almost preternatural. He could read the subtle signs of a monster's passage or the structural weakness of a building with a single, sweeping glance. While I was still processing the environment, he had already mapped three escape routes and identified two potential ambush points. His efficiency was undeniable, but it was a cold, silent proficiency that kept the others at a distance.

I, on the other hand, was the more approachable one. I made a conscious effort to be available for the small, meaningless conversations that built camaraderie. I'd ask Finn about different arrowhead types, or Lyra about the shifting patrol routes of the Spire Messengers. I listened more than I spoke, and when I did speak, my words were carefully chosen. My almost telepathic abilities to read surface thoughts and emotions allowed me to always say the best thing at the right moment, to offer a word of encouragement or a piece of relevant advice that felt intuitively right.

Kora rejoined our squad near the end of the first week, her return a quiet affair. The bruises on her face had faded to a sickly yellow, but a new hardness had settled in her eyes. She moved with a slight stiffness, a permanent reminder of her fight with the Messenger. She didn't speak of Roric, and we knew better than to ask. His absence was a silent, heavy presence in our group, a vacant space where a giant used to be.

The man was still alive, but a Hunter with only one arm wasn't much of a Hunter any more. Gemma cared enough for his men to probably look out for him as long as he could, but Roric's days of prosperity were likely behind him.

The dynamics of our hunts shifted with Kora's return. She was quieter, more withdrawn, her leadership now a series of terse commands rather than the bold proclamations of before. She watched Sasrir and me with a guarded, clinical interest, analyzing our every move. We were no longer just new blood; we were the ones who had succeeded where her partner had not.

I used this to my advantage. During a lull in one hunt, as we took shelter from a sudden, acidic drizzle, I mentioned offhandedly how Roric's initial distraction had likely saved all our lives. I didn't embellish or flatter; I simply stated it as a tactical fact. Kora didn't respond, but she gave me a long, measured look, and the tension in her shoulders seemed to lessen by a fraction of a degree. It was a small crack in her armor, carefully chiseled.

Back in the Hunter's Quarters, my campaign of charm continued. The large room was a chaotic mix of bunk beds, personal stashes, and the low hum of exhausted conversation. I made a point of moving through it, not as a recluse like Sasrir, but as a participant. I'd help a younger Hunter mend a torn pack strap, or share a useful tip about which fungi in the eastern ruins were actually edible.

My "knack for finding things" became a useful, if minor, legend. I'd "stumble" upon a cache of usable scrap metal or a nest of non-aggressive, egg-laying creatures, always presenting it as dumb luck. It built a reputation for being useful without being threatening. People started to greet me by name, their nods of acknowledgment slowly warming into genuine smiles.

My memory of the Forgotten Shore was sharpened thanks to my Pathway, so remembering where certain things were placed was an easy way to gain favour, though I was also wrong about things. 

Sasrir, by contrast, was a specter. He claimed a top bunk in the far corner, a space that seemed to grow colder and darker by his mere presence. He spoke to no one, and after a few failed attempts at interaction, the others gave him a wide berth. They respected his lethal efficiency in the field, but in the dorm, he was an unsettling mystery. The only people he spoke with were myself and occasionally Finn or Lyra-but mostly me.

Our relationship drew several raised eyebrows, and some Hunters even jokingly referred to him as my Echo. I'll admit, I smiled at the jab, and I swear Sasrir did too. 

By the time our tenth day at Bright Castle ended, the shift in perception was palpable. Where once there had been suspicion and sidelong glances, there was now a grudging acceptance. I had shared rations, told self-deprecating stories of my early failures in the Labyrinth, and had a seemingly innate ability to diffuse minor tensions between other Hunters. Every person in the dorms had a somewhat positive opinion of me.

From his bunk, Sasrir watched the exchange, his expression unreadable in the gloom. Later, when the room was asleep, his voice was a whisper only I could hear. "You play the social game well." It was neither praise nor criticism, merely an observation. "It is a different kind of hunt."

I looked out at the sleeping forms of the Hunters, their faces relaxed in a rare peace. They were starting to see me as one of their own, a reliable member of the crew. They had no idea that every friendly word, every shared laugh, was a calculated move in a much larger game. Well, not to sound like some manipulative mastermind bastard-I wasn't. I lacked the intelligence and experience for that, but I could still play a bunch of kids who had spent the last few years in a cesspit killing for their lives. People like that were the most eager to believe in friendship, or any connection at all.

**********************************

After successfully establishing my "Nice Guy" persona, it was time to take things up a notch. Anybody can be kind; I wanted to be memorable in a special way. And for that, I would expand a little bit more upon the identity I had assumed in this world-that of the Human Saviour. I would become a disciple of a forgotten God, a Christian zealot in a world that had long discarded the name of Christ.

It began the next morning. Before the bland, nutrient-paste breakfast, I made the sign of the cross over my tray and bowed my head. "Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty, through Christ our Lord. Amen." The words, spoken in a clear, steady voice, cut through the usual morning grumble. Hunters at my table froze, spoons halfway to their mouths, staring.

Within days, my routine was entrenched. I prayed before every meal, I recited the Lord's Prayer during moments of quiet, and I began using my free time outside the castle walls. I would offer a hand to the struggling, telling them, "The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want," or assure a frightened child that, "God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble." To the desperate inhabitants of the Outskirts, I became a strange but welcome beacon of an alien comfort. While I couldn't give much, at least one person got a meal that day.

Inside Bright Castle, I was a spectacle. The Host, in particular, found me hilarious. They'd cross themselves exaggeratedly as I passed, shouting, "Praise the Lord!" in mocking tones. They'd ask me to bless their weapons, snickering. I would just smile or sigh, never taking offense or rising to the bait. They never went particularly hard on me though, since my charity extended to them as well, plus Sasrir was a constant warning over my shoulder. 

The reaction from Gemma was the most telling. He caught me on my way to a hunt, quietly murmuring a Psalm. "What in the hells are you on about now, kid?" he asked, his tone a mix of annoyance and curiosity. "Seeking strength in the Lord, sir," I replied calmly. "For He is a shield to all who take refuge in Him." Gemma stared for a second, then let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. "You're cracked. But as long as you kill monsters, pray to whatever rock you want." He walked off, shaking his head, and my "mission" was officially tolerated.

For most Hunters, I was free entertainment. They'd watch me as one would a peculiar animal, placing bets on which forgotten Bible verse I'd quote next. "Adam, my socks have a hole! Can your God fix that?" one would yell, and I would reply with utter seriousness, "Man looks on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart." The laughter was a gift; it cemented their view of me as a harmless holy fool, blinding them to my true intentions.

And that was the difference between me and Nephis in our actions. When Changing Star did it, it was as an outsider, a foreign presence that was exerting influence over the rabble. But when it was me? I was a Hunter, one of Gunlaug's one, plus he probably didn't even know I existed at this point, maybe only as "the guy Sasrir hangs out with". My acts were smaller, my presence far less threatening and my prestige non-existent. 

But I still made the difference where I wanted it.

The shift began, starting with the Artisans and Handmaidens. These were the people who mended broken bodies and broken tools, who understood suffering on a visceral level. They saw my actions not as comedy, but as compassion. When I helped an old Artisan, quoting, "Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me," I saw a flicker of genuine reflection in his eyes. When I assisted a Handmaiden, speaking of the Good Samaritan, her usual weary cynicism softened.

During a long trek, Finn, ever the pragmatist, asked the question on everyone's mind. "This 'God' of yours... you really think He's out there? Listening?" I met his gaze with what I hoped was a look of peaceful conviction. "I believe we are all made in His image, Finn, and that even here, in this darkness, His grace can find us. I have to believe that." It was the perfect, unassailable answer of faith—it required no proof and invited no further debate. He just grunted, and the subject was dropped.

Sasrir observed my performance with his usual silent intensity. One evening, as I returned from the Outskirts, his voice came from the shadows. "This is a dangerous fiction. You offer them a hope you yourself do not possess. The fall from such a height will be severe." His warning was valid, but it missed the point.

"The fall is not for me," I replied, my voice low and stripped of its pious affect. "It's for them. Right now, they see a shepherd. Let them. A shepherd can guide his flock anywhere."

And then there was the Acting side of things: I could feel it, a bubbling sensation that only ever grew stronger as the days passed. From Spectator to Hypnotist, Confession granted a great chance to use my powers and digest the Potion. Plus there was the fact that Sasrir, as a soon-to-be Rose Bishop, needed a religious organization to Act himself. In fact, I had guessed that the lack of one was the reason why he had failed to completely digest his current Sequence. An ascetic had religious connotations after all, not merely someone with temperance.

"I can also feel the change, yes, but it seems to have reached a bottleneck. To advance to Rose Bishop, and you to Psychiatrist, we need to clear the Crimson Spire and return to the Waking World. We have reached the limit as Dormants."

"Don't forget the Soul Cores" I reminded him. "You're only a few away from being a monster, while I'm only half to becoming a Devil. If we can both become Tyrants by the time the Cohort arrive, then we'll be the strongest Awakened on this planet once we wake up."

"Right. Well, good luck with your missionary work."

I would need it, no doubt, as the world of Shadow Slave was one with zero fervour or respect for the divine. It was hard to, I suppose, when it's already confirmed that the Gods are dead and buried, and all around you is a living hell. Still, that only meant I had to try harder. 

'And the Curator did say that I could switch Pathways if I found the opportunity...'

Looking down at m chest, the Unshadowed Crucifix glowed softly with a golden light, revealing the small smile on my face. 'Since I already know all the Potion formula up to Dreamweaver, I can switch to Unshadowed and then back, and rely on a Boon from the Uniqueness in my soul to also get the powers of a Manipulator. Sigh, if only I had the Chaos Sea itself, then I could use all five Pathways...'

Chapter Text

Sometimes, in the dead quiet of the castle, I think about my old life. It feels like a dream, or a story about someone else. It was a simple life, mostly. School, friends, the usual worries. Nothing special. Nothing that screamed "future cult leader in a hell-dimension."

But there was always a part of me that didn't fit. I never really liked the classic heroes. They were too perfect, too predictable. They always followed the rules, even when the rules were stupid. They were boring. I was always drawn to the other side of the story. The villains were just more interesting. They had ambition. They wanted to break the world and build something new from the pieces.

Then there were the anti-heroes. They were my real favorites. The ones who lived in the gray areas. They weren't trying to save the world, but they weren't trying to destroy it either. They had their own code, their own messy, complicated reasons for what they did. They did bad things for what they thought were good reasons, or good things in the worst ways possible. That felt more real to me. The world isn't black and white; it's a million shades of gray.

But my absolute favorite trope was the hidden mastermind. The quiet one in the background. The one everyone dismissed as harmless or irrelevant. While the heroes and villains were busy fighting their loud, obvious war, the mastermind was moving pieces on a chessboard no one else could see. Their power wasn't in strength, but in knowledge. In seeing the patterns everyone else missed.

I used to fantasize about that. About being the one pulling the strings. It wasn't about being evil. It was about the intellectual challenge. It was the ultimate puzzle. It was about control in a world that felt chaotic. To have everyone underestimate you, to see you as a side character in their story, when you're actually the one writing the plot. That was the real power.

It was why I originally got into this novel, why I was so hooked with Sunny at the start. Really, Guiltythree was nothing short of a genius with that-creating such an intricate and compelling beginning and world, all with as little as actually possible. Credit where credits due, and all that. Still, I preferred the world of Mysteries, with its crimson moon and steampunk monstrosities. Adam and Klein and Roselle and Amon...they were so interesting to me back then. 

And chaos… I’ve always had a strange relationship with chaos. It terrified me, like it does everyone. But I also found it fascinating. A perfectly ordered system is predictable, stagnant. But chaos… chaos is potential. It’s a blank canvas. In the midst of chaos, the old rules don't apply. The playing field is leveled. Anyone with a sharp enough mind can step in and start shaping the chaos into a new order. Their order.

Coming here, to the Forgotten Shore, was the ultimate chaos. It was the end of every world I knew. The terror was real, the pain was real. But so was the… opportunity. This place is pure, unadulterated chaos. Society has collapsed into squalor and tyranny. Power is the only law. It’s a perfect breeding ground for a new system. For my system.

So when I put on this act, this mask of the gentle, praying boy, it’s not just an act. It’s a role I was born to play. It’s me finally stepping into the fantasy. I get to be the unassuming face that hides the calculating mind. I get to be the one everyone laughs at, while I’m quietly mapping their weaknesses and ambitions.

Gemma thinks I'm a useful oddity. The Host thinks I'm a hilarious joke. The Handmaidens think I'm a kind soul. They're all looking at the mask. They see the anti-hero doing questionable things for a "good" cause, or they see the harmless fool. They don't see the mastermind lurking beneath the surface. They don't see the person who is perfectly comfortable with chaos, because I know how to wield it.

Their laughter, their pity, their condescension—it’s all fuel. It’s the perfect camouflage. In a world of brutal strength and obvious power plays, no one suspects the quiet young man who talks about God and helps the poor. They don't see the strings I'm attaching to them. They don't feel the gentle tugs that are already starting to guide them.

This world is a tragedy. But for me? It’s the ultimate sandbox. It’s a world of chaos waiting for a new order. And I’m in the perfect position to provide it. They’re all players in a game, fighting for scraps on the board. They haven't realized yet that I'm the one who owns it. And when I've made my order, when I've shifted this world to my way? Well, I'll probably retire to the countryside and spend the rest of my days sipping alcohol by the beach. 

That is, if the Curator doesn't yank me back for round two.

*******************************

The familiar, cold gloom of the Hunter's Quarters was my first sensation, followed by the chorus of snores and rustling blankets. Another morning in Bright Castle. A full month had bled into the next, each day a near-perfect copy of the last. The initial turbulence of our arrival had settled into a rigid routine, and with that routine, opinions of us had hardened into set, predictable shapes.

I swung my legs over the side of my bunk, the stone floor icy against my bare feet. A month of this. A month of prayers, of hunts, of playing my part. The reactions were now as routine as the days themselves. The Guards, when I passed them on my way to the outer walls, still wore those familiar smirks. They saw me as just another survivor with a strange hobby, whose antics broke the monotony of their watch. It was a comfortable disdain, one I’d carefully cultivated.

The Hunters were different. Their mockery had lost its sharp, testing edge and settled into something almost familial, like the way siblings tease each other. They’d roll their eyes at my prayers, but they’d also toss me an extra strip of dried meat if supplies were good. They’d joke about my "invisible friend," but they never hesitated to provide backup or share a useful tip if I asked. It was a strange, grudging form of acceptance, built on a foundation of shared risk and proven, if eccentric, utility.

My relationship with the Handmaidens was the most successfully cultivated. They definitely looked kindly upon me now. Where others saw foolishness, they saw steadfast compassion. A few of the younger ones, I noticed, would sometimes linger a little too long when I spoke, their eyes soft. They had been caught, not by any grand romantic gesture, but by the gentle personality and pretty appearance I projected so diligently.

And yes, it was pretty. I ran a hand over my annoyingly smooth jawline. Try as I might with what limited exercise I could manage, I couldn’t seem to make myself look more muscular or imposing. My face remained stubbornly boyish, my frame lean rather than broad. I looked more like a choirboy than a warrior. I’d hoped my signature golden beard would grow in soon, something to add a shadow of maturity, a hint of grit. But for now, I was stuck with the face of a saint, not a soldier.

I went through my morning ritual, the motions so practiced they required no thought. The murmured prayers, the careful folding of my thin blanket. Around me, the room stirred to life. A Hunter named Jax tossed a ball of bundled socks at my head. "Say one for me, preacher!" he called out with a grin. I caught it and gave him a patient smile. "His mercy is boundless, Jax. Even for you." The room chuckled, the sound warm and inclusive. This was my place now, my carefully constructed niche.

As I headed out toward the mess hall, I passed a trio of Handmaidens. The red-haired one from my first day, Elara, gave me a small, genuine smile. "Good morning, Adam." Her friends glanced at each other with knowing looks. I returned the greeting with a nod, my expression the picture of humble serenity. It was all working exactly as planned. The Guards saw a boy, the Hunters saw a quirky brother, and the Handmaidens saw a kind soul. They were neither right not wrong in their assessments: I was all these things, but still more than the sum of my parts.

The satisfaction of playing my role almost made me start humming a tune, but of course, Sasrir had to burst my bubble. Sliding in silently beside me, his steps synchronized perfectly with mine. "You know, if you did that to someone else, they would probably stab you in fright" I said to him.

He shrugged, unbothered by the thought. "They'd have to hit me first. And besides, seeing your cheery face, I couldn't help but try and scare it off you."]

"You're a sadist" I rolled my eyes in fake exasperation. 

"And you're a chuunibyou" he responded, amusement dancing beneath his monotone timbre. I coughed awkwardly, waving my hand at him in embarrassment. "Please, it's not that bad. I'm just doing what I'm meant to. I mean, the Curator obviously provided me with this role for a reason, right? Besides, isn't it fun?"

Sasrir hummed in acknowledgement, his gaze looking out the nearby window. "I suppose there is a certain charm to it. Watching people struggling to hold back their fright when I appear behind them always lifts my spirits. You know, they've started calling me a reaper, out in the Outskirts. I suspect it'll only be a month or two more before they say I snatch babies from cribs."

Now that got a laugh out of me. According to the division of manpower, Sasrir was the front while I was in the shadows-just as our Pathways dictate. While this was intended to boost my own reputation, it also had the unexpected side effect of alienating Sasrir and turning into some sort of bogeyman. While he went out on hunts with me and the rest of the squad, he always branched off on his own and returned with a monster carcass in hand. As the weeks went by, his reputation as a monster slayer built and solidified into the current legend. 

"It's a good thing you're already a Hunter, or else you would have gotten the Effie treatment from Gunlaug. Gemma's already tried to pry some information about you out of me, but all I've given him is the fact we're brothers."

"Brothers?" Sasrir raised an eyebrow at that. "Even with my shadow cloaking, people can tell we look nothing alike."

"Brothers from a different mother," I responded breezily. "My dad and your mom, with little brother Amon on the way."

"As long as I'm not the one that has to give birth to him" Sasrir snorted, annoyed by my previous teasing. 

We fell into a comfortable silence, the two of us watching the sunrise over the Dark City and reveal its decayed glory. After a minute of this, I spoke up. "Any news on the whereabouts of Athena?"

"Some, but mostly when she takes the initiate herself. I'm afraid of approaching her directly, but trying to make it look like an accidental run in probably isn't going to work at this rate either."

"We can't take on that Devil Knight without her," I sighed, gently rubbing the cross around my neck. "Not to mention acquiring the other Lord Shards. The Crown, at least, requires her presence-unless we can convince Seishan and Gemma to leave the City with us."

"Not likely."

"And the Soul Devourer?"

Sasrir's expression hardened. "I'm not going near that tree. My Listener powers still activate on their own if they receive too strong a probe, and while I'm confidant in my own mental strength, I don't want to risk hurting you by accident. The Unshadowed Domain requires too big a blood tax to defeat both the Tree and the Centurion Demon. We'll need two to engage it, and one to stay back to protect you."

"No Blood Weave or Mask then" I said dejectedly. The fact two Divine treasures were just lying forgotten in the ground was enough to infuriate me beyond words, but there was nothing I could do about it. We were too weak, too lacking, to make the most of our information advantage. 

Seeing me frowning, a smile smile appeared on Sasrir's face as he put his hand on my shoulder. "Well, no need to be so upset. I did manage to find one thing in this godforsaken city at least."

"Oh yeah? What's that?"

"I think I know where we can find Saint."

Chapter Text

I leaned against the cold, rough stone of the outer wall, the wind tugging at my clothes. The usual chaos of the Outskirts was a distant murmur below. In my hands, several sheets of coarse, homemade paper rustled softly. My focus was there, eyes narrowed on the tip of the feather quill in my hand.

It was a strange thing, this quill. It had no inkpot, and its tip was clean. Yet, as I moved it across the page, dark, crisp words appeared. A green gemstone, no larger than my fingertip, was set into the feather's shaft, pulsing with a faint, internal light. The words it wrote weren't in English, but in a script from my Earth which seemed to have died out by now./ Well, it was dying back then anyways, so I would be survived if it was still around today.

I was making a list. It was a catalogue of names, locations, and objects, a private map of my ambitions here. Two entries at the top had clean lines struck through them—Moonlight and Starlight. Two more, further down, were marked with a careful star: Midnight and Blood Weave. And one, a single name at the very bottom of the page, was now circled with a slow, deliberate stroke: Saint.

I was so absorbed in staring at that circled name, contemplating the path to acquiring everything like a scavengers hunt, that I almost didn't notice his approach.

"You look like a general plotting a campaign," Sasrir's voice murmured, low enough that the wind almost stole it. He didn't look at the paper, his gaze instead scanning the horizon, ever the watchful shadow.

I didn't jump. I was too used to his sudden arrivals by now. "Something like that," I replied, my voice quiet. I didn't try to hide the list from him. He was the only other piece on the board who knew it existed.

He finally glanced down, his shadowed eyes flicking over the script. "You're actually using that? I thought you hated learning it in school?"

"I did. But it's even deader here than in our homeland, and I don't know any other language. Unless you want me to leave it lying around in plain English."

"You could just burn it when you're done looking at it."

"And have to redo it every time I want to add something? No thanks, too much effort. Besides, consider it a sort of memento from Earth."

Fine. But why are you using the Quill of Alzuhod to do it?"

I looked down at the quill in my hands, the green gem shimmering brightly. "Well, I figured it was only fitting. Besides, ever since I reshaped the Visionary Uniqueness I haven't actually taken it out of my Soul Sea. I might as well use it for something, or else what would be the point?"

"How very philosophical of you."

"Yeah yeah, enough of the ribbing. So, where do we go from here?"

Getting serious, Sasrir unveiled a map from within his cloak and showed it to me. "We go north for about ten minutes, then northeast for fifteen. I've heard people say there are stone monsters in the area, and it's still within a certain range of the Cathedral."

"So within Sunny's hunting range" I added. "Alright then, let's set off. I just hope we're actually lucky enough to get the Echo. Imagine after all this planning, the Spell just decides to fuck with us?"

"If you're that worried, write a prophecy with that Quill of yours. What's in the rest of those pages anyways?"

I flicked them over with a grin, showing Sasrir the words "fuck, marry, kill" written on top followed by a long list of names. Sasrir read through them quickly before fixing me a blank stare.

"Rain, Tyris, Jet...even Song? Seriously?"

I was quick to defend myself. "I'd wait until Rain's an adult of course, what do you take me for?"

Sasrir rolled his eyes. "Right, so you're just a necrophile, not a paedophile. Much better."

"What?"

"Jet and Song are corpses, remember? The Queen of Worms got one of Anvil's swords through her heart and Jet is literally a zombie...or would a vampire be more fitting actually? Anyways, just don't."

"Damn" I scrunched the paper in my hand in frustration, before carefully smoothing it out again. Getting good paper on the Forgotten Shore was a pain in the ass, as the Artisans don't really prioritise making it. I didn't want to waste any.

The northern road was a graveyard of rust and shattered concrete, just as we’d planned. The first few monsters we encountered were little more than target practice. A scuttling thing with too many legs, a floating orb of acidic gas—they never stood a chance. Or rather, Sasrir never gave them a chance.

I didn’t even have to lift a finger. He’d simply gesture, and the shadows at the creatures’ feet would twist and coil, solidifying into inky black hands that wrapped around throats or crushed carapaces. There was no sound, no struggle. One moment they were there, the next they were just… gone, leaving behind only a faintly glowing Soul Shard. I collected them, the warmth of the shards a familiar sensation in my palm. It was efficient, almost boring.

We reached the next intersection, a wider plaza where several broken streets converged. And that’s where our easy stroll ended. The crossroads was occupied. It looked like a large, grey-furred monkey at first glance, but its movements were all wrong, jerky and uncoordinated. As it turned, I saw why. Its back was a seething mass of pale, worm-like parasites, their bodies buried deep in its flesh, their heads writhing in the open air.

An Awakened Devil. I felt a familiar thrill, the arrogance of foreknowledge. A mere Awakened Devil, I had killed two Fallen Tyrants-this was nothing to me. "I've got this," I said, my tone a bit too confident. I summoned the Unshadowed Crucifix, its holy light flaring to life.

I lunged, aiming to purify the wretched thing. But the monkey-devil moved with a sudden, shocking speed, dodging the Crucifix's glow. The worms on its back didn't just writhe; one of them detached, shooting through the air like a pale, fleshy arrow. I barely twisted aside, the worm slamming into the wall behind me with a wet thud where my head had just been.

My arrogance evaporated, replaced by a cold jolt of fear. Sasrir was already moving, shadows lashing out to bind the creature's limbs. But the worms were a separate entity, lashing out independently, forcing him to divide his attention. This wasn't a target practice dummy. This was a fight.

"Team up!" I barked, the command sharp, all pretence of easy superiority gone. I stopped trying for a grand, purifying blow and focused on distraction, using the Crucifix's light to herd the creature, to blind the writhing parasites. They sizzled and shrieked, writhing on the ground as they cooked. Sasrir, freed from defending against the projectile worms, intensified his assault. The main shadow-tendrils tightened, and a dozen smaller, sharper ones formed, stabbing into the monster’s body like needles.

It was over in seconds after that. The creature collapsed, the light in its eyes dying, the parasites on its back going still. I stood there, panting, a thin, stinging scratch on my cheek from a near-miss. It was nothing, a tiny injury. But it was a warning.

We absorbed the larger, brighter Soul Shard it left behind. The power was a welcome surge, but it couldn't wash away the cold lesson. Just because I knew the future didn't mean I could control the present. Just because I held a transcendent Memory didn't make me invincible. This place, the Forgotten Shore, was filled with things that could kill me before I even realized I was dead. 

I could feel Sasrir’s eyes on me, a silent, judging pressure. He didn’t say a word, just kept glancing over as we walked. After the third time, I couldn’t take it anymore.

"Alright, alright," I huffed, my cheeks burning with a mix of embarrassment and residual adrenaline. "I got cocky. It was a stupid mistake. I let the foreknowledge go to my head." I kicked a loose piece of rubble, watching it skitter across the broken pavement. "It won't happen again."

He gave a single, slow nod, the shadow over his face seeming to lighten just a fraction. It was the closest I’d get to an "I told you so." Satisfied, he pointed with a gloved hand down a narrower, less-damaged path. "This way."

We took the new route, moving with a renewed, sharper caution. The easy confidence from the start of our trip was gone, replaced by the grim focus the Dark City demanded. For several minutes, we travelled unobstructed, the only sound the scuff of our boots and the distant, echoing wail of some unseen creature.

Then, we arrived at the edge of an open square. It was vast, bordered by the skeletal remains of towering buildings. Sasrir’s arm shot out, stopping me in my tracks. His whole body went still, the way a predator does when it senses something unseen.

"Wait," he murmured, his voice barely a breath.

I froze instantly, my hand tightening around the Crucifix. "What is it?" I whispered, my eyes straining to pick out a threat in the expansive, empty plaza. I couldn't see anything. But I’d learned my lesson. If Sasrir said wait, you waited. "Is this where the Stone Saints are?"

"More or less...but I have a bad feeling. I think it's my Listener powers acting up again, give me a second to tune it."

He then closed his eyes, becoming as much a statue as the thing we were here to hunt. I said nothing, letting him work his magic. The abilities of a Listener were truly bizarre, and Sasrir had struggled to convey the feeling to me. According to him, it was like listening to music while passed out on a psychedelic trip-whatever the hell that means.

After around a minute, Sasrir moved again. "Alright, they're here. One block down, currently just having finished fighting something else: I heard their death gasps. There's just one problem."

"What?"

"Saint wasn't alone in the original work, remember? There were six of her guarding this place."

"Oh, shit" I cursed, the memory finally making itself apparent in my mind. Six Stone Saints? That posed a bigger threat than the Bone Tyrant, a bigger threat then the Spire Messenger, bigger than the Steel Golem. They were Awakened, but could contend with Fallen and were far more intelligent than their Class would indicate. Could we beat them? Not a chance in hell.

My Unshadowed Crucifix wouldn't be useful unless I use it's Sequence 4 heat to melt them. Sasrir's degeneration and coldness would be pretty ineffective against them, if at all. I could try and use Notary and Bard to boost his power as much as possible, and then have him smash them with a shadow hammer, but it would be pretty rough even then.

"Well, what do you want to do?" Sasrir looked at me, willing to follow my lead wherever. "Do we try it anyway, or leave and come back when we've recruited Effie or Gemma?"

I licked my lips and didn't answer straight away, pondering as I looked up at the grey sky. "Hmm, I think I have an idea."

Chapter Text

I crouched low on the rooftop, the rough stone digging into my knees. Below, the six Stone Saints had moved back into the center of the square. One of them was still covered in partially dried, dark blood, a stark reminder of whatever they’d just butchered. The fact that the other five were mostly clean was a terrifying portrayal of their prowess. They hadn't even broken a sweat.

They looked just like the novel described. They were humanoid statues carved from dark grey stone, shaped like ancient knights. Four of them had a male build, broad and powerful, while two were more slender and female in form. They stood in a relaxed formation, five of them just staring off into space, completely still. The sixth, the one covered in blood, was standing off to the side, meticulously inspecting the edge of his stone sword.

My heart was thumping a steady, nervous rhythm against my ribs. This was insane. Sasrir had already gone on ahead, his form dissolving into a patch of living shadow that slid silently down the side of the building. His job was to find some particularly nasty monsters and lure them back here. The plan was simple, the same one that had worked in the story.

We’d let a third party do the heavy lifting. We’d let the monsters and the Saints tear each other apart. Then, when the fight was over, we’d swoop in and finish off the survivors. It was a classic ambush predator move. If one wave of monsters wasn't enough to soften them up, we’d just send in another. And if that didn't work, we’d try a third.

Staying here all night wasn't a problem for me. I had multiple Soul Cores humming with power inside me, each one a little battery of essence. I could keep this watch for days if I had to. Patience was a weapon, and right now, it was our best one. I just had to sit here and wait for the show to start.

The waiting was the hardest part. The Saints didn't move. They were like part of the scenery, eternal and unmoving. I found myself holding my breath, half-expecting them to all turn their heads and look right up at me. But they didn't. They were utterly oblivious to the shadow slinking through the ruins on their behalf.

I thought about what we were risking. These weren't mindless beasts. The novel said they were intelligent, capable of strategy. What if they saw through the ruse? What if they didn't fight the monsters, but just let them pass? Or worse, what if they decided to hunt down the source of the disturbance? My palms felt a little sweaty. I wiped them on my pants.

Finally, I felt it. A low, rhythmic thumping through the soles of my feet. Something big was coming. A minute later, I saw them. Two massive, bear-like creatures with metallic hides and glowing red eyes burst into the far end of the square. They must have been what Sasrir found first. They looked tough, but I wasn't sure they were tough enough.

The Stone Saints reacted instantly. The five who were staring into space snapped to attention, their stony faces turning in unison toward the new threat. The one cleaning his sword didn't even look up; he just tightened his grip on the hilt. They didn't charge. They just stood their ground, a solid wall of living rock, waiting.

The two metallic bears didn't hesitate. They roared, a sound that scraped against the ruins, and charged. The Saints moved with a speed that was shocking for things made of stone. They flowed into a defensive formation, two of the male Saints stepping forward to meet the charge head-on. The sound of impact was like a car crash, stone fist meeting metal hide.

It was brutal and efficient. The bears were strong, but the Saints were unyielding. One bear managed to rake its claws down a Saint's chest, but it only left shallow gouges in the stone, causing the ruby dust that served as their lifeblood to leak.. The Saint it attacked didn't flinch. It just drove its own blade through the bear's metallic skull. The fight was over in less than a minute. One Saint had a few new scratches, that was it. Two Awakened Beasts down.

I let out a low breath. Okay. One wave down. They were as tough as advertised. We needed to wear them down.

About ten minutes later, a new sound echoed through the streets. This one was a high-pitched, chittering screech. A swarm of creatures that looked like giant centipedes with jagged spikes poured into the square. There were dozens of them. This was more like it. The Saints formed a tight circle, their stone swords now sweeping in wide, devastating arcs.

This fight was longer and messier. The centipedes were faster and tried to attack from all sides. I saw one of the female Saints get several of them latched onto her back, their stingers trying to find a weak point in the stone. She just fell backwards, crushing them beneath her immense weight. The Saint with the blood-stained sword was a whirlwind of destruction, his blade cutting two or three of the creatures down with every swing.

When it was over, the square was littered with twitching centipede parts. Two of the Saints now had deep cracks showing in their stony skin. One had a chip missing from its shoulder. They were finally taking damage. It was working. We just had to keep the pressure on. I settled in to wait again, my eyes fixed on the damaged Saints. The plan was crazy, but it was starting to look like it might actually work.

The Saints weren't stupid though. The injured two were moved back, the remaining four coming together in a protective formation. They didn't seem to consider that someone was guiding the other monsters here, maybe thinking they were just attracted by the blood. Or maybe they didn't think about it at all, only killing whatever cam near. It was a tricky thing on our part: we needed strong monsters to destroy all but one Saint, but how to achieve that precise result was troublesome. Perhaps, as I said earlier, it all comes down to luck.

The ground began to tremble, a deep, resonant vibration that was entirely different from the heavy footfalls of the bears. This wasn't a charge; it was a slow, inevitable approach. I gripped the edge of the rooftop, my knuckles turning white. What fresh hell had Sasrir found?

Then I saw it, and my breath caught in my throat. It wasn't a swarm. It was a single entity. A serpent, but one woven from living, translucent crystal. It was colossal, the size of a whale and twice as long, its body reflecting the dull grey sky in a thousand fractured facets. Despite its apparent rigidity, it moved with an impossible, fluid grace, gliding over the rubble as if it were water.

The most horrifying part was that you could see inside it. Trapped within the crystal, like flies in amber, were the shadowy, contorted forms of its yet-undigested victims. It was bizarre, beautiful, and utterly terrifying. This was no Awakened beast. The sheer pressure rolling off it told me everything. This was a Fallen Devil. A whole rank and two Tiers above the Stone Saints.

The Saints, who had been standing firm against the previous waves, now shifted their stances. This wasn't the relaxed readiness from before; this was pure, defensive tension. They knew. The crystal serpent didn't roar or screech. It simply opened its maw, a void of shimmering darkness within the beautiful crystal, and glided forward.

The lead Saint, one of the males with a cracked chest, met the charge. He braced, his stone sword held high. The serpent didn't bother to bite. It simply flowed around him. The crystal body slammed into the Saint with the force of a landslide. There was a sound of grinding rock, and when the serpent moved past, the Saint was gone, completely absorbed into its crystalline interior, his form now a new, struggling statue trapped forever. The bloody thing could liquify itself, and I had no doubt its insides were corrosive. 

My blood ran cold. One of them, gone in an instant. This wasn't a fight; it looked like a harvest. The remaining five Saints didn't break. They scattered, realizing a direct defence was suicide. They began moving with coordinated, flanking attacks, their stone feet pounding the ground. The blood-stained Saint lunged from the side, his sword aiming for the serpent's "neck."

The blade connected with a sound like a thousand bells shattering. A web of fine cracks spread across the crystal surface, but the sword didn't penetrate. The serpent’s body rippled, and the section where it was struck lashed out like a whip, sending the Saint flying through the air to crash into a building wall. He slid down, but slowly got back to his feet, his stone body now covered in a spiderweb of new fractures.

The other Saints pressed the attack, hammering at the creature's sides and tail. Chips of crystal flew through the air, glittering like deadly rain. It was working, but it was like trying to demolish a mountain with pickaxes. For every chip they knocked loose, the serpent would flow over one of them, its immense weight and strange, fluid physics crushing them against the ground or simply absorbing limbs.

One of the female Saints was too slow. The serpent's tail, moving with that same liquid speed, wrapped around her legs. We (both the other Saints and myself) watched, helpless, as she was dragged, struggling, into the main body of the beast. She disappeared into the crystal, her form joining the gallery of the damned within seconds. Two down.

The fight became a desperate dance of attrition. The Saints were incredibly durable and strong, but the Fallen Terror was on another level entirely. They couldn't stand against its direct force. Their only hope was to dodge its crushing bulk and chip away at it, over and over, aiming for the existing cracks. The blood-stained Saint was their best warrior, constantly darting in to strike the damaged section on its neck, widening the fissure with every blow.

The serpent seemed to recognize him as the primary threat. It focused its efforts on him, its crystalline head striking at him like a viper. He was impossibly fast for stone, rolling and weaving, but a glancing blow from its snout sent him tumbling again, shattering one of his arms at the elbow. He rose, now one-armed, and kept fighting.

It was a brutal, grinding process. Another male Saint was caught by a full-body slam and shattered into a pile of gravel and dust. A third lost its legs to a sweeping pass of the serpent's body and could only crawl, useless. Soon, only two Saints remained: the one-armed leader and one of the initial, undamaged females.

But the monster was showing real damage. The crack on its neck was now a deep crevice, and a large section of its midsection was hazy with fractures. Its movements were slightly slower, less fluid. The Saints' sacrifice was not in vain. The Crystal Snake seemed to be wavering, uncertain whether to flee or stay and fight. The Stone Saints probably weren't very nutritious anyways, or maybe they actually were-as the creation of Nether, who knows what value they hold for other "mundane" monsters?

Perhaps seeing the monster wavering, the female Saint created an opening, leaping onto its back and hammering down with her blade, drawing its attention. Seizing the moment, the one-armed leader gathered all his remaining strength for a final, desperate leap. He didn't use his broken sword. He launched himself, a living projectile, directly into the deep fissure on the serpent's neck. He jammed his own body into the crack, a stone wedge.

The effect was immediate and catastrophic. The serpent thrashed, a silent scream of agony seeming to vibrate through the air. Its fluid movement seized. The crystal around the lodged Saint began to spiderweb violently, the cracks racing across its entire body. With a final, convulsive shudder, the colossal creature froze, its inner light dying. Then, with a sound like a continent breaking, it shattered.

Shards of crystal exploded outwards, raining down over the entire square like deadly hail. When the dust and glittering debris settled, the square was a wasteland. Of the six Stone Saints, only one remained standing—the female who had drawn the final attack. She was heavily damaged, missing part of her head and leaning heavily to one side. The one-armed leader was gone, consumed in the final explosion that killed the beast.

The serpent was a field of broken crystal, its victims now freed into nothingness. The silence that fell was deeper than any before. The plan had worked, the survivors were down to one crippled Saint and a mountain of glittering, Fallen-class shards. The remaining Saint lay slumped against a wall, its torn face scattered in ruby dust. I actually felt it was a pity, seeing such a beautiful thing be so badly scarred. Well, if it became my Echo, those wounds would recover. Speaking of which, it was time to move, before something even worse than that Serpent showed up. 

Just as I was wondering how to get down, I saw a shadow come up over the ledge and materialise beside me. Sasrir stood up, his shoulder and chest bloodied but covered by a strip of shadow. "You alright?" I asked in concern, touching his wound gingerly. He didn't flinch, but removed my hand. "I'm fine, this isn't even from any of those monsters, I got this while on the way back."

"What did you do to provoke them so badly?" 

"The centipedes had a nest I invaded, broke a couple of their eggs. As for the bears, I just kept stabbing and running. To lure over the snake though, I had to entangle with its' soul. The pain must have really truck a nerve, because it was the most rabid while chasing me. Probably collapsed a whole block over to the left."

"Entering the shadow of a Fallen monster is too risky, don't do that again" I scolded him with a serious frown. "If needed, just look for something slightly easier to lure over."

"Alright, I don't need you of all people telling me to be careful. You try to hide it, but you can't fool me-you love taking risks and gambling more than anyone I know. If it wasn't for the fact the Curator gave you Spectator, you definitely would have gotten Marauder or Monster."

"Hey now, don't go saying I'm a worse gambler than Nephis!" I countered, feigning hurt. "How many times has she nearly led her Cohort to their deaths?" He gave a slight chuckle in repones before grabbing my waist and turning back into a shadow, carrying me down the way I got up. Once we hit the ground, we walked over the the last Stone Saint with a leisurely gait. Up close, it was even more finely crafted than I thought, and I felt a new level of respect for the Prince of the Underworld. Seeing us approach, the Saint tried to stand again, but it had only taken a step before falling back down. While I don't think it could "bleed" to death, in this state, it would be finished off by the first scavenger that comes across it. 

"Consider this a mercy" I said, summoning the Unshadowed Crucifix. Under Sasrir's gaze, I held it aloft and chanted softly: "God says all fortunes are more effective here! God says all shadows are strengthened here!" Then I quickly swapped over to the Quill of Alzuhod and began writing in the air: "Sunny acquired Saint with the halo of the protagonist, while Adam and Sasrir are both protagonists and therefore have twice the halo. Thus, acquiring Saint is a very reasonable event!"

After going through my little ritual, of which I was aware probably did nothing but still felt cool anyways, Sasrir summoned a shadow longsword and raised it above his head. Strengthened by my Notary powers, the blade seemed to hold an even deeper darkness, and it cleaved through the Stone Saint's skull with only a small amount of resistance. The monster stiffened and then stilled completely, one last layer of ruby dust floating down to the ground. Sasrir hefted the sword out, letting it dissolve into nothing. I licked my lips nervously as I looked at him, waiting for either confirmation or denial. After about ten seconds, he turned to me and spoke.

"We got her." 

Chapter Text

Echo: Stone Saint.

Echo Rank: Awakened.

Echo Class: Monster.

Echo Attributes: [Battle Master], [Stalwart], [Mark of Divinity].

Battle Master Attribute Description: [Born on the battlefield, the Stone Saint is proficient in all forms of combat.]

Stalwart Attribute Description: [The Stone Saint is highly resistant to all forms of damage, as well as being fully immune to mind and soul attacks.]

Echo Description: [Deep in the cavernous halls of his dark domain, the last child of the -unknown- had created them from stone to quell the fire burning in his resentful heart. However, that fire only grew hotter. Designed to bring peace, they were instead born into an endless war.]

***********************************

The description for Saint was the exact same as in the novel. proving there was no difference between this one and the Saint that Sunny had acquired. The fact this one was female as well was a strange coincidence, but I didn't really care much about it. The only difference between us and Sunny was...

"There's no Shadow Counter," Sasrir informed me, eyes downcast as he read the Runes. "This means we can't evolve Saint by consuming other Memories or Echoes like Sunny did. However, she may still be able to become a Demon by consuming the heart of the Dark Knight in the Cathedral."

"Damn," I cursed and kicked the ground in annoyance at the revelation, before perking up as I thought of something. "Maybe you can transform her into a Shadow after becoming a Black Knight! At Sequence 4, you gain deeper control over shadows and souls, so that might allow you to evolve her!"

"That's still a long way off," Sasrir dampened my enthusiasm. "If we go by comparative advancement, I'll be a Transcendant and Saint will just be Ascended. What use will she hold for us then? It's not like we can hold onto the upgrade materials until she's ready, we don't have a storage space."

"Alright, alright, I'll figure something out."

I sighed and waved my hand, instead focusing on admiring the Echo standing before me. She wasn't extravagantly tall, and was even "medium" in height, but she carried herself with an unnatural aura that only a killer could-or something inhuman. And Saint just happened to be both.

I stood there, staring at the Stone Saint. She was… impressive. Even with the chunks missing from her shoulder and the crack running down her stony face, there was a noble, powerful grace to her form. The fight was over, the binding was complete, and she was just… standing there. Waiting.

"Well," I said, shoving my hands in my pockets and rocking back on my heels. "You, uh… you certainly know how to make an entrance." She didn't respond, of course. Her blank stone eyes just stared ahead.

I took a hesitant step closer, circling her slightly. "And, you know. The, uh… the form. It's very… sculpted. Solid." I reached out a hand, pausing just before I touched her stone-plated arm. "May I? Just… checking the craftsmanship." I gave her a pat on the bicep. It was cold and unyielding. "Yep. Very sturdy. Good… good proportions."

From behind me, I heard a long, pained sigh. I glanced back to see Sasrir pinching the bridge of his nose, his entire posture radiating second-hand embarrassment. "Are you quite finished?" he asked, his voice flat.

"Just appreciating our new asset," I said defensively, turning back to the Saint. "It's important to build a good rapport. Right, girl?" I gave her another awkward pat, this time on the shoulder. "We're gonna be great friends. You smash things, I'll… provide moral support and witty commentary."

Sasrir just shook his head, the shadows around him seeming to ripple with his disdain. "You are attempting to flirt with a statue."

"I'm not flirting!" I insisted, my voice cracking a little. "I'm being… appreciative! It's called being a good superior. You should try it sometime." I looked back at the Saint, feeling a flush creep up my neck. "Don't listen to him. He's just jealous of your… structural integrity."

I decided to stop while I was behind. "Right. Okay. So. Saint. That's your name. Let's, uh… let's get you cleaned up." I gestured vaguely toward the path home, and Sasrir dismissed her back into his Soul Sea. It was going to be a very long, very quiet walk back to the castle. And I had a feeling Sasrir wouldn't let me hear the end of it.

But what could I say? Saint was the first actual character that I had met from the story. Gemma didn't count, he barely had five lines in the whole arc, but Saint? She was there throughout basically the whole book. Her shenanigans as Mongrel, beating up Sunny and intimidating Morgan were hilarious to read. Anyways, I was smitten, but not in a romantic way. It was more like...finally meeting an idol, I guess.

I'm not weird.

"Alright," I said, clapping my hands together and trying to sound businesslike. "Let's see what the cleanup crew can find." With the nearest monsters either wiped out or scared off by the Fallen Terror's presence, we had the rare luxury of time. We started picking through the aftermath, a grim but necessary harvest.

We ignored the shattered remains of the Stone Saints for now; their value was already secured. Instead, we focused on the glittering crystal shards of the Fallen Terror and the smaller, dimmer soul shards from the metallic bears and centipedes. I pocketed the smaller ones, feeling their familiar warmth seep into my palm as I absorbed their essence, a trickle of power refilling my own reserves.

I was kneeling, prying a particularly large crystal shard from the ground, when Sasrir suddenly went still. He’d been quietly absorbing shards himself, but now he stopped and looked directly at me. His usual calm demeanor was replaced by a focused intensity.

"I've nearly filled my Core," he stated, his voice low and serious. "These last few should do it." He held up the final, faintly glowing shards in his hand. "We need to stop. Let's find a place to hunker down, somewhere defensible."

The meaning of his words hit me a moment later. My eyes widened slightly. "Right. Now?" I asked, a flutter of nervousness in my stomach. "You're going to… become a Monster."

He gave a single, sharp nod. "The transformation isn't instantaneous, and I'll be vulnerable. We can't be out in the open when it happens." He looked around the ruined square, at the countless points of entry. "This is too exposed."

"Okay," I said, my mind already shifting from scavenger to protector. "Okay, we need a bunker. Something with one way in, one way out." I scanned the perimeter of the square, my gaze settling on a half-collapsed building on the far side. It looked like an old guard post, its front wall mostly intact with a single, narrow doorway.

"That one," I pointed. "We can barricade the door from the inside. It's the best we're going to get."

Without another word, we moved. We gathered our remaining loot quickly, stuffing the unabsorbed shards into our packs. The short sprint across the square felt longer than the entire fight, every shadow feeling like a potential threat. We slipped into the dark, cramped interior of the guard post. True to my guess, it was a single room with no other exits, littered with dust and rubble.

Together, we shoved a heavy, rusted cabinet in front of the doorway, creating a crude but effective barricade. It wouldn't stop a determined assault, but it would give us warning. Sasrir immediately settled into the farthest corner, his back to the wall. He took a deep, steadying breath and finally absorbed the last few soul shards he held.

A visible tremor ran through him. "It's starting," he said, his voice already sounding strained. "The process… it's not pleasant. Don't be alarmed."

I drew the Unshadowed Crucifix, its warm, steady glow pushing back the oppressive darkness of the small room. I positioned myself between him and the barricaded door, my heart thumping a steady, determined rhythm. "I've got the door," I said, my voice firm. "You just focus on… on whatever you need to focus on. I've got your back."

He didn't answer. A low groan escaped his lips as he curled in on himself, the shadows around him beginning to churn and writhe as if alive. The air in the room grew cold, and I tightened my grip on the Crucifix. 

The choked grunts from Sasrir’s corner quickly escalated into ragged, muffled screams of pure agony. He was trying to stifle them, but the pain was too much. The shadows in the room, once still, were now alive. They danced and contorted, twisting in ways that defied physics, slithering up the walls like black oil.

Directly behind him, cast onto the rough stone by the Crucifix's light, his own shadow began to warp. It ballooned in size, its edges becoming a seething, unstable mess. The human silhouette lost all form, shifting and bubbling like a bundle of frenzied worms. It was a horrifying, abstract depiction of his internal torment.

Then, the shadow sprouted heads. Four of them, erupting from a single, distended neck on the wall. They were malformed and grotesque, their features indistinct but undeniably monstrous. I felt a sudden, psychic pressure, a sensation of being watched by a multitude of hostile, unseen eyes. The gaze felt like it was drilling into my back, cold and alien.

Despite myself, I swallowed deeply, my throat suddenly dry. My knuckles were white where I clenched the Crucifix. I’d been unconscious for my own Soul Core formation, blissfully unaware of the process. Seeing this raw, unfiltered display made me dread the day I would have to advance to Devil. This was a glimpse into a suffering I had narrowly avoided.

The air grew thick with the scent of ozone and something else, something ancient and rotten—the smell of degeneration. The writhing shadows seemed to suck the warmth and life from the room, leaving a spiritual chill that seeped into my bones. This was the true face of the Hanged Man Pathway, a power born from depravity and self-mutilation.

Sasrir’s physical form was now obscured by a churning vortex of darkness. I could hear the wet, tearing sounds of transformation, the crack of bones realigning under duress. The four shadow-heads on the wall thrashed and snapped soundlessly, a silent chorus to his very vocal suffering. It was a battle not just of power, but of will, a fight to remain himself as his very essence was remade into something more removed from human. As Sunny had once said, Humanity was not meant to possess more than one Soul Core-that was the domain of the Mystical.

After several more minutes of wet, tearing noises and choked gasps that belonged in a horror movie, the chaotic energy in the room finally began to recede. The twitching, multi-headed shadow on the wall collapsed in on itself, the separate forms melting back into a single, cohesive silhouette. The seething tendrils of darkness withdrew from the corners of the room, flowing back toward the center like a reverse tide.

They coalesced, clumping together to slowly reform Sasrir’s familiar shape. He was kneeling on the floor, head bowed, his chest heaving as he drew in ragged, deep breaths. His skin, what little was visible at his neck and hands, glistened with a cold sweat and seemed even paler than before, almost translucent.

He slowly lifted his head, the shadows that perpetually clung to his features seeming darker and more substantial. He looked exhausted, utterly drained by the ordeal. Yet, his presence in the small room wasn't reduced in the slightest. If anything, it was significantly improved. It felt deeper, more layered, like a well that had just been dug past a new, unexplored aquifer. There was a new, intriguing depth to his silence, and a noticeably sharper, more potent threat radiated from him. This was the qualitative change the novel described, the stark difference between a sole-Core Beast and a dual-Core Monster. He had crossed the threshold.

"How d you feel?" I asked tentatively, stepping closer. He took another few deep breaths before answering, his tone back to its usual flatness. "I feel...like I've significantly digested my Secrets Suppliant and Listener Potion...like a weight has been taken off my chest." He looked up at me.

"It seems there was an aspect of our progression we didn't consider. Apart from the bottleneck of our current Rank, our Tiers also determine our upper limit. Becoming a Monster gave me the same power boost as assimilating the Potion, so it seems we have an easier method of increasing strength."

"So even if we the Acting Method down, we still need a certain number of Soul Cores to properly digest the Potion?" I muttered to myself. 

"But we probably don't need to digest it to advance: I could have become a Rose Bishop even as a Beast, but my foundation would have been weaker. It seems in this world, sanity isn't effected, but your power will still lag behind, just like in Lord of the Mysteries."

It was a strange system put in place, but at least we had discovered it now. And Sasrir had become a Monster, making him a far greater foe. At this rate, he might still be able to contend against Nephis despite his terrible compatibility against her flames. And that was important, because Autistic Star definitely wouldn't like what I have planned for the Forgotten Shore. 

"Alright, let's head back then."

Chapter Text

Fifteen days slipped by in a blur of strange, newfound routine. Waking up in the Hunter's Quarters had started to feel almost normal. The grumbles, the smells, the way the light from the Spire painted the floor in the morning—it was all just part of the background now. My days developed a steady, predictable rhythm that was weirdly comforting.

There was the daily grind of food hunting with Lyra, Finn, and a now-silent-but-recovered Kora. We’d head out, stick to the safer, picked-over zones, and bag whatever we could find. It was honest, simple work. My main side project was still my "holy man" act. I’d pray before meals, help out where I could, and drop a kind word here and there. It was a part I played, but after weeks of it, the mask was starting to feel comfortable, like a broken-in boot.

Back in our bunkroom, I’d quietly work on my real to-do list. It was a mental catalogue of names, resources, and future opportunities. Sasrir, now a full Monster, was a silent partner in it all. He’d just watch from his bunk, a deeper, more substantial shadow than before. We didn’t need to talk much; we both knew the game we were playing. For a little while, life wasn't about desperately surviving the next hour. It was about planning for next week, and that felt like a luxury.

Of course, the world outside our walls was in an uproar. The sudden disappearance of the Stone Saints and the crystal serpent sent shockwaves through the Dark City. They were the local hegemons, the top of the food chain in that sector. With them gone, it was like a power vacuum had opened up. All the mid-level Corrupted monsters went absolutely wild.

A massive, chaotic turf war erupted among the creatures. You could hear the distant shrieks and roars from the castle walls, a constant soundtrack of violence. The aggression wasn't contained, either. Patrols started reporting packs of beasts in areas they’d never been seen before, all fighting for new territory. The normal, dangerous paths we used became outright deadly.

The response from the castle leadership was swift and severe. Gemma and the other lieutenants called a halt to most long-range expeditions. Hunters and Pathfinders were pulled back from the front lines. Our job shifted from hunting to reinforcing the outer defences and guarding the closer supply caches. It was a clear sign that things were bad out there.

For a full week, strict rationing was put in place. The mess hall servings got smaller, and the grumbling got louder. Nobody was happy about having less to eat, but everyone understood the reason. Venturing out for a full-scale hunt was a sure way to get your whole team killed in the crossfire of a monster war. It was better to be hungry and safe inside the walls.

Through it all, Sasrir and I were the picture of innocent cooperation. We followed the new rules, stood our watches without complaint, and ate our meagre rations without a word of protest. We blended into the crowd perfectly. The idea that we, the "preacher" and his quiet shadow, were responsible for upending the entire local ecosystem was so absurd it never even crossed anyone's mind.

I’d hear the other Hunters talking about it. "Must have been a Spire Messenger that came through," one would say. "Or maybe the Saints and the serpent finally killed each other," another would guess. Almost the truth, but nobody considered the factor of two Dormants starting the whole thing.

The forced downtime inside the castle had an unexpected benefit. It gave me more time to work the social angles. I helped the Artisans sort through salvage, talking about finding purpose in broken things. I assisted the Handmaidens with their rounds, speaking about the virtue of compassion. With the Hunters stuck inside, I was there to listen to their frustrations, offering a calm presence.

Even Gemma seemed to view my "faith" with a sort of grudging acceptance. In a time of tension and short tempers, having someone around who was consistently, bafflingly calm was apparently useful. He didn't understand it, but he didn't stop it, either. My persona was becoming a solid part of the castle's social fabric.

Sasrir used the time to fully master his new power as a Monster. The deeper, more threatening aura he now carried made people give him an even wider berth, which he seemed to prefer. It also meant that on the rare, cautious patrols we did run, he could end fights before they even started. His control over shadows was now absolute and terrifyingly efficient. I couldn't recall of Nephis and Sunny experienced such a visceral change upon forming new Cores, but maybe it was also because Sasrir had digested his Shadow Ascetic and Listener Potion-according to him, only Secret Suppliant was stubbornly refusing to dissolve. 

I had a plan for that, of course, but it would take another month or so to fit into place, at least three weeks. 

After about a week, the constant cacophony from the Dark City began to die down. The monster turf wars seemed to be settling, new territories established. The castle leadership cautiously eased the restrictions. Rations slowly returned to normal, and small, well-armed hunting parties were sent out to test the waters. The crisis was passing.

Looking back, those fifteen days were some of the most productive we’d had. We’d gained immense personal power, solidified our positions, and watched as the chaos we’d unleashed actually worked in our favour, keeping everyone else contained and suspicious of the outside world. Perhaps Gunlaug had gotten lazy and content atop his throne, and the chaos proved an effective reminder that, Transcendant Echo be damned, he himself was just a Sleeper with a mediocre Aspect lording over other Sleepers. He wasn't invincible, and he couldn't even claim to be truly safe either.

All that is to say, when the curfew was lifted, he heightened the training of the Guards and instructed tighter watch from the Pathfinders. The Castle's poor performance during the lockdown seemed to have struck a nerve, because he also ordered Handmaidens to crack down on scavenging and the markets, while Artisans had to shift focus to certain products. The change was large, and unprecedented from my perspective: nothing of this sort had happened in the novel short of the Bright Castle Civil War. 

We were back in our corner of the Hunter's Quarters, the relative calm of the castle feeling almost surreal after the chaos we'd indirectly caused. Sasrir, who had been quietly sharpening a dagger, finally broke the silence, his voice dry as dust.

"So," he began, not looking up from his work. "The Stone Saints. The Fallen Terror. The city-wide monster war." He finally lifted his head, and I could almost see the raised eyebrow beneath his shadowed hood. "Remind me again how this was 'laying low' and 'not making a big impact'?"

He was right, of course. Our little expedition had kicked over the biggest anthill in the neighbourhood. I shrugged, a casual gesture I didn't entirely feel. "The plan was to acquire Saint. We acquired Saint. The rest was just... unavoidable collateral damage." I waved a hand dismissively. "The reshuffling was bound to happen eventually. We just gave it a nudge."

Sasrir let out a soft snort, a clear 'I told you so' he didn't need to voice. He went back to sharpening his blade, the rhythmic sound filling the space between us. "A nudge. You have a gift for understatement."

I ignored the jab. His skepticism was a constant, like the hum of the castle itself. My mind was already miles ahead, fixated on the next problem. The fight with the crystal serpent, and even the minor scrapes before it, had driven a point home. The Unshadowed Crucifix was powerful, but its "blood tax" was a brutal limitation. Every time I pushed its power, it left me weak, drained, vulnerable.

I needed a way to offset that cost. I'd been spending every spare moment I had haunting the Memory Market, my eyes peeled for one specific type of enchantment. I wasn't looking for raw power or flashy attacks. I was searching for something that granted regeneration, or at the very least, a significant boost to my natural recovery rate. If I could heal faster, I could use the Crucifix more freely, turning it from a last-resort weapon into a more regular tool.

The market was a frustrating place. I saw Memories that could summon phantom blades, ones that hardened skin to stone, and even one that let you breathe underwater for ten minutes. But a straightforward healing or regeneration effect? It was incredibly rare. The few I'd heard whispers of were either snapped up instantly by the top brass or priced so astronomically high they might as well not exist.

This brought me to my second, related problem: funds. My gaze drifted across the crowded room, as if I could see through the walls to a specific stall. Stev, the jovial giant, still had the Mantle of the Underworld. It was damaged, yes, but its potential was mouth-watering for the squishy and vulnerable me. It would no doubt save my life countless times in the future, plus the added thrill of stealing another of Sunny's achievements. Yes, after stealing Saint, it turned out I did have a bit of Amon in me after all. 

But I'd had to make a choice. Advancing Sasrir to Monster had been the correct strategic move, a massive increase to our overall combat power. It had also drained the majority of our shared pool of Soul Shards. What I had left was enough for necessities and the occasional bribe, but not nearly enough for a major purchase like the Mantle. My funds were, to put it bluntly, tight.

"Still brooding over the armour?" Sasrir's voice cut through my thoughts again. It was unnerving how he did that.

"It's not brooding. It's resource management," I retorted, a little too defensively. "The Mantle is a strategic asset. But so was making you a Monster. We just have to prioritize."

"And your regeneration Memory is the current priority," he stated, finishing my thought. He sheathed his dagger. "A sensible one. A dead manipulator is no use to anyone. The armour will still be there later. If it's meant to be, it will be."

I grimaced. I hated it when he used my own "holy man" language against me, even if he was right. The Mantle was a want. The regeneration was a need. Surviving the next big fight was somewhat important.

"The problem is finding one," I sighed, leaning back against the wall. "The Artisans say true regenerative Memories are often bound close to the Crimson Spire or come from specific, nasty plant-based Corrupted we haven't even seen. The Handmaidens hoard what few trickle in for their critical healers."

"Then we find the source," Sasrir said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "We identified the problem. Now we identify the solution. If the Memory isn't in the market, we find the monster that carries it."

He was right, again. The Market was just the middleman. The real treasures were out in the chaotic Dark City, waiting to be taken. Our little "nudge" had created a new, dangerous landscape out there. But danger also meant opportunity. New territories meant new monsters, and new monsters could mean new Memories.

A slow smile spread across my face. The setback with the Mantle was temporary. The search for a regeneration Memory was now a clear, defined objective. Sasrir was stronger than ever. We had Saint in our pocket. The turf wars outside were settling down, opening up new hunting grounds.

"Alright," I said, my mood lifting. "New priority. We start gathering intel. We listen for any rumors about Corrupted with healing abilities or strange, vitalizing energies. Start with the closest obviously, work our way out. Hopefully without having to leave the Dark City-I don't like the Labyrinth."

Sasrir and I made our way out of the castle's main hall, heading for the front gate. The morning air was its usual chilly self, and the routine of it all was almost comforting. We’d only just passed through the main archway, however, when we saw something that broke the daily monotony.

There was a strange altercation happening at the gate itself. The usual guard, the big guy who was normally the picture of lazy arrogance, was standing ramrod straight. His face was pale, and he looked like he was one harsh word away from pissing himself. It was a complete one-eighty from his usual demeanour.

As we got closer, I could see why. He was being stared down by a woman. And not just any woman. She was ridiculously tall, easily a head taller than the guard, with a powerful build. Her hair was a wild mane of hazel, and her skin was a tanned olive. She wore practical, rugged clothes that, despite their functionality, struggled to conceal a frankly voluptuous and muscular figure.

I stopped dead in my tracks, my brain struggling to process the sight. I was utterly stunned. How could I not be? I had been searching for her, or at least for information about her, for weeks. And now, here she was. The famous Raised by Wolves herself, Athena, also known as Effie. She had appeared before me entirely on her own initiative, though she most likely wasn't here for me, and the sheer force of her presence was enough to turn a lazy guard into a trembling statue. 

"Well I'll be damned" Sasrir muttered from beside me, clearly just as caught off-guard. I didn't have time to savour the rarity though, as by now we had approached close enough to hear what they were arguing over. "The hell you mean I have to pay five?! It was always three Soul Shards, not five!"

"Listen, listen, it's not up to me, okay? That damned monster wave or whatever has the boss spooked, and we had to go under lockdown. Resources are scarce the Artisans are being told to focus on new projects, which require materials we don't usually stock up on. Taxes go up, you know how it is."

"Oh I know, but I sure as hell don't like it," Effie growled back, stepping closer threateningly. To my respect, the guard managed to stop himself from falling, though his legs visibly trembled. Even still, he refused to let the bronze Amazon pass, stubbornly holding his ground. "If you don't like the rules, take it up with Gunlaug!" he shouted, his own confidence bolstered when he saw Effie hesitate. After all, even she greatly feared the Lord of the Bright Castle, and who in their right mind wouldn't? She wasn't Nephis after all.

It was at this point that I, being the kind gentleman I am, stepped in to settle the dispute. Seeing me, the guard's eyes widened in recognition and something like relief. "You! The preacher. Maybe you can talk some sense into her." He practically shoved the responsibility onto me. Effie turned her formidable gaze my way, her eyes scanning me from head to toe. Her expression shifted from anger to pure dismissal.

"A kid?" she scoffed, looking me over. "And a pretty one at that. Run along, boy. The adults are talking." Her words were meant to brush me off like a fly. But then, her eyes flickered past me to Sasrir, who had moved to stand silently at my shoulder. Her dismissive posture vanished in an instant.

Her body tensed, her gaze locking onto Sasrir's shadowed form. She couldn't see his face, but she could feel it—the cold, predatory aura of a Monster. She recognized a serious threat when she saw one. The pretty boy had a very dangerous shadow. Her stance became that of a fighter assessing a rival.

"Let me help," I said, my voice calm and gentle, playing my part perfectly. I turned to the guard. "I'll cover her toll. The Lord teaches us to be generous to those in need." The guard just shrugged, happy to be done with the confrontation. He'd seen me pay for a few desperate souls before; this was just another act of charity.

I produced two soul shards and handed them over. Effie watched the transaction, her suspicion warring with a more basic need. I saw her eyes dart toward the castle, toward the promise of food and shelter. "I don't take handouts," she grunted, but her resolve was cracking.

"A meal isn't a handout," I said softly. "It's a gift between potential friends." Her hunger eventually won out. With a curt, reluctant nod, she muttered, "Fine. But I pay you back." I just smiled and gestured for her to follow me through the gate.

We walked into the main courtyard, the sounds of the castle enveloping us. Once we were a good distance from the gate and out of anyone's immediate earshot, I stopped and turned to face her. The gentle, pious expression melted from my face, replaced by a look of direct, calculating intensity.

"The truth is," I began, my voice now low and devoid of its earlier softness, "I didn't pay your way out of kindness." I held her sharp, wary gaze. "I paid it because you're exactly the person I've been looking for."

"Heh, I knew it" Effie scoffed, raising an eyebrow at me. "But are you sure you have the guts? That shiny bastard on the throne made it clear nobody is to get involved with me."

"Well, what Gunlaug doesn't know won't hurt him," I replied simply, stroking the crucifix around my neck. "And the truth is, he won't be much of a problem soon enough anyways."

Her eyes widened at that, before shrinking dangerously small, like a feline hunter's. "If anyone reported that, he would probably have your head. Your hand, at the very least. Aren't you afraid I'll run and snitch?"

"No."

My denial was curt and certain, with no doubt or hesitation across my face. After studying me closely for several more seconds, a swell as glancing over at where Sasrir leaned against the wall in silence, she relaxed her posture and scratched her chin. "Alright fine, then what do you need me for? I'm warning you, this won't end well if Gunlaug hears about it."

"A very important matter, but not one particularly complex for someone like you. In essence, I need your help killing some specific monsters."

"Oh yeah? Which ones?"

"A Spire Messenger, a Fallen Devil, an Awakened Terror, an Awakened Demon and probably a shit tonne of of other horrors located by the Hollow Mountains"

Much to my amusement, the look of nonchalant-ness quickly slipped from the Huntress' face.  

Chapter Text

Suffice to say, Huntress Athena was not impressed by my antics. She had nearly stormed off, and it took a near-grovelling amount of pacification to bring her back. After apologizing, I finally got down to serious business.

"Alright, cut the crap this time, I'm too hungry to deal with another smartass in town" Effie huffed, still annoyed by my previous "prank". Being the understanding person that I am, I naturally agreed to move onto business.

"Well, I wasn't entirely joking with you, Miss Athena. I do intend to kill those monsters I mentioned, but that is quite a while in the future, Right now, my primary concern is defeating a Fallen Devil that resides the that big cathedral to the south. I'm sure you've passed by it once or twice, it's hard to miss."

Athena looked at me, scanning my face to see if I was serious or not. "Alright, that's better, but you're still mad if you think you can kill a Fallen Devil with just three Sleepers. My Core is nearly filled, but what I've been here a year and you've only been here less than a month. Do you even know what powers that Devil possesses? Nobody who entered the Cathedral has come out again."

"As a matter of fact, we know basically everything about that Devil" Sasrir spoke up from the sides, voice calmly cutting across the room. "It's a Knight wrapped in black armour wielding a great sword, capable of travelling trough darkness and turning invisible. Inside the armour, its' true form is a shadow wraith that destroys anything it touches. Its eyes are made to look like its' weak point, but it's actually the sword it holds. Break that, the armour falls off and you can exorcize the spirit within."

Effie squinted at Sasrir, before turning back to me. "Alright, and who's the shadow man? I got your name from the guard, but who's he?"

"Sasrir" he answered curtly, his tone decidingly unfriendly. It seemed Athena's attitude towards me rubbed him the wrong way. While watching him bristle like a protective mother cat was certainly musing, it was also counterproductive for what I needed.

After giving him a "play nice"  look, I chose to pre-emptively assuage any doubts she had. "Miss Athena, you don't need to worry. I possess the means to both restrain the Black Knight as well as purify it once the armour is gone. For you, who wields a Lord Shard, breaking the sword shouldn't be too difficult. Sasrir will naturally assist you with that."

Now, Athena was looking at me with thinly-disguised hostility. "You talk like you know me." It was a harsh question, but not unreasonable. 

"Is there anyone in the Forgotten Shore who doesn't?"

"Humph, maybe so, but the way you talk is still too strange, like you're familiar with me on a personal level. Let me tell you, my memories pretty good, and we've never met before."

Ah, I was on the backfoot. I wasn't quite the master manipulator I aspired to be in the future, so I still couldn't control my laxness and reaction to seeing Effie in the flesh. Damn. Thankfully, Sasrir came in for the rescue.

"Let's just say we all have our secrets and leave it at that. If you still feel threatened by us, there is little we can do. But if you're willing to give us a shot, we promise you a shot to finally escape from this place."

Athena went silent for several long seconds, before looking Sasrir straight in the eyes. "Who says I want to leave?"

The two of us wet into stunned silence, before I felt like slapping myself in the face. Right, Effie basically hated the Waking World because her real body was crippled there. She had a nihilistic view of Earth, believing that the planet was doomed anyways and the Dream Realm was some sort of paradise. How could I have forgotten that?

Quickly trying to salvage the situation, I stepped forward. "Alright, my bad, maybe I was too presumptuous. But, Miss Athena, surely you aren't satisfied with the way things are? You might not mind, but how many dozens of people live in fear and squalor outside the Castle gates? And let's be real, the inside isn't much better off. By helping us clear out those monsters, you're helping the other survivors improve their lives and making the Dark City a safer place."

That seemed to finally strike a chord with her, though she still seemed unwilling to trust us. "Saying that's all well and good, but what have you ever done for those people? I recognise him-" she gestured towards Sasrir -"as the newest star of the Hunters. But what about you? Why should I believe anything you say, and not that you're simply using me to steal the Bright Throne for yourself?"

Now, this really left me stumped. Was Athena so oppositional when Nephis tried to recruit her? She definitely refused at first, but then Nephis brought her around somehow. Think, Adam, think...

"You want proof?"

Saved by the bell-or, by the shadow.

She looked back to Sasrir, who had leaned off the wall and was standing near us. "Just go to the outside settlement, ask around. It may take a bit, but there are plenty who've received his help and grace over the last few weeks. See before you judge, Lady Athena, and then come back to us with your answer. We've already paid your toll for the day, you might as well make the most of it."

Effie considered the proposal in silence, glancing between me and Sasrir repeatedly. After a while of contemplation, her eyes became determined. "Fine, I'll go and have a look. But first, I require personal proof of character."

"Oh?" I raised an eyebrow at that, half-amused. "What do you require, Miss? We don't have many Soul Shards on hand I'm afraid, or really any material goods at all."

"That's fine, what I want from you is much simpler."

"And what is that?"

"Food."

*******************************************

I stared blankly, chin in palm, as the woman in front of me ate enough meat to satisfy a pride of lions. Around me, the crowd was split in two-one half watched with the same doubt and disbelief as me, while the other half simply carried on as normal. Clearly, they had gotten use to the inhuman appetite of Huntress Athena. 

Sasrir was amongst them, calming cutting up his steak and methodically eating it. Even as Effie ate her fifth leg of monster meat in ten minutes, he didn't so much as wobble a shadow. At this point, I was wondering if he was truly indifferent or just trying to play it cool. 

After a loud burp, Athena wore a satisfied expression and relaxed against the chair, one arm swung around the back. Seeing her like this made my mouth twitch, since the majority of food on the table was bought by me and Sasrir. Thankfully we got a discount as Hunters, and the server was a closer acquaintance of mine, so he slipped a slightly bigger portion my way.

I was honestly grateful for the results of my acting, because otherwise, I would have had to take one of Aiko's atrocious loans to pay for this. If it meant getting Raised by Wolves on my team though, it might not turn out to be a loss...

Seeing she was done, I hurriedly raised the point before she asked for more. "Miss Athena, are you satisfied with our sincerity? We will gladly accompany you to the Settlement to shake any lingering doubts about our character."

She gave me the side-eye and an amused snort, but her tone was considerably friendlier than before. "Alright pretty-boy, I'll admit you've settled me a bit. I'll still ask a couple of my friends if what you say is true, but if it is, I suppose I wouldn't be entirely opposed to a partnership. But it would be just that-I'm not your subordinate or slave."

"Of course not, Miss Athena" I managed to keep the obvious relief from my voice and face. "Rest assured, you would be paid handsomely for you work in Soul Shards or...er, food."

That got a chuckle from Sasrir, but he didn't look up from his plate even as I glared at him. Observing our antics, which the rest of the Hunters merely looked at fondly, Athena narrowed her eyes and re-assessed the two men in front of her. To be honest, she had actually already heard a little about the two.

Sasrir was easy: Shadow Aspects are quite rare, especially one with such lethality and utility. Having joined the Hunters only recently, replacing Roric-a guy she knew for a while-and swiftly becoming known as the Reaper of the Dark City. While she hadn't heard anything about it, she knew Gunlaug would definitely be keeping an eye on him. That was why she was so surprised he and Adam were blatantly trying to curry favour with her, and even showing off to every other Hunter in the hall. Did they not know the report would be in front of Gunlaug before the hour ended?

Speaking of Adam, the rumours were far less about him than his companion. His Aspect had something to do about reading emotions and desires, which put her on guard from the very start. Mental Aspects were also rare, not as much as Shadow or Healing, but still uncommon enough that defences against them are few and far between.

From what she had gathered, the man was deeply religious and strictly moral. His skills with a sword weren't anything to look twice at, and though he was fairly handsome, nothing about him stood out. However, he had Sasrir wrapped around his finger, and the Reaper followed every order unquestionably. Already, a few voices were whispering parallels between him and Harus, the mad hunchback that served as the Bright Lord's right hand and assassin. 

Not a very flattering comparison, but not without basis either. 

"But even if I agree, it won't be easy. The Cathedral is located near the zone where that monster horde wrecked havoc recently. Turf has changed hands, and even I'm slightly concerned about heading there blind."

"No need to fret. Sasrir and I will scout the path before we begin, obviously. In fact, Gemma has ordered a general mobilisation of Hunters and Pathfinders to make up for lost time and regain our understanding of the streets. By the time we've prepared to face the Black Knight, all that will be left to do is actually kill the damn thing."

"Alright. In that case, I guess I might as well head out now and start investigating your dirty secrets and evil deeds" Athena flashed me a smile as she stood up, and I relaxed at her teasing tone. It seemed the food had put her back in her usual mood, which I was grateful for. Dealing with a tense Effie was like being stuck in a room with a tiger strapped in dynamite. 

Giving her a small wave off, I watched as she walked out of the hall and vanished from sight. Once she was gone, Sasrir leaned closer to me and whispered in my ear. "And now what?"

"Now," I began, pushing his face away from me, "We wait for Gunlaug to call upon us. Well, it will probably be Gemma or maybe Tessai. You are famously lethal after all, and I'm sure the average Guard would piss himself if told to arrest you."

"Will we be arrested?"

"Questioned, at the very least. But just plead ignorance, and let me do the talking. Besides, we've been here just under thirty days, but we haven't even seen the Bright Lord yet, have we? Or even the other Lieutenants."

Before Sasrir could respond, the sound of scraping chairs and shuffling of bodies echoed in the hall. Looking around, I saw that a gap had appeared in the crowd of Hunters, and Gemma was walking towards us with a complicated expression. Standing beside him was a woman with a taller than average build and a professional smile on her lips. As she walked though, anyone she may have touched made sure to move out of the way. And when she got closer, I realised her skin was an off-colour, like silt grey. 

Stopping before us, Gemma looked like he didn't want to be here, while Seishan scanned us from top to bottom-the top for Sasrir, the bottom for me. I raised an eyebrow at her, but she just kept smiling, and then turned to Gemma, indicating for him to speak first.

"Sorry about this guys, it isn't personal, but.." Gemma took a deep breath. "Under the orders of the Bright Lord, the two of you are to report in the throne room. Now."

We stood up silently, expressions calm and unruffled. As Gemma led us out of the hall, I gave an extra glance to Sasrir, reading the question in his shadowed expression. 

'Are you sure about this?'

To which I replied with a wink.

Chapter Text

Gemma led us through sections of the castle I had only ever heard described. The architecture shifted, becoming grander, the stonework more precise and imposing. Tapestries were hung up on the wall telling stories, real or imagined. The air grew colder, and the ambient light dimmed, sourced from glowing crystals set in sconces.

We approached a set of massive, reinforced doors, flanked by two members of the Host. Their armor was polished to a high sheen, and their faces were set in grim, impersonal masks. They looked at us with flat, assessing eyes before nodding to Gemma and pushing the heavy doors open.

The throne room was vast, its ceiling lost in shadow. At the far end, on a dais carved from the same dark stone as the castle, sat Gunlaug. He was the only one seated. His golden armor was unlike any metal I had ever seen; it flowed like liquid over his form, shimmering with a low, hypnotic light. A palpable pressure radiated from him, a mental weight that pushed down on my consciousness, urging silence and submission.

Flanking him were his three standing lieutenants. To his right was Harus, the Butcher. He was a gaunt, skeletal figure, his posture bent into a pronounced hunch that made him seem smaller, yet somehow more sinister. His long fingers twitched slightly at his sides. On Gunlaug's left stood Tessai, the Guard Captain, a mountain of muscle and grim duty, his arms crossed over his chest and his face permanent marred with a scowl. Beside Tessai, Seishan took her place and completed the triangle, her silt-grey skin and professional smile looking utterly alien in the oppressive atmosphere.

We were led to the center of the room and then left there, Gemma moving to stand slightly apart from the other three, beside a woman I could only presume was Kido. The five of them formed a half-circle around us. The silence stretched, thick and heavy under Gunlaug's suppressive aura. It was a test of will, and I focused on keeping my breathing even, my mind my own.

It was Tessai who broke the silence, his voice a low gravel rumble. "The Priest and his Shadow," he said, his gaze a physical weight. "You've been busy." He let the statement hang, an open-ended accusation.

I bowed my head slightly, a gesture of respect that also helped break the intensity of his stare. "We have been trying to contribute, Captain Tessai," I said, my voice carefully neutral. "As all Sleepers must."

"Contribute?" Tessai repeated, the word a blunt instrument. "Is that what you call it? A Fallen Terror dies. A nest of Stone Saints is wiped out. The eastern districts are in chaos for a week. And you two, newcomers, broke the Bright Lord's rule by consorting with that beast of a woman now of all times?" He took a single, heavy step forward. "Explain the coincidence."

I kept my eyes downcast, playing the humble part. "We were back hunting in the eastern sectors after the chaos calmed, sir. The zone has indeed changed too much, so we sought help to map it out. And Huntress Athena is hailed as one of the best."

From the corner of my eye, I saw Harus the hunchback shift. His head tilted, and though his eyes were clouded, I felt an unnatural focus settle on me. "Lies..." he rasped, his voice like dry leaves scraping stone. "I can smell them on you, boy. Tell us what you really have planned."

A chill that had nothing to do with the room's temperature went down my spine. This was the real threat. Not Tessai's brute force, but Harus's uncanny ability to discern the natures of others, and the fact he held the Bright Lord's ear.

"We fight for our lives, like everyone else," Sasrir spoke for the first time, his voice cutting through Harus's whisper like a shard of ice. His simple statement carried the weight of cold truth. "We are mere Sleepers in a city of Awakened and Fallen. Gathering allies and forming connections is the only way to survive in this world."

Tessai's scowl deepened, but he shifted his attention to Sasrir. "Your companion doesn't speak much. And his... presence has grown lately." It wasn't a question. He was stating a fact he found suspicious.

"He has always been quiet," I interjected smoothly, drawing the focus back to me. "And the Labyrinth changes everyone, does it not? We are all just trying to adapt and survive under the Bright Lord's protection." I dared a glance toward the dais, aiming my words at the silent, golden figure.

Gunlaug had not moved. His gaze, from within the helmet of flowing gold, was fixed on us. He offered no reaction, no cue. He was a judge, allowing his prosecutors to make their case.

"The preacher is as silver-tongued as they say," Seishan commented, her voice a smooth, neutral counterpoint to Tessai's gruffness. "But words are one thing. You say you need the Huntress to explore the ruins, but why not come to your fellow Hunters, or to Gemma?"

This was the most direct question yet. I had to answer without revealing any flaws for the paranoid hunchback to capitalise on. "Sir Gemma has been very busy frequently, coordinating the rest of the Hunters and Pathfinders. Besides, and while I do not blame hem for this, most of the other Hunters had made it clear the didn't want anything to do with the newly established zone over the lockdown."

Harus let out a wet, rattling chuckle. "So you believed your fellow comrades to be too cowardly? How... convenient." The pressure in the room seemed to intensify. They didn't believe us. Not fully. But they had no proof we were plotting anything. However, in the Forgotten Shore, truth and justice were a long way off.

"It...was not entirely on them, I suppose." I revealed a hesitant and torn expression, fidgeting with my fingertips a bit. "While the Hunters did make their apprehension of the new zone clear, there were still a few who seemed excited to achieve glory. However..."

Here I took a deep breathe, maximising my role as young, calm and well-intended but ultimately still naïve to the ways of the world. 

"I also wanted to acquire the glory for myself, the glory of being the first Hunter to establish a path through the eastern sector. So, I avoided calling upon the other Hunters or Sir Gemma and instead searched for someone from the Settlement, someone who was known for keeping to themselves and not being loose-lipped. This naturally led me to Huntress Athena."

There, I had said it. My "Shameful" secret and motive, laid bare for the big and scary adults to judge me. Peeking up at the leaders of the Host with the expression of a child caught stealing from the cookie jar, I struggled to keep the sneer off my face.

Tessai looked back at Gunlaug, seeking a command. The Bright Lord remained immobile for a long, heart-pounding moment. Then, the faintest nod. It was barely a movement, but it was enough.

"You will abandon your appointment with the Huntress," Tessai commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument. "And you will be confined to the Hunter's quarters until this matter is investigated further. Your movements will be watched and you are not allowed to leave the Castle. If nothing is found, you will be released."

It was a setback, but not a disaster. They were suspicious, but they weren't throwing us in a dungeon. We had room to manoeuvre. "We understand," I said, my voice humble. "We only wish to prove our loyalty."

As Gemma stepped forward to escort us out, I chanced one last look at the ruling council. Tessai was still scowling. Seishan was still smiling. Harus was still staring with those clouded, knowing eyes. Kido was the only one who didn't seem to care either way and was merely twirling a strand of hair with her finger, a bored expression on her face.

And Gunlaug, in his liquid gold armor, was still a silent, suppressing monolith. Throughout the whole interrogation, he hadn't even spoken a word, revealed nothing of his thoughts, and kept the ultimate judgement to himself. Still, our necks were off the immediate chopping block, and as long as we were still alive, I could guarantee I could figure something out.

The walk back to the Hunter's Quarters with Gemma was utterly silent. He didn't look at us, his shoulders tense with a frustration I couldn't quite place. Was he annoyed at us for causing trouble, or at the order itself? He left us at the door with a grunt, not bothering to see us inside.

I let out a long, controlled breath, the tension from the throne room finally starting to ebb. I crossed the room and flopped backward onto my bed, arms folding behind my head as I stared at the ceiling. Just a few minutes of quiet was all I asked for.

The door creaked open. I bolted upright, swiftly correcting my posture into something more collected and poised. My carefully reassembled facade nearly shattered on the spot when I saw who it was. Seishan stood in the doorway, her silt-grey skin a stark contrast to the dark wood. Her eyes, cat-like and perceptive, swept over me with clear amusement.

She took a few silent steps into the room, her gaze lingering on me before shifting to Sasrir. The amusement vanished, replaced by a flicker of serious assessment. She knew he was the real danger in the room. Then, her attention returned to me, that faint, knowing smile back on her lips.

"You have impressive nerves, little preacher," she began, her voice smooth as polished stone. "Not many can stand before Harus's gaze, let alone under the weight of the Sun's Gaze armor, without cracking." She paused, letting the compliment hang in the air before her tone sharpened slightly. "But don't mistake a stay of execution for a pardon. You are still deep in the bog of suspicion."

I simply nodded, keeping my expression neutral. I knew better than to think we were in the clear. Her visit wasn't a social call.

She didn't wait for a question. She began to speak, her tone conversational, as if discussing the weather. "Our illustrious Bright Lord," she said, "did not always command this castle. He was a scavenger, like all of us once." Her eyes seemed to look through me, into the past. "He found his power on the shore, a Transcendent Memory pried from the corpse of a dying leviathan that had washed up from the black sea. He was the only one brave or foolish enough to touch it."

She took another step, her movements fluid and unnervingly quiet. "He slaughtered his way to the top. He didn't build alliances; he broke them. He didn't earn loyalty; he demanded it, and killed those who refused." Her gaze sharpened, pinning me in place. "That is the man you just stood before. He understands only one language: power."

Then, she delivered the piece of information that explained everything. "That is also why the wild girl, Effie, is forbidden." A cold smile touched her lips. "She was strong. Useful. But she refused to kneel. She would not become a subordinate." Seishan shrugged one grey shoulder, a gesture of cold, pragmatic finality. "So, she was cut off. Isolated. Made an example of. In Gunlaug's world, you are either a tool in his hand, or you are a threat to be removed. There is no in-between."

"And what does that have to do with the fact you are standing before us now?" Sasrir interrupted, faint hostility leaking through. "By your own words, meeting you like this could also be seen as a sign of treason, of revolution. Are you trying to get us beheaded, and yourself by extension?"

"Perish the thought," Seishan laughed daintily, holding her hand to her mouth like a pure maiden. "I am merely here to talk to you because, since Huntress Athena is naturally out of the equation, you must be searching for someone to take her place, yes? Your house arrest will only last three days at most, then Gemma will lobby for you to be released. That man was always strangely protective of his own. No different from me, I suppose."

"Why would you want to help us?"

"Because you are different from the usual pattern."

"Patterns?" I asked, keeping my voice light, playing her game. "What sort of patterns?"

"Oh, the usual," she said, her gaze drifting around our sparse quarters as if studying art in a gallery. "Newcomers arrive. They keep their heads down. Or they make a delightful, holy spectacle of themselves." She gave me a pointed smile. "But you two... you create a different kind of ripple. The kind that, if one knows how to look, suggests a swimmer moving with a destination in mind, not just treading water."

Sasrir didn't relent. "Your metaphors are as opaque as your skin. State your purpose."

"My purpose is the well-being of the garden," she replied, her tone shifting to one of mock solemnity. "A good gardener notices when a new sapling isn't just growing, isn't just settling in its' roots, but striving upwards to reach something. And she wonders, what is it reaching for? The sun? Or something shinier?" Her eyes flicked to the ceiling, a clear allusion to the throne room above.

"You seem to be suggesting we have ambitions we haven't declared," I said, walking the line between denial and engagement.

"Ambitions? Such a strong word," she mused. "Let's call them... appetites. Everyone here is hungry. Most are hungry for their next meal. A few, like our dear, exiled huntress, were hungry for something more. For a place at a table that wasn't offered." She looked back at me, her expression unreadable. "I find myself curious about what whets your particular appetite, little preacher. Is it pleasures of the flesh... or seats of power?"

"We're just trying to survive," Sasrir stated flatly, a wall of cold truth.

"Survival is the baseline, shadow-man. It's what you do with your survival that determines who you are," she countered, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "For instance, causing a ruckus in the Eastern Sector that caused the entire local ecosystem to collapse."

I froze up at that, but hopefully managed to catch myself before I let anything slip. "What is the blazing hells are you talking about? We weren't anywhere near the place when it went up in flames."

"Oh, but you were," Seishan pressed, her full lips curving into a smile. "One of my sisters saw you returning from that direction, covering in dust and dried blood. Not your own, from the way you're looking now, so probably a monster's or a corpse's. But that old snake is very territorial and doesn't care to go beyond it, which makes the fact it died in a different zone entirely very strange. Unless it was provoked and lured there. And we just happen to have someone who can move unseen and untouchable, don't we?"

Here she focused on Sasrir, and my heart hardened. I had sent him scouting around Bright Castle of course, but made sure he specifically avoided Seishan: she had detected Sunny in the original novel after all, and I wasn't keen on provoking her. Yet it seemed Sasrir wasn't sneaky enough despite all our precautions. Well, that or she just asked any of the Hunters who had witnessed Sasrir meld with the shadows. Yeah on second thought, it wasn't really surprising she knew...

"You speak in circles," Sasrir growled, his patience visibly thinning. "Do you have a proposal, or are you just here to waste our time during our 'respite'?"

"A proposal? How dreadfully formal," she chuckled. "I am merely extending an invitation to a conversation. The guest list for such conversations is... highly exclusive. And the topics discussed are never so crude as 'proposals'. They are more about... mutual appreciation for a well-tended garden, and a shared interest in what new and interesting fruits it might bear."

"So you know nothing," I summarized, feigning disappointment. "You just have... suspicions. And you're hoping we'll confirm them for you."

"Knowledge is such a heavy burden," she sighed theatrically. "Suspicion is so much more... flexible. It allows for possibilities. For instance, the possibility that a gardener might, on occasion, provide a bit of extra fertilizer to a promising plant, without ever needing to know its exact species." She was offering help without ever stating it, admitting she didn't know our full plan but was willing to invest in it.

"And what would this gardener want in return for this... fertilizer?" I asked.

"Why, to see the garden flourish, of course!" she said, her smile widening. "And to perhaps have a favored flower remember who provided a little extra sunlight on a cloudy day when the official gardener was... distracted." She was insinuating a future where Gunlaug was no longer the sole authority.

"...You're putting a lot of faith in a flower that has yet to even bloom," I said, the suspicion in my tone blunter and more human, no longer beating around the bush. Hearing this, Seishan's smile also faded and for the first time, a cold expression took its' place on her face. 

"The gardener feels they have been here far too long already, and desires to move on to greener gardens. For this, a little bit of reshuffling is acceptable."

With that, the woman turned on her heels and left, gently closing the door behind her. Sasrir and I stared at it silently for several seconds, making sure she was well and gone with no one to replace her, before I let out a tired sigh and resumed my position on the bed. "Well, that was mildly concerning."

Sasrir loomed over me. "Adam, this is no time for jokes. How did the Witch gather out our intentions? We acted strangely compared to others, but a few nutjobs isn't rare in the Dream Realm, so how did she specifically link us to regicide?"

"Seishan tends to think the worst of people," I waved away his concerns, literally, and let out a yawn. "She thinks everybody is scheming and killing because that's all she is doing. We just have to play along with her expectations and then dump her at the appropriate time. Let her little spider of a mind spin whatever reason it wants."

"You are leaving the initiative with the enemy."

"I'm confidant in my preparations."

"You-!"

Sasrir pinched the bridge of his nose before sitting down on his bed beside me. "Fine, just promise me you will be careful. Gunlaug doesn't need much of a reason to send Harus after their head, so please, for the love of God, don't provoke him."

"Pfft, who do you think I am, Medici? Relax, I have the whole thing figured out. We just need to sit back, soak in the view, and everything will turn out juuuuust fine in the end..."

Chapter Text

Three days later, just as Seishan had predicted, Gemma’s lobbying secured our release. The "house arrest" was lifted without fanfare. The message was clear: we were still being watched, but apart from a warning to avoid working with Athena in the future, no other motion was taken against us.

After being released, one of the first things I did was send a message to Seishan through one of her Handmaidens. That evening, I found myself in the designated spot, a shell of a building just beyond the outer shantytown. The air was cold, and the silence was broken only by the distant sounds of the Settlement. I sat on a large chunk of fallen masonry, my thumb rubbing a slow, rhythmic circle over the warm metal of the Unshadowed Crucifix. It was a nervous habit, a tic I’d developed.

In the deepest corner of the ruin, where the moonlight didn't reach, a pool of darkness lay perfectly still. That was Sasrir. He’d taken to resting in that form when alone, a puddle of sentient shadow that was both relaxing for him and an excellent early warning system.

I heard the soft crunch of footsteps approaching. One set was light, almost silent—Seishan. But there was a second, heavier tread alongside her. My hand stilled on the Crucifix. This was a deviation. A meeting like this was meant to be deniable.

The pool of shadow in the corner rippled. A tendril of darkness detached, slithering up the wall and out a crack in the stone to observe the approach. It retracted a moment later, and Sasrir’s form coalesced from the gloom, his voice a whisper only I could hear.

"She’s not alone," he reported. "She brought Gemma."

My frown deepened. Gemma? This changed the calculus entirely. Bringing the Hunter primarch was either a massive show of good faith, a move to corner us, or a bit of both. I stayed seated, my posture deliberately relaxed, but every sense was on high alert. His presence would make hunting the Fallen Devil easier, but carried its own risks.

The two figures emerged from the gloom, their forms starkly different. Seishan moved with her usual eerie grace, a smile playing on her lips. Gemma, however, looked like a man marching to his own execution, his shoulders tense and his expression a thundercloud.

“Adam,” Gemma grunted, stopping a few feet away. He crossed his arms, his gaze sweeping over the ruin as if expecting an ambush. “This had better be worth the risk.”

“Risk?” I asked, keeping my voice mild. “I was just appreciating the moonlight. It’s a peaceful night for a stroll, isn’t it?”

Seishan’s laugh was a soft chime. “He’s delightful, isn’t he, Gemma? Such a talent for finding the silver lining.” She turned her cat-like eyes to me. “Our dour friend here required some… convincing. I assured him your ambitions aligned with the castle’s greater stability.”

Gemma’s eyes narrowed at me. “Stability. That’s one word for it. Seishan seems to think you two hold more than you look. She thinks you’re competent. Ambitious, even.” He let the word hang, a clear probe. “Ambitious people in this castle usually end up dead. Or they cause a lot of dead bodies first.”

“We just want to survive, sir,” I said, layering just the right amount of earnestness into my tone. “But you’re right. Surviving sometimes requires more than just hiding. It requires… resources. The right tools for the job.”

“Tools,” Gemma repeated, his gaze flicking to the shadows where Sasrir had been. “You’ve got a pretty unique tool already. One that can gut a man without so much as a drop of blood getting on him. You really expect me to believe you need more?”

This was the delicate part. “Even the best tool has its limits,” I said, choosing my words with care. “And some jobs are too big for one crew. No matter how… motivated.”

Seishan stepped in, her voice a silken thread binding the conversation. “What my blunt colleague is trying to say is that we are… invested in your continued success. A rising tide lifts all ships, as they say. And Gunlaug’s harbor has grown somewhat stagnant, has it not?”

Gemma flinched almost imperceptibly at the direct criticism, however veiled. “Watch your tongue,” he muttered, but it lacked real heat. It was a performance, a necessary denial.

“Of course,” Seishan purred. “We all serve at the Bright Lord’s pleasure. But even a lord appreciates subjects who proactively handle pests. Without needing to be asked.” She looked directly at Gemma. “It shows initiative. Reliability.”

“This ‘pest’,” I ventured, moving the conversation forward. “It's a vicious little thing, but not invincible. I'm confident we can kill it, though without Lady Athena, it will certainly be more difficult." I let the statement hang, a subtle probe to see if they had any other surprises in store.

"Who says you're doing this without me?"

Turning around at the sudden vocal intrusion, I saw the tall and tanned figure of Effie vaulting over a collapsed wall and landing in a low, powerful squat. She straightened up, dusting her hands off and giving me a cheery, feral grin. The grin faltered slightly as her eyes landed on Seishan and Gemma. The former offered a slight, approving nod. The latter seemed to grow even more tense, if that was even possible, his jaw tightening.

"You'd risk Gunlaug's wrath to help us?" Sasrir pointed out, the doubt clear in his tone as he materialized from the shadows. He was looking at Effie, his head tilted.

"That shiny bastard won't know a thing," Effie dismissed his worries with a flippant wave. "He never gets his golden arse up off that throne, and Seishan here controls his primary info-gathering source—the Handmaidens." She shot the grey-skinned woman a look of grudging respect. "By the time the sun rises, everybody will be none the wiser."

"As Lady Athena said," Seishan confirmed smoothly, "this operation will not reach the Bright Lord's ears—or not from my lips, at least." The qualifier was a masterstroke, a reminder that our success was the only real guarantee of her silence.

"Fine," Gemma bit out, clearly unhappy with the expanding conspiracy but committed now. "Let's get this over with. How do we kill it?"

"The Devil is fast and relies on its control over darkness," I began, my voice all business. "Its sword can tear apart Awakened like paper, and it can instantly appear anywhere shadows touch-though, it can't leave the cathedral. Physical attacks aren't very effective, and I presume the same applies to Mental."

"Effie and I will take the front," Gemma stated, his Hunter instincts taking over. "We're the most durable. We draw its attention, keep it focused on us. We can occupy him long enough for you to do your work."

"Sasrir and I will harass from the flanks," Seishan added. "If needed, I can swap in with one of you if you get injured or tired. His shadows can bind its movements, create openings." She glanced at the pool of darkness that was my companion. "The goal is to keep it off-balance and contained."

All eyes turned to me. "And you, preacher?" Gemma asked, his tone a mix of skepticism and curiosity.

"I'll be charging my... method," I said, my hand instinctively touching the Unshadowed Crucifix beneath my jacket. "It requires a moment to reach full potency. When I give the signal, you'll need to clear a line of sight. A single strike probably won't be enough to finish it, so it will likely aggro on me. I'll need protection for that." I didn't mention the cost, the blood tax that would leave me drained and vulnerable. Some secrets were best kept close.

Effie cracked her knuckles, a fierce light in her eyes. "So we pin it down, and you hit it with whatever you've been hiding up your sleeve. Sounds simple enough."

"In theory," Sasrir murmured from the darkness, his voice a low counterpoint to her enthusiasm. "The practice is always messier."

"Then let's go make a mess," Gemma said, turning to lead the way into the deeper darkness of the ruins. The unlikely alliance was forged, a pact of mutual interest and shared ambition. 

The journey through the corpse of the city was tense and silent. Our strange coalition moved with a shared purpose, the usual animosities buried under the immediate goal. We finally reached our destination: a crumbling cathedral, its spires clawing at a starry sky that felt impossibly distant. The structure stood dark and eerie, a monument to a forgotten faith, now home to a very real devil.

"Here we are," Sasrir muttered, his voice low. "It nests in the centre. We go in hard and fast."

In unison, Seishan and Effie called upon their power. The air shimmered. In Seishan's hand, a war hammer materialized. It was a thing of brutal elegance, its haft smooth and dark, but one side of its head was forged into a long, narrow, and wickedly sharp beak. It was a tool for both crushing and piercing. Effie's call was simpler. A bronze spear, weathered and scarred but humming with latent power, appeared in her grip. It looked less like a Memory and more like a piece of a legend she had personally claimed.

All eyes then turned to me, expectant. They were waiting to see the weapon that could purify a Fallen Devil. I offered a small, placid smile and reached for a different power entirely.

A soft, silvery light enveloped my shoulders, coalescing into a cloak woven from what seemed to be captured starlight. The Starlight Cloak settled around me, its fabric shimmering with a gentle, cosmic radiance. It was a thing of pure defense and utility, not offense.

A beat of stunned silence passed. Gemma blinked, his brow furrowed in pure confusion. Effie outright stared, her head cocked like a puzzled hound. This was not the blazing holy symbol they had anticipated.

But it was Seishan's reaction that was most telling. Her cat-like eyes, fixed on the cloak, widened for a fraction of a second before a look of pure, unadulterated triumph flashed within them. She had recognised the Shard Memory for what it was, and it was the proof that indeed, I was worth backing. In her mind, this confirmed my value, my hidden depth. 

Of course, she didn't know. She had no idea that the silent shadow standing beside me, the one who had summoned no weapon, held a shard of equal power within him. The Moonlight Shard was Sasrir's to command, our second hidden card. Seishan was playing a game of secrets, and she had just congratulated herself for seeing one of ours, completely unaware that another important one remained veiled in darkness.

Gemma looked between the spear in Effie's hand and the hammer in Seishan's and seemed to come to a realization. "A Lord Shard? Wait, you guys killed a Fallen?!"

Every Lord Monster was of the Fallen Rank, though their Tier varied. If we possessed a Lord Shard, it meant we had successfully slain one before.

"In the Catacombs, that old pile of bones down there dropped it. Was a complete bitch to kill, but we got lucky with the compatibility and managed to eke out a victory" I smoothly twisted the narrative to make it sound harder than it was-it was difficult yes, but in the way a battle of attrition was: a slog but not life-threatening. 

"Wait, so we have half the Shards in the Forgotten Shore gathered in one place?" Effie raised her voice in surprise before lowering it. "Holy hell, I can see why Seishan placed her hopes on you. We might actually have a chance here."

Whether she was referring to killing the Black Knight or escaping the Forgotten Shore, I couldn't tell, and I didn't ask. Instead, I turned towards Sasrir. "Are you ready?"

He patted me on the shoulder. "Don't worry, I'm not that treacherous bastard-I won't lose in a battle of shadows."

Under the confused gazes of the other three, not knowing who Sasrir was talking about, he turned into shadows and slunk towards the cathedral. "Come on, we need to blitz it as soon as Sasrir captures its' attention."

For a long moment, there was only silence from within the cavernous hall. Then, a furious, metallic shriek tore through the night, a sound of pure rage that could only mean Sasrir had succeeded. The oppressive darkness inside the cathedral seemed to writhe and convulse.

"Now!" Gemma roared.

We burst into the grand hall. The scene was one of chaotic motion. The Black Knight was a towering obsidian figure, its form flickering at the edges as it drew the tangible darkness of the room around itself like a cloak. It was fast, unnaturally so, a blur of sharp edges and brutal force. But Sasrir was its equal in the shadows. He wasn't fighting it directly; he was unmaking its advantage. Wherever the Knight tried to merge with the darkness to reposition or heal, Sasrir's own shadows were there, contesting the territory, turning the Knight's sanctuary into a battleground.

Gemma didn't hesitate. With a guttural yell, he charged directly at the Knight, his sword swinging in a devastating arc. The Knight met the charge, its own blade a blur of darkness. The two weapons clashed with a deafening clang, but the Knight was faster. It twisted, and its blade sliced deep into Gemma's side, shearing through armor and flesh, revealing a flash of white bone.

Gemma grunted but didn't falter. As he disengaged, we all watched in stunned silence as the horrific wound began to seal itself. Muscle fibers writhed like worms, knitting back together. Skin stretched and smoothed over, leaving only a faint pink line that faded to nothing in seconds. It wasn't just healing; it was a grotesque, rapid regeneration. He shook off the injury, his physique seeming to swell slightly, the near-death experience pushing his body to repair itself stronger. "Is that all you've got?" he taunted, spitting a glob of blood onto the stone floor.

The Knight, enraged by its failed kill-shot, focused entirely on Gemma, becoming a whirlwind of slicing darkness. Gemma became our unbreakable anchor, a regenerating punching bag. He took blows that would have bisected a normal man—a deep gouge across his chest, a slash that nearly severed his shoulder. Each time, he staggered back, his body audibly cracking and sizzling as it repaired the catastrophic damage, each recovery leaving him a fraction more resilient, his movements growing more brutally efficient as his body adapted to the punishment.

Seeing Gemma fully occupy the Knight's attention, Seishan decided it was time to escalate. A low, inhuman groan escaped her lips. There was a series of sickening pops and cracks. Her body began to change, her limbs elongating, her spine twisting to an impossible angle, making her seem several feet taller. Her smooth grey skin roughened, becoming the texture of rough shark hide. Her eyes rolled back into her skull, revealing a second, horrifying set of pupils—vertical slits surrounded by a sea of blood red. Her jaw unhinged with a wet tear, distending to reveal several rows of needle-like, backwards-curving fangs.

This was no longer Seishan the courtly lieutenant; this was a deep-sea nightmare given form.

Gemma's regeneration finally began to slow as the sheer volume of damage taxed even his incredible power. He took a massive overhead chop from the Knight on the flat of his sword, the force driving him to one knee with a grunt of pain. The Knight, sensing weakness, raised its blade for a final, decisive strike.

But Seishan was already there.

Her elongated, shark-hided form flowed between them with that same unnatural, jerking speed. She didn't try to block the blow head-on. Instead, she swung her beaked war hammer in a precise, upward arc. The narrow, sharp beak of the hammer didn't meet the blade directly; it struck the flat of the dark sword with a deafening clan*, deflecting the killing blow just enough that it slammed into the stone floor beside Gemma, sending shards of rock flying.

The Knight, off-balance from its missed strike, left its chest exposed for a fraction of a second. Seishan didn't waste it. With a guttural hiss that escaped her distended maw, she put the full, twisted strength of her transformed body into a single, vicious swing. The hammer, this time the flat side, connected with the Knight's chestplate. The sound was not of clanging metal, but of a deep, resonant crunch, like a mountain cracking. The obsidian plate didn't shatter, but a massive, web-like dent was punched deep into its torso, causing the Knight to stagger back several steps, a grating, pained rasp escaping its helm.

It was the first real, structural damage we had managed to inflict, a testament to her monstrous strength. She had become a  physical powerhouse, intercepting the Knight's assaults and landing a blow that even Gemma's relentless blade-work hadn't achieved. She stood poised for a moment, her red, vertical pupils fixed on her handiwork, a predator assessing a grievous wound, before flowing back to harry the Knight's flank with another swing. She was a versatile and terrifying weapon, seamlessly shifting between roles to exploit every weakness.

Effie was the opportunistic striker. She didn't have Gemma's regeneration or Seishan's monstrous transformation. She had pure, unadulterated battle instinct and strength. She darted in and out of the fray like a wolf, her bronze spear striking with surgical precision. She aimed for the joints, the gaps in the dark armor, the spots Seishan's disruptions had made vulnerable. When the Knight backhanded her, sending her flying into a pillar hard enough to crack the stone, she just shook her head, spat out a tooth, and lunged back into the fight with a feral grin, her resilience as much a part of her as her spear.

And through it all, Sasrir waged his silent war within the shadows. He was the reason the Knight's wounds, inflicted by Gemma's axe and Effie's spear, didn't instantly vanish. He was a territorial predator, constantly challenging the Knight's control over the ambient darkness. When the Knight tried to melt away to heal, Sasrir's shadows would congeal, forcing it back into a solid state. He was the linchpin, the one who turned the Knight's greatest asset into a contested battlefield. Of course, he couldn't entangle with the Black Knight for too long either: bursts of one or two seconds was all he could manage without being at risk of contaminating Corruption.

My job was to wait. I stood protected by the Starlight Cloak, my hands clenched around the Unshadowed Crucifix. I poured my essence into it, feeling the familiar, draining pull as it began to heat up, charging for a single, purifying blast. I watched the brutal ballet, timing my moment.

The fight was a grueling war of attrition. Gemma was a mass of fading scars, his regeneration visibly faltering as his essence ran low. Effie was bleeding from a dozen cuts. Even Seishan's monstrous form was showing strain, her staggering blows becoming less frequent. But the Knight was faring worse. Its form was now riddled with unhealed gashes and punctures, its movements sluggish. Sasrir was winning the shadow war.

But that only seemed to drive it madder with rage.

"Now, Adam! Do it now!" Sasrir bellowed, once again trying to stall the Knight in a battle of shadows.

This was it. I raised the Crucifix. "Holy Light Summoning!" A beam of pure, concentrated sunlight, impossibly bright in the dark hall, lanced across the room. It struck the Black Knight directly overhead, enveloping its entire body without sparing a single inch.

It wasn't a beam this time. It was an eruption.

A pillar of pure, concentrated sunlight, so brilliant it was painful to look at, slammed down from the unseen ceiling of the cathedral. It didn't just strike the Black Knight; it enveloped it, consuming its form in a torrent of divine fury. There was no sound at first, only that overwhelming, silent radiance.

Then, the clash began.

The Knight's darkness fought back with a violent, desperate will. Tendrils of absolute blackness lashed out from within the core of light, trying to claw their way free. They were met by lashing whips of incandescent gold. It was a primordial battle, light against dark, creation against void, happening within the space of a single creature's form. The air itself screamed with the contradiction, a high-pitched whine that felt like it was shredding reality.

The Knight's form was the battlefield. We watched, awestruck and horrified, as its dark self boiled. It bubbled and blistered, patches of it flashing into non-existence while others writhed and resisted. The darkness was a seething, formless mass of hatred that pushed against the consuming light, only to be burned away layer by layer.

Finally, the tension reached its breaking point. With a final, silent shriek that was felt rather than heard, the darkness could hold no longer. The Knight's form imploded for a split second, and then*detonated outwards in a shockwave of pure, cleansing light.

The explosion was silent but immense. It washed over the entire cathedral, scouring the lingering shadows from every corner, bleaching the stone floor, and forcing us all to shield our eyes. When the light faded, there was nothing left of the Black Knight. No ash, no dissipating shadow. Just a profound and absolute absence. The oppressive gloom that had defined the hall was gone, replaced by a serene, natural darkness and the gentle, ambient light of the Starlight Cloak. The purification was total, violent, and complete.

It was over. We stood panting in the sudden silence, the five of us bound together by a shared, dangerous victory. Gemma's wounds were already closing into silvery scars. Seishan's form twisted and cracked back into her humanoid guise, though her eyes held a new, weary depth. Effie leaned on her spear, grinning through bloody lips. Sasrir materialized beside me, silent and watchful once more. We had survived the fight, and killed a Fallen that even the main cast had struggled against.

Then again, we also struggled and were probably closer to death than it appeared.

Making my way over to where the Knight had died, I rummaged around the ground and, after several seconds, found what I was looking for. It was not a shard, not in the common sense. It was a gem, utterly and profoundly black, as if carved from a piece of the void itself. This darkness was not mere absence of light; it was an active, suffocating entity.

Deep within that impossible blackness, a heart of crimson fire burned. The flames did not flicker, but pulsed with a slow, menacing, and bizarre rhythm, like the heartbeat of some forgotten leviathan. Each throb of red light seemed to push back against the consuming darkness for a fleeting moment before being swallowed once more.

This was no ordinary soul shard. It radiated an intense, palpable aura of power, feeling less like a fragment and more like a complete, condensed soul. A closer look revealed the source of its strange rhythm: within the crimson core, four distinct flames twisted around one another, representing the four Soul Cores of the Fallen Devil-the Black Knight's very essence, a crystallized manifestation of its malevolent power and the profound darkness it had commanded.

And what did I do with this rare and beautiful gem?

"Here, catch."

Casually tossing it to the taciturn Stone Saint, she caught it and stared at it quizzically for a moment, before bringing it up to her mouth and devouring it, much to the surprise of the others (bar Sasrir.) After doing so, she vanished into a pyre of silver sparks, returning to my Soul Sea for evolution just like in the novel. 

Brushing my hands off and ignoring the questioning looks from the others, I peered around at the cathedral hall and sat on the base of the statue that served as the altar. 

"Well then...anyone up for some tea?"

Chapter Text

The fight was over. A profound, weary silence settled in the cleansed cathedral, broken only by the ragged breathing of the four of us. Gemma sat heavily on a chunk of rubble, wincing as his body’s rapid regeneration finally began to slow, leaving behind a tapestry of fresh, pink scars.

“So,” he grunted, wiping sweat and ash from his brow. “What now? We just… go back to the castle and pretend this never happened?”

I leaned against a pillar, the Starlight Cloak flickering out as I let it go. The toll of the Crucifix and my own blood loss made my limbs feel like lead. Back to the act. Back to the waiting. “Now,” I said, my voice hoarse, “we rest. I, for one, won’t be moving again for at least a week. Maybe two.”

Gemma stared at me, his expression a mix of frustration and confusion. “Then what was the point of all this? We just risked our necks, defied the Bright Lord, for… what? To prove we could?” His pragmatism was a blunt instrument, but it was a fair question.

Before I could answer, Seishan, now fully returned to her poised form, let out a soft sigh. “Gemma. Think.” Her gaze, sharp and knowing, settled on me. “He doesn’t do things without a reason. This was a test. For us. For himself.”

She took a deliberate step closer, her voice low and direct. “The test is passed. What’s the real target?”

I looked at their expectant faces. Gemma’s weary suspicion, Effie’s keen interest, Seishan’s calculating stare. Sasrir was a silent statue, but I felt his focus, leaving the decision whether or not to talk up to me. Hiding the end goal was pointless now; they needed to see the scale of the ambition to be properly bound to it.

I let out a long, tired breath, as if the words were being pulled from me. “The Black Knight was the benchmark. If we could kill it, then almost nothing else we'll be going up against can defeat us either” I met Seishan’s gaze, letting the weight of the name hang in the air between us. “As for my next target? The First Lord’s corpse. I’m going to claim the Dawn Shard.”

The silence this time was absolute. Gemma’s eyes widened a fraction; even he understood the magnitude of that name. Effie’s grin turned grimmer, no doubt foreseeing the sheer amount of effort and pain that would take.

“The Dawn Shard,” she repeated, the words a statement, not a question. “An ambitious goal.” She didn’t ask how or why, and it almost unnerved me once again, why she held such trust in me. At this point, I was wondering if the seer was her and not Cassie, or if she'd somehow overheard me and Sasrir discussing our plans for the future.

But in any case, I wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth: so long as she didn't oppose me and continued to offer aid instead, we could be the best of friends as far as I was concerned. I didn't even care if she ended up reporting me to Ki Song once we escaped, because by then my other arrangements should have panned out.

We chatted and talked a bit longer, though Gemma and Sasrir mostly stayed silent. After exchanging empty pleasantries and enduring some ribbing from Effie, the others gradually realised Sasrir and I weren't leaving just yet, and so they excused themselves first. Effie gave us one last curious look over her shoulder before leaving, and then we were alone.

The heavy silence left by the departing trio seemed to last longer than it did. We listened until the sound of their footsteps faded completely, swallowed by the ruins. Only then did the tension in my shoulders ease a fraction. Sasrir, who had been a statue in the corner, finally stirred.

"They are useful," he stated, his voice a low rumble in the empty cathedral. "But let us be clear about what they are. Gemma is not our friend. He follows Gunlaug's orders and enforces his will. I have seen the results of his obedience—the broken bodies left in the Settlement, whether by him or by his subordinates. His loyalty is to power, and right now, we represent a new source of it. That is a fickle foundation."

He turned his head, the shadows around his features seeming to deepen. "Effie... she is straightforward. I do not believe she holds any specific malice for us. But her loyalty is to her own survival and her own freedom. She will fight alongside us if it serves her, but she will not throw herself on a blade for our cause. She is a fair-weather ally."

"Then there is Seishan," he said, and the temperature in the cathedral seemed to drop. "I trust her less than any monster in this city. Her words are a web, each one placed to trap and ensnare. She smiles while calculating how best to use you and discard the remains. She did not help us out of kindness or shared ambition. She is investing in a tool, and the moment we cease to be useful—or become a threat to her own position—she will be the first to move against us."

"I know," I replied, my voice tired but clear. "But even a shovel is a liability if you hold it by the blade. You just have to make sure you're the one holding the handle. We use their strength, their influence, while we hide our own."

Sasrir moved to stand directly before me, his gaze intense. "This plan of yours. The Dawn Shard. It is a leap into the unknown with allies who would just as soon push us off the cliff. We are drawing significant attention from the most dangerous people in this castle."

"Isn't that the point?" I countered, a faint smile touching my lips. "To stop being pieces on their board? We just took down a Fallen Devil with two of Gunlaug's lieutenants as our accomplices. We're not just drawing attention; we're starting to place ourselves on the map"

"That is not the acting of a Spectator."

"Damn Acting, I want control!"

The cathedral fell silent after my outburst, and I had unknowingly started heaving after that shout took all the air from my lungs. Sasrir looked at me silently, waiting for me to catch my breath before speaking. 

"I understand your fears Adam, I do-after all, I was made from them. But lashing out at the world, grasping for tenuous and temporary benefits, indulging in fleeting glories...you're fooling nobody but yourself. We must plan ahead, always consider the next dozen steps. We are the weaker party, and will be long even after Antarctica-do not forget, our foreknowledge ends there. Anything after the Sovereigns die is as unknown to as it is to the people of this world. If we want to ride out the waves, we must be calm."

"But then what? Don't forget, we're on TV right now, preforming live for some twisted collection of Gods, or maybe just the Curator alone. He said if we do well, we can hop into another world? Is that really the goal we're going for? Becoming an interdimensional traveller, never staying in one place, never setting our roots?"

"I never knew you were so interested in starting a family" Sasrir said coldly, his tone empty.

"Yeah well, death has a way of changing your perspectives. And you didn't answer my question-you're just as afraid of drifting through life as me, aren't you? You said it yourself, everything you possess came from me: you feel my fears more than anyone. So what happens after-if-we reach Divine? Kill the Sleeping God, dismantle the Spell, banish the Void and rekindled the Flame? Then just hop on over to Reverend Insanity or something?"

"Gods no," Sasrir frowned at that. "We despise Xinxia novels, you know that."

"Hey, a few were good-wait a second, stop trying to distract me!"

"And let you ramble on? Perhaps I need to be more frank Adam-get a fucking grip over yourself and shut the fuck up. Whining and complaining about the future? Talk when you're confidant you even have one. At this rate we won't even be able to kill that fucking tree, nonetheless take on bullshit like Solvane and Winter Beast. If you need me to slap some sense into you, just give the word. I've been wanting to do it since you opened your fucking mouth!"

I fell into shocked silence, mouth agape like a fool. Sasrir had never talked to me like that: yes, he had mocked and made jokes at my expense before, but that was friendly, brotherly, to help my mood. But this? This was true malice, proper spite, each word laden with negativity that pierced right through me. 

It fucking hurt, and for a moment I though I might actually cry.

But no, I managed to save myself from social suicide and, just as he said, grabbed a hold of myself.

"...right, I'm sorry. That was uncalled for, and I deserved everything you said. I just-it's just been so hard." I was sitting down now, face in hands. "At the time, it's so much easier, ordering commands, suppressing fire with the Unshadowed Crucifix...the blood loss strips my ability to think, to analyse just how close I am to death. It numbs the sensations, and my Flaw takes what's left."

Sasrir's expression softened. "You're feeling the effects of your Flaw?"

"Yeah. It doesn't really activate during normal life, but once I'm fighting, even my own wellbeing slowly stops becoming important. It's not really noticeable at first, but the longer the fight goes on, the more my emotions and feelings are drained away, leaving just the thinker to operate. And I'm not even that bloody smart, so that's actually a terrible idea!"

"Is that why you are so desperate to acquire the Weaver's Mask? To reverse your Flaw and keep your emotions? Adam, you know this already, but the reversion doesn't work that simply. Justice makes you always make the most optimal and rational choice, but the opposite...it would make you foolish, arrogant and spontaneous. It will just get you killed on the battlefield."

"Maybe," I admitted, lifting my face from my hands. "But I still have to try and do something, or else my humanity won't only be eroded during conflict. I don't want to became the actual Adam, okay? I love his character, but being reduced to an emotionless robot that can only follow emotional guidelines left by his past self is enough to trigger an existential crisis in me. I want to be the Ancient Sun God, not the Angel of Imagination."

"You want to be ravaged by the soul of a primordial deity and suffer repeated possession attempts before being eaten by your subordinates?" Sasrir raised an eyebrow at me.

"What?! No, I want to be powerful and cool-oh, you're just fucking with me."

"What else" he rolled his eyes and extending his hand, pulling me up back onto my feet. "Listen, just walk one foot at a time: keep moving forward, and the path will gradually reveal itself. Whatever you need to keep yourself going, then do it, but remember I will always be by your side-until the day you die."

"Sorry," I muttered, looking down like a guilty child caught by their mother.

After staying still, for nearly a minute, letting the tension dissipate but also causing awkwardness to build, I coughed and moved away. "Anyways, we might as well get that Mask now, right?"

Sasrir sighed but didn't try to stop me, his previous attempts to dissuade me having already failed. Before, he didn't know why I was so hellbent on getting the Divine Memory, but now he did. Even if what he said was true, and my Flaw just became even worse under the effects of the Simple Trick, the Concealment alone made it worth it.

For twenty minutes, we combed the cathedral's ruins. The novel had been frustratingly vague, mentioning only a "hollow space behind a particular wall" near the altar. Every stone looked the same, aged by time and scarred by battle. We ran our hands over cold, rough-hewn blocks, searching for a seam, a crack, anything.

"It could be anywhere," Sasrir murmured, his voice echoing in the vast silence. "Or it could be different from the novel."

"Nothing else has been though. We keep looking," I insisted, my frustration mounting. This was an annoying failure of my foreknowledge. We pushed on rubble, tapped walls listening for hollow sounds, and found nothing.

It was Sasrir who finally spotted it. Not a lever, but a single, loose stone at the base of a pillar, so worn it was nearly indistinguishable from its neighbors. He pressed it, not with a push, but with a twisting motion. With a groan of protesting stone that had not sounded in millennia, a section of the wall near the shattered altar slid back an inch, then stuck fast.

"It's rusted shut," I said, my heart sinking.

Sasrir didn't answer. He simply braced his shoulder against the ton of stone and pushed. His enhanced Monster's strength, combined with the weakened mechanism, was enough. With a final, grating shriek, the hidden door gave way, revealing a yawning blackness.

The air that washed out was ancient, dry, and carried the scent of deep earth and cold stone. We exchanged a glance, lit a makeshift torch, and stepped into the darkness.

The passage twisted down, a tight, claustrophobic corkscrew through the bedrock. It felt like we were descending into the very bones of the world. The silence was absolute, broken only by our footsteps and the crackle of our torch. Finally, the narrow tunnel opened into a larger, circular chamber.

In the center was a deep, dark well, its bottom lost to sight. A steep, winding staircase carved from the living rock spiraled down its side. We descended, the air growing colder with every step. At the bottom, a vast, rough-hewn chamber stretched before us.

And there it was.

A monolithic door of black steel, so dark it seemed to drink the light from our torch. It was illuminated by two sconces holding pale, ghostly flames that produced light but no heat. The effect was unnerving. The shadows they cast on the rough walls were not shifting or dancing. They were utterly, perfectly motionless, as if frozen in time.

My eyes were drawn to the door itself. On its featureless dark surface, I could just make out a small, almost invisible keyhole. Behind that door, I knew, was the chained corpse and the prize we sought. The sheer, silent solemnity of the place was overwhelming. It wasn't just a hidden room; it was a tomb, and we were the first visitors in an age. And we were here to rob it, of all things!

"You have the key?"

"Bet" I shrugged, taking it out from under my robe collar. I had run a string through it to wraparound like a necklace, hidden behind the Unshadowed Crucifix. Holding it up against the light, I licked my lips and inserted it in the whole it was forged for.

Why exactly the Lord of Bones had this key was easy enough to guess-probably just belonged to one of the corpses that created it-but why the people of the Forgotten Shore felt the need to treat one of Weaver's envoys like this was still strange. If you're hostile, just kill him and get it over with-if not, politely decline his services and let him go.

Had the Envoy provoked the people here somehow? Did he arrive before or after the Fallen Angel birthed the Dark Sea? He was beneath the Cathedral so it implied the latter, but maybe the church was always here and was just changed to the faith of the Crimson Terror after she became the Soul Conduit. So many unknowns...

With a click, the lock turned and the door moved slightly as it was released. Swinging the door open with one hand, the same scene Sunny was meant to come across in two years appeared before my own eyes.

Chapter Text

I crouched down before the black-robed figure who wore Weaver's Mask, reading out the Runes scratched on the floor beside him. "Weaver said: 'They shall open the Gates.'" I traced the ancient symbols with my finger. "And They did."

I wasn't reading all of it, though. Despite being in the Academy much longer than Sunny in the novel, I hadn't exactly mastered the Dream Realm Language. I knew about half the Runes, and the other half were from what the novel told us they were. It was a patchwork understanding, but it was enough.

"Cheerful fellow, wasn't he?" Sasrir commented from behind me, his voice dry as dust. He was observing the chained corpse with a clinical detachment. "Leaves a cryptic message and a fashion accessory as his legacy."

I let out a short laugh, the sound strangely loud in the silent, tomblike room. "Well, when you're the Divine Priest of an all-powerful, dimension-spanning entity, you're allowed to be a bit dramatic." I gestured to the intricate, black lacquer mask on the corpse's face. It was a visage of ferocity and beastliness. "The ultimate souvenir."

"Are you sure about this?" Sasrir asked, his tone shifting from dry to serious. "Putting on a dead God's face... it seems like the start of every cautionary tale ever told."

"What's the worst that could happen?" I said, with more bravado than I felt. "It whispers cosmic secrets into my brain until I go mad? I think my brain is already pretty flexible after all this." I took a deep breath, my hand hovering over the mask. "Besides, we didn't come all this way for a sightseeing tour. This is the key."

"And what about Sunless?"

"Sunny can eat my ass for all I care."

Sasrir was silent for a moment, then gave a single, resigned nod. "Just try not to start speaking in riddles. One prophet in our future group is already more than enough. And remember: don't let Amon use it too much."

With that final piece of morbid encouragement, I reached out. My fingers brushed against the cold, smooth bone of Weaver's Mask. Gently, I untied it from the desiccated head of the corpse. The moment I did, the corpse broke down into dust, just like in the novel, and then the Spell's voice sang softly in my ear.

[You have received a Memory.]

Biting back my smile, I quickly raised my hand and summoned back the Mask, clutching its' cold wooden form. Staring into the black void where the eyes would be, I felt like someone was staring back at me. Perturbated, I quickly turned the Mask around and put it on. And what a sight to behold. 

Inside the black mask, seven radiant embers were burning with such intensity that it was almost blinding. All around them, incalculable ethereal strings were weaved into a pattern so vast and intricate that it almost seemed boundless.

Memory: [Weaver's Mask].

Memory Rank: Divine

Memory Tier: VII.

Memory Type: Tool.

Memory Description: [Weaver believed that knowledge was the origin of power and so always hid behind numerous lies, wearing them as a mantle. No one knew Weaver's thoughts, Weaver's face, and Weaver's heart. Even the gods could not see what hid behind the mask.]

Memory Enchantments: [Mantle of Lies], [Where is my Eye?], [Simple Trick].

Enchantment: [Mantle of Lies].

Enchantment Description: [Hides the identity of its master.]

Enchantment: [Where is my Eye?]

Enchantment Description: [Allows the wielder to peer into the Strings of Fate.]

Enchantment: [Simple Trick].

Enchantment Description: [Reverses the effect of one's Flaw.]

Reading the Runes with a grin across my face, I turned towards Sasrir to share the news with him, only to freeze. Where Sasrir once stood, now there was only a vaguely humanoid shadow, with bundles of golden and silver strings flying out of him. They went in every direction, extending infinitely into the void before vanishing at some point. One particularly thick string extended from Sasrir's centre right into my chest.

"Adam?"

His voice snapped me out of my daze, and I hurriedly lifted the Memory off my face. At once, Sasrir appeared before me, perfectly fine and normal. I fell silent for several seconds more, before Sasrir called out to me again. Snapping back, I coughed and showed him the Mask. "Here, you try it."

He did so, but didn't react strangely like me. Instead, he asked a question: "Why is Simple Trick already unlocked for us? Shouldn't it have to wait until we're Awakened or higher to have the Essence to use it?"

"Just because we can see it doesn't mean we can use it. It's probably revealed to us because we technically already know what it does despite never using it. I don't know, the Spell is weird enough even without us anyways."

"Right. Well, I don't feel like my Flaw has changed in any way. How about you?"

I shook my head. "Justice usually only kicks in during battle, and the other times are too subtle for me to detect at the time. You're Flaw also only becomes apparent if your allies are injured around you, so we can't test it here."

"I don't think we should. Reversing Scapegoat would probably make it so my wounds are reflected on others, which really doesn't suit my future fighting style. I might possess the regeneration of a Rose Bishop then, but you won't."

"Fair enough" I shrugged and took back the Mask. Admiring the style one last time, I dismissed it and sent it back to my Soul Sea. "Already let's get back to the Castle before Seishan and Gemma get suspicious of just what we're doing here."

Turning and starting to leave the crypt, I turned to look over my shoulder at the pile of dust that the Spell Priest had become. For a moment, I felt a flicker of emotion as I though that nobody would ever come and visit him again, but then I pushed that feeling away. He was long dead, no need to be sentimental. Spare that for the living.

Once we were outside, breathing in the fresh air, Sasrir asked another question. "So what do we do while we prepare to take the Dawn Shard? Just gather more Soul Shards, maybe save for the Armour of the Underworld?"

"Didn't you say we shouldn't steal all of Sunny's opportunities?" I raised an eyebrow, causing him to cough and look away. "And aren't you the one who said he could get fucked? In for a penny, in for a pound: we've come this far so we might as well go all the way."

"Ha, I never imagined you'd be the one to say that!"

"Yeah yeah, anyways just get to the point."

"Yes," I agreed, feeling a surge of purpose. "That armour is too special to give to someone like Sunny. The Mind defences in particular is necessary to help you resist the Soul Devourer.

We began the trek back, the ruined city feeling less menacing and more like a landscape of opportunity. "And after the Mantle?" Sasrir prompted.

"Then we hunt," I said, my mind already mapping out territories in the Dark City. "We need a specific type of Corrupted. We need that regeneration Memory. The Dawn Shard won't be a quiet retrieval; I need to be able to use the Crucifix without being bedridden for a week afterward."

"It won't be easy. From what I heard, those types are rare and work in groups"

"Nothing worth having is," I replied, a familiar, calculating calm settling over me. "We'll find it. We'll just need to be smarter and faster than everyone else."

"And what about our... associates?" Sasrir asked, his tone making it clear he meant our treacherous lieutenants.

"We keep them close," I said. "We feed them just enough truth to be useful. I don't trust Seishan worth a damn but she's also one of the strongest Sleeper in the Forgotten Shore."

As the dark bulk of Bright Castle came into view, its walls no longer felt like a prison, but a fortress we were learning to conquer from within. We had a divine artifact in our souls, a list of legendary items to acquire, and a map of the future in my head. We slipped back through the gates just as the first hints of dawn tinged the sky, the guards offering nothing more than a bored nod.

The next few days fell into a new kind of rhythm, one charged with hidden purpose. My public persona remained that of the gentle preacher, but my private hours were now consumed with two goals: drawing up plans to fight the remaining Shard Lords and accumulating the soul shards we needed.

I found a secluded spot on the outer walls during the quietest hours of the night. There, I would don the Weaver's Mask. The world would once again dissolve into a breathtaking, terrifying tapestry of shimmering strings. My focus wasn't on grand destinies, but on smaller, more immediate threads. I couldn't read any of them, not without Blood Weave, but it was still fun to look. It was like learning a new language—the language of cause and effect, of hidden relationships.

Meanwhile, our hunts became ruthlessly efficient. With Sasrir's newfound power as a Monster and my ability to subtly nudge our patrols toward areas ripe with weaker, more numerous Corrupted, our shard count swelled. We avoided flashy fights, opting for swift, silent ambushes that yielded steady returns. The other Hunters just thought we were getting lucky.

A week after our return, I sought out Stev the Jolly Giant in the Memory Market. His stall was as cluttered as ever, and the Mantle of the Underworld still up in the far back, its black metal seeming to drink the light around it.

"Preacher!" he boomed, his voice as large as his frame. "Back to gaze upon my wares? Still dreaming of this old thing?" He gestured to the mantle.

"I prefer lighter, softer clothing, Master Stev," I said, offering my most beatific smile. "But even the most devout can appreciate fine craftsmanship. And I admit I am greatly drawn to this wonderful suit of armour." I gestured to my own worn jacket. "We've had a run of fortunate hunts. Perhaps we can discuss a price?"

The haggling was a delicate dance. I played the part of the naïve holy man, impressed by the artifact but ignorant of its true value. Stev, for his part, tried to inflate the price, citing its "unique properties." But I had read the novel. I knew he was desperate to move it to make room for new, more easily sold stock. In fairness to the man, he didn't try and cheat me: he had warned me on the first day that the Mantle was broken, that only an Awakened could repair it.

In the end, we settled on a price that was fair, if still steep. As I handed over the heavy pouch of shards and he allowed me to mark the armour as my Memory, I felt a thrill that had nothing to do with faith. It was the pleasure of a collector finding a shiny Pokemon card.

That night, in the privacy of our quarters, I propped it up against the wall. The Mantle of the Underworld was a cage of deep, shifting blackness, like solid shadow. As I moved my hands along it, I felt a subtle pride in myself for having done so well.

"Too bad we can't test it," Sasrir murmured from his bunk.

"We'll have plenty of opportunities when we return to the Waking World. Who knows, you might just get to play as Mongrel once we get back."

With everything I could acquire in the short-term now complete, the next target was clear. Its location had been revealed to me by an Artisan, who had used its parts before: a gnarled, ancient grove in the deepest part of the eastern ruins, almost at the edge of the City and into the Labyrinth, where a Corrupted known as the Sap-Spirit was said to guard a Memory that could knit flesh back together. It was time to hunt for my regeneration. 

Our first step was intelligence. While Sasrir used his shadow form to eavesdrop on the conversations of returning Pathfinders and veteran Hunters, I took a more direct approach. I spent my "pastoral" hours in the Artisan's quarter, offering help and listening. I asked careful questions, always framed as academic curiosity about the nature of life and healing.

"Charr," I asked an older Artisan who was the one specialized in making paper, "I've been thinking about what you told me last time, about those Spirit-Sappers, Can you tell me more?"

The older man, pleased by the interest, nodded sagely. "Aye, sure. Rare, though. Viciously territorial. You'll find them in the oldest parts of the ruins, where the City meets the Labyrinth. The eastern grove, some say. But it's a death sentence. Their bark is tougher than steel, and they drain the life from you if you get too close. Not to mention their roots are viciously fast."

Sasrir's own findings corroborated it; he'd overheard a Hunter complaining about a patrol being forced to reroute due to "those damned animated trees." Apparently they had also moved into the City following the turf war that we inadvertently caused.

The night before our planned expedition, we laid our tools out. The Starlight Cloak was for defense. The Unshadowed Crucifix, our ultimate weapon, rested heavily on the table between us. Its fire attacks would be both important and also a preview of its effectiveness against the Soul Devourer.

"Our advantage is that we know what we're looking for," I said, tracing a rough map of the eastern sector on the floor with a piece of charcoal. "The Sap-Spirit is the guardian. They travel in groups but still spread out once they've rooted themselves. If we target the one on the dge, we should be able to avoid drawing in the others.

"And if we cannot avoid it?" Sasrir asked, his voice calm.

"Then we run and come back another day," I replied. "Just stick them with your shadows as much as possible while I try to burn them. Don't forget, the more degenerate you make them, the stronger my own Purification."

It was a risk. The eastern grove was deeper into uncontrolled territory than we had ever ventured. But the reward was a cornerstone of my long-term survival. Without a way to mitigate the Crucifix's cost, my most powerful tool would remain a last resort. With it, I could use it strategically, turning the tide of battles before they were lost.

As we extinguished the light and settled in to wait for dawn, the atmosphere was different from any night before a hunt. There was no nervous tension, only a cold, patient readiness. We had been here long enough, hunted long enough, survived for long enough. At this point, I didn't think anything the Dream Realm could throw would break us.

Chapter Text

We left Bright Castle before dawn, slipping out through the eastern gate under a veil of fog. The guards barely looked up — two more Hunters heading toward the ruins was nothing new. The City devoured people daily; it was almost boring.

The road that wound through the lower tiers was cracked and uneven, cobblestones slick with moss and old blood. Towering arches loomed above us, their spires leaning inward as if gossiping about our chances. The lamps along the path still burned with pale dreamlight, but their glow grew weaker the further we went.

“Cheerful morning,” Sasrir muttered, tightening the straps on his pack.

“It’s the City’s version of a sunrise,” I joked. “Soft light, faint despair.”

We moved fast while the mists were thick, following what was once a pilgrim’s route. The frescoes carved into the walls were almost gone now — faces worn smooth, halos turned to stains. The air carried the faint tang of rust and resin, a scent that clung to everything near the ruins.

After an hour, the ground began to slope downward. Buildings became smaller and stranger — once-grand mansions reduced to skeletal outlines, their marble eaten by pink coral growths that pulsed faintly in the shadows. This was the outer boundary of the Dark City proper, where stone gave way to coral and decay to mutation. The closer we came to the Coral Labyrinth, the more the architecture seemed to breathe.

“It’s growing,” Sasrir said, crouching to prod a coral outcrop with his knife. It pulsed once, slow and deliberate, like a sleeping heart. “This wasn’t here last time.”

“Maybe the Labyrinth is expanding,” I said. “The Dream Realm boundaries shift. The City isn’t stable, and the Crimson Sun can't burn forever. Sooner or later, everything alive here will die to either it or the Dark Sea, and then the Sun will have no fuel left.”

He straightened, his eyes glinting in the pale light. “I wonder if the Sleeping God would destroy the Dream Realm when He wakes up.”

“Would you?”

He grinned. “Maybe.”

The coral grew thicker as we descended. At first it only crawled along walls, but soon it had consumed entire streets — twisting pillars of red, violet, and pale blue, threading through collapsed buildings and weaving patterns across the ground. Some structures looked like they had grown instead of being built: windows shaped like eye sockets, doors that curved inward like mouths. It was all just my imagination, but that didn't make it any less creep Between them, faint whispers echoed — the sound of air moving through coral tubes, producing ghostly music.

The sky above the Labyrinth shimmered oddly, a mirage of fractured colors. Somewhere beyond those shifting hues lay the endless maze that shared its name — the Coral Labyrinth, the region we spawned in. We weren’t going back just yet, but even the edge was dangerous enough.

“This place looks alive,” Sasrir said quietly.

“Everything here is,” I said. “That’s the problem.”

We made camp briefly at an old watchtower that had half-sunk into the coral. The stones there were warm to the touch, the black absorbing the heat and light. We had avoided fighting on the way here, conserving our strength, so as we munched down on monster jerky, I lazily laid with my head back. Sasrir was keeping watch even as he ate, and for a moment I felt like Sunny-watching your shadows work while you do nothing. 

It felt good.

When we set out again, the ground had changed texture. Coral gave way to earth, soft and dark, threaded with pale roots. The air thickened, carrying the smell of sap and wet wood. The coral veins ended abruptly at a line of trees that rose like spears against the horizon. Beyond that line, the ruins disappeared entirely.

“That’ll be it,” I said, adjusting the strap of my pack. “The grove.”

Sasrir glanced at the faintly glowing treeline. “Looks harmless.”

“So did you, once.”

He smiled slightly. “I'll have you know I don't try and put on airs, people just get scared of me all by themselves. Still, I'm not complaining for the free entertainment.”

“Well, now I can see where Amon learnt to get His kicks from terrifying others-He inherited it from His 'mother.'"

I dodged a sudden kick from Sasrir, well expecting it by this point.

“Smart ass.”

We stepped off the coral road and into the roots. The shift was immediate — the air muffled, the light golden and soft, as if filtered through honey. The City’s endless hum faded behind us, replaced by the slow creak of trees and the whisper of sap sliding through bark.

I had never seen a place like this in the Forgotten Shore-it felt more like the Chained Isles or Burned Forest. I briefly wondered if this place was the result of a Corrupted Rank, as they tended to create domains suited to themselves. Nothing of the sort had been reported from what I'd heard though, and even the Crimson Terror itself was only Fallen. Still, the thought put meon edge.

The eastern ruins were quieter than I expected. I had pictured a haunted jungle of twisted trees and screaming roots, but in truth, it was almost peaceful. Pale sunlight filtered through the skeletal remains of towers, the air thick with the sweet smell of resin. The only real sound was the faint buzz of insects — or the Dream Realm’s approximation of them — drifting in lazy spirals above our heads.

Sasrir sniffed the air and frowned. “Smells like honey. That means trouble.”

“Not everything sweet wants to kill you,” I rebuted. Then, after a long pause, “Though in fairness, here it usually does.”

We moved carefully through the rubble. The Dream City gave way here to something older and softer. Cobblestone paths vanished under moss, and tree roots had broken through the pavement like bones pushing out of old skin. The grove wasn’t vast, but it had a kind of stillness that made every sound — every crunch of gravel or rustle of fabric — feel intrusive.

“Do you sense anything?” Sasrir asked.

I adjusted the Weaver’s Mask. It didn't obscure my vision, and since I went throughso much trouble to get it, I was determined to get my effort's worth. Hence why I was wearing it now. As I focused on a nearby vine, it pulsed gently, like a heartbeat at rest. “There’s movement ahead,” I said with a frown. “Nothing massive from the sounds of it. Be careful for an ambush, we're in their territory right now.”

“Never though I would be killing trees” Sasrir mutterred. “What would Mr Beast think?”

That nearly made me laugh out loud, but I managed to stiffle it. "Nows not the time for that type of thinking Sasrir, just focus on the task at hand."

He gave me a look. “Really? You're the one telling me that?.”

“Fuck you too.”

We followed the faint pulse until the ruins opened into a clearing. At the center stood what might once have been a fountain. Now, it was a mass of amber and roots, the basin filled with thick golden sap that glowed faintly from within. Around it, four trees stood at uneven angles, their bark dark and glossy, their branches twitching slightly even though there was no wind.

Sasrir exhaled. “There’s our friends.”

The nearest tree shivered, its trunk unfolding like muscle. Sap dripped down in slow rivulets, and the outline of a face—smooth, eyeless, and slightly human, was etched on the centre. When I saw it, the image of one of the Heart Trees from A Song of Fire and Ice came to mind.Now that I think about it, didn't Nephis possess some Targaryan traits?

Silver hair, last of her bloodline, obsession with fire, is a terrible person, friends with a Dragon and has connections to grand prophecy that surrounds the end of the world. Well I'll be damned.

Bitch might just be Azor Ahai.

"Adam, snap out of whatever bullshit you're daydreaming about, we're moving."

"Huh? Oh, yeah, alright let's do this."

After raising the UnshadowedCrucifix, I gave us our standard blessings and Notarizations. Then, I conjured the Quill of Alzuhod and wrote a "prophecy" that we will get the Memory on our first kill. Then we locked onto the creature that seemed slighlty more spread apart from the rest and snuck towards it.

Only, it was the one to take the initative.

The Sap-Spirit lurched toward us, roots tearing free from the ground with a wet snap. It was tall but not fast. Sasrir darted left, his shadows trailing behind him like a tattered cloak. He sliced through one of its arm-roots, and the sap sprayed in shimmering arcs. The Spirit hissed but didn’t cry out — it didn’t feel like a creature of pain, more like one of slow, inevitable hunger.

I lifted the Unshadowed Crucifix. It glowed faintly in my hand, the holy light already prickling at the edges of my skin. “Blessed fire,” I murmured. “May you burn responsibly.”

A line of white-gold flame lanced out, catching the Spirit square in the chest. The fire burned cleanly, and the scent that followed was sweet — burnt sugar and cedar. The Spirit convulsed once and fell still, its form collapsing inward until it was just a melted husk.

[You have slain an Awakened Monster-Degenerate Dryad]

The other three stirred, but only slightly. One began to drag itself toward us, but the effort seemed half-hearted, its movements sluggish.

Sasrir flicked sap from his blade. “These things are strong, but not very bright.”

“Like politicians,” I said.

He tutted. "Now now, don't get all political on me.”

Our banter was cut short when three new roots burst out of the ground and swiped at us. Sasrir turned into a shadow to harmlessly glide over his one, but I had to tuck and roll the two aiming for me. Lurching back to my feet, I sent a barrage of holy fireballs at the approaching monster, causing it to light up in light, heat and a sickly sugar smell.

[You have slain an Awakened Monster-Degenerated Dryad.]

In the meantime, Sasrir had flown over to third Dryad and stabbed it a dozen times in the dark, making it shudder and then wilt over, dead on the spot. Soul damage was a nasty thing, followed only by Mental Damage, which was why Sin of Solace was so badass.

'Yeah, I definitely want to get that jade sword in the future. I can treat my own madness in the future after all.'

"No Memory?" Sasrir asked, coming back towards me.

"No such luck it seems. We'll have to go deeper, maybe fight some stronger variants. The ones I heard about were Devils, since they could use pyshic attacks from afar-there is a reason why the Hunters call them Sap Spirits."

"Alright then, let's go while there's still good light left in the day."

We moved deeper into the grove, following the faint trail of sticky footprints and the smell of burnt caramel. The air grew warmer, thicker — not chokingly so, just dense enough that every breath felt like inhaling syrup. The soft golden light filtering through the branches had shifted to a deeper hue, closer to amber.

“I don’t like how pretty this is,” Sasrir said. “The City never looks nice unless it’s planning something.”

“Maybe it’s a peace offering,” I proposed, "Maybe the Dryads know we're coming and decided to submit?."

"Or it's just a trap” he grunted back. 

We passed what must have been a nest — half a dozen smaller Dryads slumped over in various states of decay, roots coiled protectively around shards of amber. Whatever the Devil-class version was, it had clearly been feeding on its lesser kin.

At the grove’s heart, the path widened into a hollow shaped like a bowl. Sap pooled at the bottom, reflecting the warped canopy above. In the reflection, the trees didn’t move quite right — they shifted just a bit too slow, as if the image was thinking about catching up.

Sasrir suddenly froze beside me, the shadowscovering his face shifitng gently, like water being pushed. “Listener is acting up" he warned me, summoning a shadow blade in one hand and a Steel Memento in another.

“Guess we're here.” The air vibrated faintly, like standing near a church bell that had just been struck. “ These things have a psychic field, don't listen to whatever you hear.”

The Crucifix pulsed at my side, its light dimming and brightening as if to steady my mind. I made a small warding sign out of habit. The whispering started almost immediately after.

—You could rest here—

“Not today,” I said aloud.

—Warmth, safety, roots, peace—

Sasrir tilted his head. “They always sound so nice before trying to murder us.”

“Customer service is important.”

The sap at the bottom of the hollow rippled, and something began to rise — slow and deliberate. At first it looked like a statue made of amber, but as it moved, long cords of root and resin stretched between its limbs. Its face was smoother than the others, and it smiled.

“Well,” Sasrir said, gripping his blades tighter. “Time for another prophecy?”

I held up the Quill of Alzuhod and quickly scribbled a new line in the air: We will win, and receive our Memory. The words glowed briefly, then vanished into the air.

The Sap Spirit raised its hands, and the world tilted. Not physically — just perceptually. For a moment I wasn’t standing on earth but sinking in warm sap up to my knees, hearing echoes of a thousand other voices whispering about growth and merging.

Sasrir’s shout cut through the illusion. “Snap out of it!”

I blinked, raised the Crucifix, and fired. The beam lanced across the hollow, burning through the haze and into the creature’s chest. The psychic field warped and cracked, breaking like glass.

The Spirit retaliated with a screech that wasn’t sound so much as pressure. The ground rippled, and roots lashed toward us — faster than before, sharper. Sasrir’s shadows danced, slicing and deflecting the strikes while I conjured a circle of fire around us.

“Adam,” he called, “this thing isprodding at my head, keep yourself self, I can't divert much attention.”

“Got it!”

Note to self: don't let Sasrir hold the Sin of Solace in the future.

True to being two whole Classes above the previous Dryads, this one was much faster and stronger, and had double the roots. The oneSasrir had sliced was halfway through stitching itself back tgether, ochre sap serving as an adhesive, so I made sure to burn that one first.

The Degenerated Dryad screeched again, making my ears pop and nose start bleeding, but I pressed on regardless. If the Unshadowed Crucifix's blood tax was good for one thing, it increased my pain tolerance and dizzyness resistance.

Sasrir trembled at the screech before snarling and ferociously lunging forward, blades cleaving downwards with no regard for defence. He managed to get within two feet of the Dryad before a deceptively fast root slammed into his chest, knocking him back with an ugly crack, but I repaid the favour with by summoning Holy Fire right in it's face. Swaying wildly, the monster once again tried to lull my mind with an illusion, but even after my surroundings blurred I kept spamming the thaumaturgic spells blindly. 

After the sound of two impacts and explosions, the illusion shattered to reveal Sasrir back on his feet and closer to the Dryad than ever. He dashed forward, shadows rippling under his feet, and drove both blades into the Spirit’s torso. It howled — now audibly — and tried to wrench free, but I joined in, channeling another blast of holy flame into the wound.

The explosion was bright, hot, and sticky.

When the smoke cleared, the Devil-class Sap Spirit was gone. 

[You have slain an Awakened Devil-Degenerated Dryad]

[You have received a Memory: Regenerative Bloom]

Sasrir wiped sap off his cheek, gently holding his ribs with the other hand. "Well that was a mess. How was the result?"

"The Quill worked like a charm-got the Memory."

He wiped a small dribble of blood off his mouth. “Hand it over to me then, this hurts like a bitch.”

I summoned the Memory and an amber crystal appeared in my hand, with a small sprout seemingly crystalized inside it. After admiring it against the light for a second, I tossed it over to Sasrir.

Catching it, he sighed warmly as his channeled Essence charged the Memory, and a soft golden glow was cast on him. After around a minute, he opened his eyes and passed it back to me. "That's pretty good."

Memory Rank: Awakened.

Memory Tier: IV.

Memory Type: Tool.

Memory Description: [From the Forest of the Heart God came many miraculous gifts, and the Deity shared them all generously. But when the end times came, even the most pure and pacifistic bounties were tainted and turned towards war.]

Memory Enchantments: [Soothing Ichor], [Verdant]

[Soothing Ichor Description: The sap produces by this amber heals the body and soothes the soul and mind, but the sap is slow to regenerate after use.]

[Verdant Description: Imbued with the power of Life, this amber can passively boost the recovery of its' wielder in body and Essence even while not in use (does not work while stored inside the Soul Sea)]

"Damn", I whistled in appeciation after reading its' Runes. "This thing really is quite good. The sap being limited is annoying, but it still haspassive healing for physical damage at least. Plus it boosts essence recovery too!"

“Well then,” Sasrir said after brushing the rest ofthe sap off his clothes, “anything else you want to poke before we leave?”

“No,” I said. “Let’s get back before we run out of luck.”

“Music to my ears.”

We started back toward the coral edge, sap crunching underfoot and sunlight leaking through the amber canopy in ribbons. The City was just as quiet as when we left it, like a nightmare perpetually frozen in time.

By the time Bright Castle’s walls came into sight, the sun was at the tail end of its' journey through the sky. As the Dark Sea began to emerge out there, in the Coral Labyrinth, I fixed my gaze where I believed the Soul Devourer wassituated. Today had proven that the Unshadowed Crucifix's flames, while potentially not as capable of raw damage like Nephis' or an Iron-Blooded Knight, was still a massive type-advanatge against Tree Monsters.

Sasrir caught me glancing across the horizon. “Feeling prepared yet?”

“Not quite.”

“Any idea when?”

“Not too soon,” I said. “I’d rather be better safe than sorry, have the full route planned out. They had to sail across the Crater the first time, remeber? I don't want to be eaten by some Kraken.”

He smirked. “I'm sure it would spit you back out.”

“No way, you probably taste way worse than me!”

“Impossible," he shrugged. "I'm the most perfect and beautiful of all the ASG bodies, stated by Cuttlefish himself.”

I laughed, and the sound echoed against the cracked walls as we crossed back into familiar streets. For once, even the City seemed to approve.

Back in Bright Castle, we dropped our gear and cleaned off the lingering sap. It hardened fast, and by the time I managed to peel the last of it from my fingers, I’d decided it smelled faintly of caramel. Sasrir complained it made his hair sticky; I told him it looked cool.

That night, I checked the Mantle of the Underworld again. Its black surface possessed a strange beauty to it, and I was transfixed. Nether might have been a simp for the Storm Goddess, but that Daemon could sure as hell craft.

Sasrir spoke up from beside me, lying on his own bed. “Night, Adam.”

I smiled faintly. “Sweet dreams."

Chapter Text

The mirror in my quarters was cracked down the middle, but that didn’t stop me from admiring the reflection staring back.

“Not bad,” I murmured, tilting my head this way and that. The light from the morning sun poured through the narrow window slit, gilding my face in warm gold. “Definitely taller… shoulders broader, too. And that—” I leaned in closer, squinting, “—that’s a beard. A real beard.”

It wasn’t much. Just a faint line of golden stubble tracing my jaw. But after six months of rationed food, endless patrols, and baby-face jokes from Effie, it felt like a badge of honor.

“Finally, the manliest of men,” I said to myself with mock gravity, brushing a thumb across the small patch of roughness. “All Might would be proud. Probably.”

The blue eyes staring back were still the same — too soft, too unscarred for this place, like a baby. That probably wouldn't change, not on it own at least, and once I became a Psychiatrist they would be golden. 

Gonna have to think of an excuse for that ahead of time.

I grinned, leaned closer, and flexed slightly. “Well, Adam, you’ve done it. Survived the Shore, grown a beard, achieved beauty beyond mortal comprehension—”

A hand shot out from behind me and smacked the back of my head.

“—ow!” I spun around. “What the hell, Sasrir?”

He was standing there in loose fatigues, eyes half-lidded with sleep, a toothbrush hanging lazily from his mouth. “You done flirting with yourself, Narcissus?” he asked, voice muffled. “Some of us would like to use the mirror for practical reasons. Like not dying from morning breath.”

I frowned and rubbed the back of my skull. “You could’ve just asked.”

“I did. Yesterday. And the day before that.” He nudged me aside with his elbow, claiming the cracked mirror like it was sacred ground. “Now move before I pick you up with a shadow and do it myself.”

I sighed, stepping away while muttering something about respect for personal growth. Sasrir ignored me entirely, brushing his teeth with rhythmic precision, the same way he did everything in life-though after months of the Forgotten Shore, I had also gained some mechanical routines.

Outside, I could hear the faint hum of activity — some fighting in the courtyard, the grinding of tools, the murmured conversations of people who had long since stopped being strangers. Six months of routine had carved order into chaos.

“Don’t look so mopey,” Sasrir said around his toothbrush. “You’ll have plenty of time to admire yourself once we’re dead and fossilized.”

“Thanks for the optimism.”

“Anytime.” He spat into a cracked basin, wiped his mouth, and flashed me a grin. “Now hurry up, Golden Beard. We’ve got patrol in twenty.”

I blinked. “You noticed?”

“Oh, I noticed,” he said dryly. “The whole fortress has noticed. The sun itself probably noticed. It’s blinding, Adam. Please shave before it becomes a weapon.”

I laughed despite myself. “Not a chance.”

“Then I’m requisitioning sunglasses.”

The two of us stepped out into the corridor together, boots striking the stone floor in unison. The air smelled faintly of salt and metal, same as always. That was one thing the novel hadn't really mentioned, I'd found. The salty smell from the Dark Sea, while not particularly notieable, became quite pungent on a windy morning like today. It was a small detail, but it reminded me not everyhting in this world was confined to the imaginations of one man.

We crossed the courtyard. The air smelled faintly of brine and metal. A few soldiers nodded as we passed; others were sparring, the rhythm of their blades clanging steady and practiced.

A couple of them gestured to Sasrir, asking for a fight, buthe just shook his head and kept moving. They dropped it without a word and just resumed, though I swae one or two looked dissapointed on the side. Though the legend of Sasrir's deadly skill was more potent than ever, most had realised the silent killer was actually pretty normal, and so their apprehension had dropped considerably. 

Only when he was in a good mood though: catch him on a bad one, and you'd be liable to lose a few fingers. After one or two especially violent incidents, we had basically given up on exploring certain parts of the City. The powers of a Listener were simply too damn hostile in this world, almost as bad as LOTM itself.

As we reached the ramparts, Sasrir squinted toward the horizon. The sea had withdrawn under the rising sun, revealing the corpse-stricken battground that had formed during the night. Already, some brave monsters were scavenging for scraps. Far beyond it, the Coral Labyrinth shimmered — a maze of pale pink and crimson spires jutting from the water like the bones of some colossal beast.

“Still thinking about it?” he asked quietly.

“Yeah.”

The Soul Devourer.

Somewhere out there, beyond the crater of a fallen star, it waited.

Six months hadn’t passed for nothing: we had planned and plotted almost obsessively on how to kill it. The Centurian Demon, Blood Weave, the hundreds of Soul Fruits hanging from its' branches...it was one of the few treasures left in the Forgotten Shore, ad arguably the biggest.

“I’ll be ready soon,” I said finally.

Sasrir nodded. “I know. But not today.”

“Not today.”

The wind swept past, carrying the scent of salt and distant storms. Below us, the rest of the Bright Castle stirred — a fragile flame burning against the vast silence of the Forgotten Shore.

We stood there for a long moment, side by side, listening to the heartbeat of our small world.

Then Sasrir broke the silence with a grin. “Come on, Golden Beard. If we’re late again, Kai’s going to write another song about your grooming habits.”

“He wouldn’t dare.”

“He would. He already rhymed ‘Adam’ with ‘handsome.’ It’s spreading.”

I groaned. “Damn Night, the corruption begins already.”

We made our way down the wall, sunlight painting our armor in glints of gold and steel. The world outside waited — unchanged, endless, beautiful in its quiet hostility.

And as we walked toward the gate, I found myself smiling again. It was a natural smile, a happy smile, one without loaded meaning and an ulterior motive. Somewhat refreshing, after all the Acting I had done, but since I had completely digested my Potions there was no need to be so invested anymore. 'The key to Acting is to remember you're only ever Acting, after all.'

The gates of Bright Castle moaned open, the sound echoing like the yawn of some ancient creature. The morning mist spilled inward from the sea, turning the world outside into a hazy watercolor of pale gold and gray.

The Forgotten Shore looked deceptively calm today —almost idyllic in the morning sunlight. But everyone who’d lived here long enough knew better. You never know what horrors lurked deeper into the City.

Sasrir and I stepped out first, our boots crunching over the hard, stony ground. The Guards at the gate gave us respectful nods as we passed — a small thing, but proof og labour. Every Guard on duty responded like this now, regardless of who they were.

Six months ago, we were strangers stumbling into this ruin, blood from one of their own on our hands. Now, when people looked at us, it wasn’t wariness or curiosity in their eyes — it was recognition. Trust, even.

“Morning, Sir Beard,” one of the gate guards called, grinning. “Try not to scare off the local wildlife with that radiant face of yours.”

“Jealousy’s unbecoming, Ranir,” I shot back, smiling.

His partner laughed. “He’s right, though. It’s getting to the point where we’ll have to issue you a license for that thing.”

Sasrir rolled his eyes. “Ignore them, Golden Beard. You’ll only encourage the disease.”

“Which disease?”

“Your ego.”

We walked down the ramp, where the outer settlement was beginning to stir.

The Scavengers were already sorting through piles of stone and dust, their carts creaking under the weight of salvaged metal. A few raised their hands in greeting as we passed — one woman even called out, “Hey, Adam! If you see any of those shell crabs today, try not to shatter them this time! I'll pay extra for all the meat attached."

“No promises!” I yelled back.

Beyond them, a cluster of Artisans stood together, seemingly out for a breath of fresh air. One of them, aan older man named Harrow, waved his hand in greeting upon seeing us.

“You heading to the Labyrinth again?” he asked.

“Routine patrol,” Sasrir replied. “If we find anything that won’t immediately try to eat us, we’ll let you know.”

“Appreciated! Be careful out there.”

Not far off, the Handmaidens — the group maintaining the Castle’s halls and hygiene — were gathering fresh water in clay pots. They were dressed simply, their faces calm and kind despite the setting. When we passed, a few offered quiet smiles. One of them, Irel, reached out and brushed dust from my shoulder as I passed.

“Keep yourself safe” she murmured.

I nodded. “Thank you.”

Sasrir snickered to himself once we had passed, but I ignored him. A few girls had taken a...deeper interest in me during my time here, in part because of my natural good lucks, but also because I was extremely civilised in comparision to some of the other Hunters or Guards in the Castle.

The fact I was always willing to listen to their woes and chats probably helped too.

Past them, the Hunters were assembling at the courtyard gate. They were the rougher sort — scarred, armored, loud — but they greeted us with cheers all the same.

“Hey, it’s the Shadow and his Human!” one of them called. “Where you guys off to today, City or Labyrinth?"

“Labyrinth," I replied. "Bad luck on the rotation, now we have to face off against a bunchof crabs."

Laughter rippled through the group. We had fought beside many of them, lost a few too. Bonds forged in survival burned hotter than friendship. After so much time, I had realised why Gemma held such high respect amongst the Hunters.

“Popular bunch, aren’t we?” Sasrir muttered as we cleared the outer gate.

I shrugged, pretending not to smile. “What can I say? People love a good beard.”

We descended the slope toward the lower City, where Effie was waiting with her spear planted in the ground, one boot resting on a half-buried stone face. She waved lazily as we approached.

“Took you long enough,” she called. “Was starting to think you two got lost in the mess hall again.”

“Blame him,” Sasrir said, jerking his thumb at me. “Mirror addiction. Chronic.”

Effie smirked. “Figures. I was gonna suggest therapy, but I guess self-reflection’s already part of the problem.”

“Ha-ha,” I said dryly.

Up on the ridge above us, Kai dropped down from a watchtower, landing light as a cat by flying at the last second. “You’re all early for once,” he said, voice gentle and mellow to a point where I had once been filled with jealousy. “Is this a sign of the apocalypse?”

“Routine’s a powerful thing,” Sasrir replied.

Kai smiled naturally. “Good. Let’s keep it that way.”

The four of us formed up automatically — Effie in front, Kai ahead and high, Sasrir beside me, watching everything, and me taking the rear. The rhythm of half a year’s patrols moved through us like muscle memory.

As we left the safety of the inner City, the air shifted — quieter, heavier. The mist thickened near the Coral Labyrinth, painting the horizon in eerie red light. The wind whished softly against the reefs, the sound both peaceful and menacing.

We passed a weathered marker stone carved with runes, the last boundary before the wilds began. Beyond this point, no one else came unless duty or madness drove them.

After walking for only a fewminutes, Effie crouched near a shallow pool, touching the wet sand. “Tracks,” she said.

We gathered around her. In the damp earth, something massive had passed through recently — too large to be one of the usual crab-shells, too deep for the thin-legged coral hounds. The prints stretched toward the waterline, irregular, heavy.

Kai spoke low. “That’s new.”

Sasrir frowned. “Or old, and coming back.”

I looked out over the red landscape of the Labyrinth. Somewhere out there, the Soul Devourer waited for us.

“Let’s keep moving,” I said quietly.

Effie nodded, spear glinting in the half-light.

We moved deeper into the mist, the mist thickened as we pushed into the outer fringe of the Coral Labyrinth. The air here always felt different — denser somehow, as if it already occupied by things. Every step crunched against fine shards of coral and bone, the sounds muffled by the shifting fog.

The labyrinth rose around us, a forest of jagged crimson and bleached towers. Some were slick with saltwater, others glittered faintly as if lit from within by trapped embers. The wind moaned through them in long, hollow tones that almost sounded like breathing.

“Smells worse than usual,” Effie muttered, crouching near a broken coral pillar. The ground there was gouged deeply, sand sprayed outward in wide arcs. “Something heavy moved through here recently.”

“More tracks?” Sasrir asked.

“Yeah, and not the usual kind.”

Sasrir knelt beside her, fingers brushing along the impressions. “Too broad for the crabs. Maybe one of those dog-things again.”

I felt a shiver crawl up my spine. The dog-things — the Bone Hounds, as the guards called them — prowled the shallows at the labyrinth’s edge. They had the lithe, long-legged bodies of hounds but skulls shaped like hammerhead sharks, their white bone faces splitting open when they howled. They hunted in packs, silent until they struck.

Sasrir and I had faced them before, just before reaching the Statue of the Priestess and claiming the Cloak, and they had nearly killed us. Despite facing them a few more times, they were still a great danger.

“Let’s hope it’s just a small group,” I said.

“But prepare in case it's not,” Sasrir added calmly.

We moved on, weaving between the coral towers. The tide was creeping in again, dark water gliding silently around our boots. Every so often, something bubbled beneath the surface, sending ripples through the reflections.

A faint metallic clicking echoed from somewhere ahead. Effie raised a hand for silence.

All of us froze.

From the mist emerged a hulking shape — a Crustacean Centurion, its carapace the color of rusted iron. The thing was as tall as a house, walking sideways through the shallows on six bladed legs. Two massive claws snapped open and shut with a rhythm that could crush stone.

It didn’t see us yet. Its eyestalks swayed lazily, scanning.

Kai whispered, “You’d think after six months they’d start avoiding us.”

“They are,” Sasrir said. “We just keep going where they live.”

Effie smirked faintly, drawing her spear. “That’s called commitment.”

We circled around, moving slowly until the creature drifted back into another path. When the clicking faded, we started forward again.

Above us, a shadow glided silently through the fog — something wide and winged, its silhouette rippling across the coral spires.

“Eyes up,” I murmured.

The shadow wheeled overhead, and for a moment, the mist cleared just enough for us to see it properly.

A Maw Ray.

Its body was flat and graceful like a manta ray, wings undulating as it flew. But where a head should have been, there was only a circular maw ringed with jagged teeth. When it screamed, the air itself seemed to tear — a sonic wail that rattled the coral and made my teeth ache.

We ducked low behind a ridge until the sound faded. The Maw Ray drifted away, its shriek echoing through the maze like the cry of a dying baby.

“Still prefer them to the hounds,” Effie muttered.

“I’d take neither,” Sasrir said, his voice low. “We’re too close to where the Centurians burrow in. Let’s finish the sweep and get back.”

We kept moving, the labyrinth closing tighter around us.

And then — movement.

At first it looked like a reflection, a shimmer in a shallow pool beside the path, left behind when the Dark Sea retreated. Then the water began to rise.

“Hold,” I said softly.

The surface bulged upward, taking form. A glistening column of black liquid, thicker than tar, rose from the pool. No limbs, no face — just a heaving mass of sentient fluid. Beneath its translucent surface, something pulsed faintly: a small sphere, deep within its core, glowing a dim blue.

“Oil wraith,” Sasrir whispered.

We’d only ever seen one once before — and that time, it had nearly melted Sasrir's right hand off.

Effie’s grip tightened on her spear. “Same rule as before. Physical attacks won’t work.”

“Hit the core,” I said.

The blob quivered, and then surged forward with shocking speed. The ground trembled as it rolled toward us, a tidal wave of black fluid.

“Scatter!”

Kai leapt sideways, shooting an arrow that hissed uselessly through its body. Sasrir raised his arm, and shadows became forged into a katana that swung through the orb, but the blob barely slowed.

It lunged toward me.

I dove aside, drawing the Unshadowed Crucifix, its flame flaring to life. The white fire condensed into a fireball the size of my fist and then flew to meet the creature, causing it to writhe from the contact.

“Now!” I shouted.

Effie spun her spear in a smooth arc and drove it through the wavering mass, piercing clean through to the blue glow within. The tip of her weapon flared with essence, and for a moment, the creature froze — then imploded, collapsing into a pool of inert, black sludge.

The only sound left was our breathing.

Kai let out a low chuckle. “Well… that was easier than last time.”

I crouched near the remains. The blue core flickered once, then shattered into two smaller fragments. After making sure no more acidic ooze was attached, I picked them up and pocketed them.

“That’s the third one we’ve seen this month,” Sasrir said, his tone contemplative. “Has something changed amongst the aquatic monsters in the Dark Sea?.”

“Maybe something’s stirring them up,” I offered. “The Sea runs down to the Underworld, maybe it's a migration from there.”

I glanced toward the horizon, where the sun was still high in the sky. Only two hours had passed, and it was around midday now.

“Come on, let's cover a bit more ground and then we can go back and report in.”

The puddle of oil still steamed when we pushed deeper into the labyrinth. The air thickened the further we went — wet, heavy, carrying a faint metallic tang that made my tongue prickle.

This place was always changing. Every week, the paths shifted, coral towers collapsed or rose anew, as though the whole labyrinth were alive and quietly rearranging its bones.

We passed a ridge where the coral had fused into spiraling columns. From within one, something clicked and scraped, like teeth grinding behind a wall.

“Anything?” Effie whispered.

Sasrir pressed his ear to the surface, then grimaced. “Larvae. A clutch, maybe.”

“Crabs?”

“Bigger.”

Kai muttered, “Fantastic,” and knocked another arrow from his quiver.

I caught movement in the mist ahead — a ripple in the coral dust, subtle but there.

“Wait,” I said.

The fog split open.

A Bone Hound burst forth, all pale limbs and grinning bone. Its head was a smooth, curved hammer of white skull, two hollow sockets glimmering with faint light. The thing bounded forward, silent until its jaws unhinged sideways — then came the sound, a shriek that was neither bark nor howl, more like metal tearing against stone.

I met it halfway.

The Unshadowed Crucifix flared with a soft white gleam, its flame cutting arcs through the mist. The fire met the hound’s skull with a hiss; white bone charred black where the light struck.

It reeled back, but three more leapt from the coral behind it.

“Pack!” Sasrir barked.

Effie dropped low, sweeping her spear to trip one as Kai loosed his arrow, glowing red as it flew. It struck the second hound’s legs, and then it exploded and turn te limb to mush. For the third monster. Sasrir met it head-on — his trusty Shadow Katana slicing through the familiar weakpoint in the bone plating and impaling its' brain.

The first slammed into me, knocking me sideways into a coral outcrop. Its weight was immense, breath hot and reeking of iron. I jammed the Crucifix between its ribs, twisting hard — the holy fire inside the weapon flared, and the beast convulsed before a spear of light burst under and out of it, right through the heart. The armour i wore proetcted me from the worst of the impact, and the Verdant Enchantmnet of the Regenerative Bloom was already at work soothing my bruises.

Kai calmly fired another arrow, thisone with a barbedtip, and it penetrated the crippled Bone Dog's eye socket, causing it to convulse and whimper before dying.

Effie spat into the sand. "I hate these bastards, their meat is too tough.”

“Really? You seem to eat them all the same anyways."

"Let's not judge a lady by her eating habits" Kai interjected with a smile, earning a snort from Effie.

We moved again, our boots sinking into wet coral dust.

Past the hound nest, the air changed — colder now, touched by salt. The terrain dropped away into what looked like a basin, filled with black, mirror-still water that was trapped and unable to recede with the rest of its' mass. Coral ribs jutted from the surface like the spines of some ancient leviathan.

Sasrir crouched, frowning. “Tidal Pool zone. Be careful — rays like to nest here.”

The warning came too late.

The first Maw Ray struck from above, descending in eerie silence. Its wings cut through the mist, and then the scream came — a sonic blast that hit like a hammer, shattering coral and splitting the surface of the water below.

The sound alone staggered me. My ears rang, the world tilting, vision fracturing into jagged pieces.

“Down!” Sasrir shouted, and was quick to tackle me with him.

Effie hurled her spear. It pierced one wing, pinning it briefly to a coral spine. The creature screamed again, then burst free, showering blood that sizzled as it touched the ground.

I steadied my breath, focused the flame of the Crucifix, and slashed upward in a clean arc. A streak of white light caught the ray square through its center. The shriek turned into a wet hiss, and the creature folded inward before hitting the water with a dull splash.

The ripples spread outward… and something else stirred below.

“Don’t move,” Sasrir warned, but it was too late — the pool began to churn.

From the depths rose a new shape — a Tide Brute, an Awakened Tyrant. Its body was humanoid, but translucent, like a statue made of liquid glass. Coral fragments and bones jutted out irregularly, forming patches of armour. Its' face was just a curved mess of coral and stone fragments.

“Oh, hell,” Kai muttered. “One of those.”

“Back!” Sasrir barked. “Traget where the coral does't cover.”

Effie darted aside as the Brute lunged. Its arm elongated mid-swing, stretching like molten wax. I ducked under the blow, swung low — but my blade passed harmlessly through its liquid body.

Then I remembered that these things were immune to physical, just like the Oil Wraiths Somewhere inside its chest, faint and flickering, was a small knot of light — like the oil wraith’s core, but brighter, and with five nodes.

“Distract it!” I shouted.

Effie stepped forwardto meet another swing head-on as Kai sent an explosive arrow into the joint of its' other arm. The explosion scattered coral fragments, but the watery body underneath merely rippled before reforming. Sasrir vanished, and in his place a blurry shadow started to merge with the Tyrant's.

While all this was going on, I quickly Notarized myself and then pressed my palm deeper into the Crucifix, causing blood to well up before dying the object in rivets. Sasrir flinched andI knew a mirror wound had appeared on his own palm.

"Holy Pillar!"

The golden light descended from Heaven and hit the monster where its' core should be. The coral protection managed to absorb some of the damage, but in the end the monster's chest was exposed. With aferocious grunt, Effie closed the distance and once again thrust her spear, tearing throughthe viscous body of the Corrupted and striking the core. 

It shattered.

The Tidal Tyrant collapsed with a sigh, falling into a shower of black droplets that hissed away into the ground and shards of coral or oily stone

For a long moment, no one spoke. Only the faint echo of the ray’s corpse drifting downstream broke the silence.

Then Effie laughed, a short, breathless sound. “Bloody hell, did we just kill a Tyrant? ”

Kai wiped his brow. “Only because its' minions don't seem to be here, but are out hunting instead. Let's not wait around for them to come back.”

Sasrir dismissed his blade. “Agreed.”

“Yeah, I've had enough for one day too,” I muttered.

--------------------------------------------

The air grew warmer as we closed the distance to Bright Castle, the mist thinning until the sun finally pushed through in pale amber streaks. After the fight with the Tidal Tyrant, none of us said much. We walked with the steady, quiet rhythm that months of routine had carved into our bones.

Effie wiped the last of the black droplets from her spear, glanced at us, and sighed. “Alright. This is where I split.”

We’d reached the familiar coral column shaped like a leaning spine — our unofficial marker. One more turn beyond it, and the patrol routes of the official Castle watch would overlap with ours. Effie couldn’t be seen with us there. Not openly. Not with Gunlaug’s rules.

She ruffled my hair as she passed me. “You boys stay alive. Preferably in one piece.”

I made a face. “We’re the ones who carried you through that crab nest last week.”

“Lies and slander,” she said over her shoulder. Then, lowering her voice, “Tell Seishan thanks for the rope trick. I owe her.”

“She knows,” I said. “And she’ll pretend she doesn’t.”

Effie gave a small grin, then slipped between the coral pillars with practiced ease. Within seconds, her silhouette dissolved into the mist — another ghost among the ruins.

Sasrir  watched her go, arms folded. “I still don’t get how she handles playing the secret agent every day.”

“She’d die of boredom otherwise,” Kai said.

I shook my head. “Whatever keeps Gunlaug and his lackeys out of the loop."

We moved on, sticking to the less-patrolled pathways where the coral dust had been swept in unnatural patterns — a sure sign that Gemma and Seishan had already cleared the way. Both of them pretended ignorance around the others, but they knew exactly where Effie went, who she met, and what she fought with. They helped cover her tracks and was pretty much the only reasomn Harus hadn't come visit us during the night.

And maybe because they liked us, too.

The shadows deepened as we approached the Castle, the City blocking some of the sun. Voices drifted faintly down the path — Guards muttering during shift change, the clatter of weapon racks being moved, the everyday bustle of people trying not to remember they were trapped here.

We slowed our pace.

By the time the outer gate loomed above us, all signs of the labyrinth were wiped clean from our appearance — weapons sheathed, armor wiped, sap scraped off, expressions neutral.

Two Guards nodded at us as we passed.

“Patrol?”

“Routine,” I said.

They didn’t ask more. Sasrir gave them a lazy wave; Kai flashed a practiced grin that made the younger female Guard blush.

Inside, the courtyard was alive with movement. Artisans carried stacks of salvaged coral plates. Handmaidens tended the injured, their shadows dancing across the hall’s pale walls. Scavengers hurried past with sacks of scrap, calling friendly greetings as we stepped through.

A few of them clapped me on the shoulder.
“Good hunt, Adam?”
“Back in one piece, ah? Must’ve been easy then!”
“You lads drinkin’ tonight?”

It was normal. Warm. Familiar.

And even though we’d just fought things that could peel a soul out of flesh, the world here felt steady.

Gemma was waiting near the stairway, leaning on a crate like he’d been there the whole morning.is sharp green eyes flicked to Sasrir, then to me.

“No trouble following your trail,” he murmured. “Effie’s already in.”

“Thanks,” I said quietly. “As always.”

He snorted. “You all look like death. Go wash.” That was a bold lie, but I merely smiled and nodded.

Seishan emerged from around the corner, carrying a stack of scrolls. She gave the faintest smile. “Welcome back.”

Sasrir raised a hand. “Did Effie—?”

“She’s safe,” Seishan confirmed. “And no one saw anything.”

I exhaled. I had trust in the Huntress of course, but confirmation never hurt.

We didn’t linger, and the three of us climbed the stairs toward our quarters. The hallway was warm, lit by soft lanterns that flickered gold.

A normal return. A careful one. Quiet.

As it always had to be, until Gunlaug was gone.

Inside our room, the door shut behind us with a comforting thud. Sasrir collapsed on his bed, Kai stretched his arms until his joints cracked like firewood, and I finally let myself breathe.

“Same time tomorrow?” Kai asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “Of course.”

Because routine kept us sane.
And because the Forgotten Shore wasn’t done trying to break us yet.

Not even close.

Chapter Text

A young, fair hand hovered over the parchment, its slender fingers steadying a pale feather quill that gleamed faintly in the dim light. The quill required no ink; wherever its tip drifted, radiant gold unfurled, as though the words already slept beneath the surface of the page.

The quill touched down.

"In the beginning, before shape or memory, there was only the boundless void — not darkness, not silence, but a shifting expanse where nothing held form for longer than a heartbeat. The void writhed ceaselessly, birthing strange and terrible beings whose very presence unraveled meaning. They drifted like unfinished thoughts, nightmares with no dreamer."

A soft pause. Another stroke of gold.

"From that endless chaos, a spark ignited — something impossible, something new."

"Desire."

"It glowed with a stubborn, steady radiance that the void could not dissolve. And because no desire can exist without something to reach toward, Direction emerged beside it. Between them, the first boundary was drawn across the formless abyss."

"From that boundary rose six radiant beings, blazing like newborn suns — the first Gods."

But the golden lines did not stop there. The quill hesitated, then crossed out the number and replaced it with another.

"There was a seventh."

"Born with the others, radiant as they were, yet different in ways that even they could not name. While the six embodied the order that Desire had willed into being, the seventh carried something deeper — a spark of the void itself, buried beneath the flame. A contradiction, a mixture of concepts that mirrored the void's nature in its' malleability."

The quill moved faster.

"When the gods shone, the void recoiled — but did not yield. The ancient beings stirred, vast and formless, answering light with hunger. And the war began. The gods fought with weapons never seen again: blades of time, chains of space, arrows forged from death. The void creatures responded with pure chaos."

"Ages passed. Moments stretched. Creation trembled. There could be no peace or compromise between the two sides: while all came from the void, the Gods sought to usurp their kin and rule over a different type of world, one that had no place for the Others."

"Gradually, painfully, the ancient beings were driven back. Not destroyed — the void cannot truly die — but weakened, forced into a corner of the abyss. Shadow bled the first drop of blood on this battlefield, which signified the birth of Death."

The young hand adjusted its grip, the quill etching words further down the page.

"The Gods gathered the remnants of the first golden flame and wove them into a brilliant net, vast enough to entangle the void itself. They cast it upon the abyss, binding chaos in radiant law."

"But in the instant before the net closed, the void surged."

"The Seventh God, nearest the breach, was seized by the churning horrors. The six other gods drew back in fear. Their net was moments from sealing. To delay was to lose everything."

"And so, the seventh was left behind."

The quill slowed, then darkened its golden stroke like directing an orchestra.

"Trapped among the writhing shapes, the Seventh God understood the price that must be paid. With its final strength, it tore seven sparks from its own essence, flinging them outward, beyond the closing prison of flame. The sparks escaped, slipping into the newborn world above."

"The net fell. The cage was sealed. Six Gods remained free. One was abandoned to the abyss."

A thin line of gold shook slightly, as if its writer was uncertain what to write next.

"From those seven sparks, beings unlike any other arose — radiant, powerful, yet forever marked by the abyssal prison their creator had never escaped."

"The Daemons."

"Not Gods, at least not at the moment of their creation. Not monsters either, not pure beings of the Void. But something in between: children of sacrifice, heirs to a broken divinity. Their power echoed the gods who forged the world, yet their souls were tied to the one who had been betrayed."

"As was their nature these Seven Daemons were swift to consolidate Their Divinities, to hone Their Authorities and Symbolisms to also become Gods. But they were lesser deities, lacking the original spark possessed by those who came from the Flame, holding only a fragment of the Seventh's Divinity."

The quill traced the final words.

"To add insult to injury, the Gods forbade the Daemons from siring offpring, and denied them any knowledge of their origin-to hide their selfish shame, their cowardice and abandoment of their own. The Daemons were cast adrift in a world that should have rightfully been theirs to behold, left with nothing but an incomplete nature."

"Thus began the Age of the Gods-the Void was sealed but not forgotten, the first Corrupted oozed forth from the gaps in the Net, and Gods fought alongside Daemons to destroy them. True Darkness was born from this conflict, while the feared Daemon of Truth forged the Eternal River from the corpse of an Unholy Titan. The scale of the conflict is not known, only that it must have waged across all of reality and perhaps even beyond. In the end though, Order triumphed and the Age of Heroes arrived."

The quill stopped there, and was left on the page. The golden writing glowed softly before solidifying, becoming etched into the page. The hand holding it let go, and was then stretched up above a head.

Adam yawned, rolling back his shoulders and widening his jaw. Looking down at what he had written, pride and accomplishment filled him, and he smugly held up the page against the light. "Heh heh, not bad at all! I might just have a knack for writing after all. Well, what kind of Author would I be if I didn't?"

"What are you acting so smug about now?"

A voice echoed out, and a shadow swept across the ground behind Adam. From it emerged a man with long black hair, face obscured by darkness, as he placed his hand on Adam's shoulder and peered over it. "Hoh, you're writing about the Myth of Creation? And you've added a few embellishments too, I see."

"Poetic license" Adam dismissed his jab, waving the paper under Sasrir's nose. "Releasing stuff like this is a sure-ticket to getting famous back in the Waking World."

"And a sure-ticket to having a "personal meeting" with someone from the Great Clans."

"Pfft, I'm not afraid of those two clowns, and especially not the one stuck on the moon. Jobbers who couldn't even kill Sunny and Nephis aren't worthy of my apprehension."

"Check you ego, buddy" Sasrir could't help but sigh, hitting Adam on the head gently. "You're not the main character of this world, and your current state is nowhere near close enough to contend with even the servants of the Great Clans. Forget Avil and Song-even Mordret or Seishan would absolutely stomp you."

"Hey!" he protested at that. "Seishan I can understand, she's one scary woman, but why would I fear Mordret? That twink wouldn't get further than three steps if he tries to invade my Soul Sea. In fact, I'd be more than happy to give him a personal experience with the mind of a Visionary."

"You seem to be forgetting Mordret doesn't just rely on his Soul Possession. You might win that battle, but the Corpse Cathedral won't be of any help if he just decides to stab you through the guts."

Adam shrugged, smiling up at Sasrir unbothered. "Then I'll just have to rely on you to protect me."

Sasrir sighed again, sounding like a weary old man, but didn't press the topic any further. Adam was more mature than his words suggested, so he knew that he wouldn't actually go picking such unreasonable fights, but sometimes Sasrir wished he could act more serious some times.

Sasrir plucked the page delicately from Adam’s fingers. He held it closer to the lantern, eyes skimming the golden script.

“…You know,” he murmured, “if you put this in a book, half the scholars in the waking world would call you a blathering fool.”

“And the other half,” Adam said triumphantly, “would call me a visionary.”

“They would call you insane.”

“That’s just another word for ‘ahead of my time’.”

Sasrir rolled the parchment back up before Adam could snatch it again. “Well, ahead of your time or not, I’m confiscating this until you stop acting like you invented literature.”

“Hey! That’s author abuse!”

“Good. Maybe it’ll make you write something more useful, like inventory stocks or hunting patterns. You use more paper than any other Hunter, Pathfinder of Guard and you don't even draw maps.”

Adam huffed dramatically and flopped back in his chair, legs dangling off the side. The quill still lay on the table, its white feather shimmering faintly under the dim lamplight. For a moment the two just sat in the quiet, surrounded by the soft hum of the Castle’s distant torches and the muted heartbeat of the Forgotten Shore beyond the walls.

Then Adam glanced sideways, lips quirking.

“You know… I think I really did a good job with that myth.”

Sasrir closed his eyes and breathed out through his nose. “…Yes. It’s good. Very good. Happy?”

Adam’s grin widened. “Extremely.”

A faint thunk echoed as Sasrir flicked Adam’s forehead with two fingers. “Don’t get used to compliments.”

Adam rubbed the spot, pouting. “You’re just jealous because I’m naturally talented.”

“Right. Naturally talented at doing nothin all day.”

He stood and stretched, the shadows around him rippling like water under moonlight. The blackness that obscured his face shifted, never revealing him fully, yet somehow expressing an entire world of exasperation.

“Come on,” Sasrir said. “It’s nearly curfew. If Gunlaug’s hounds catch you awake again, even I won’t bother saving you. You know how picky they are about moving around at night, even for his best Hunters like us.”

“Can’t,” Adam said, turning back toward the desk. “Still need to finish the final part.”

“What final part?”

Adam lifted the quill again, twirling it between two fingers. “The birth of humanity. Dawn of consciousness. The rise of mortal will and its clash with the gods. Y’know— the fun stuff.”

“You’re impossible,” Sasrir muttered, but didn’t move. He hovered beside Adam’s chair like a tired parent watching a child scribble on a wall. “Just don’t write anything stupid for others to see.”

"Don't worry, only you can see my masterpieces. Kai and Effie get my second-rate scripts.”

“Gee, thank you for the honor.”

Adam touched the quill to parchment, and once again golden light pooled outwards, shaping the next line.

Sasrir paused behind him… then, with a reluctant sigh, placed a hand gently on Adam’s shoulder.

“Just finish quickly so we can sleep.”

Adam smiled softly, the kind of smile that made him look far younger than his bravado ever admitted.

“I will.”

The quill glowed brighter, and the next words began to appear—pulling the myth forward into whatever truths Adam intended to reveal next.

Sasrir slipped out of the room with one last, reluctant glance at Adam bent over his parchment. The door closed with a soft click behind him.

With that sound, something inside Sasrir clicked as well.

The loose, easy posture drained from his body like water from a cupped hand. His shoulders straightened, the faint slouch of casual humanity vanishing entirely. The air around him darkened, shadows sharpening as though aligning themselves to his spine. His steps became nearly silent, precise, each one falling with the calculated rhythm of a predator that had merely been pretending to walk on two legs.

The warmth in his voice—the wry humor, the gentle scolding—fell away into a cold, unfathomable stillness.

Gone was the companion. Gone was the teasing guardian. Gone was the counterfeit man.

What remained was the Dark Angel.

As he moved through the dim corridors of Bright Castle, torches guttered slightly, their flames shrinking away from him. The quiet stone halls seemed to lean back, unwilling to touch the thing that walked them.

Ahead, two Guards on patrol rounded a corner, chatting in hushed voices. One spotted the tall figure emerging from the shadows and instinctively raised a hand to greet him.

“Hey—”

His words died on his tongue.

The second Guard grabbed his elbow sharply, eyes widening in warning.

Sasrir walked toward them, the darkness masking his face rippling, as if something deeper inside was shifting.

Neither Guard dared to breathe, only trying to look to the sides without being too obviously rude.

When Adam was at his side, they laughed. When Adam teased him, they dared to tease back. When Adam humanized him, they accepted the illusion.

But Sasrir alone…

No one could act like he was anything like them.

One Guard’s hand trembled against his spear shaft. Sasrir passed him by without turning his head, without acknowledging their existence at all. Despite his silence, despite his stillness, the oppressive weight of his presence crushed the narrow corridor like an invisible pressure.

When he was several steps away, one Guard exhaled so sharply it cracked into a strangled gasp.

“…God above…” he whispered.

His partner shot him a frantic glare and shook his head. Don't draw attention.

Sasrir continued on, indifferent. He understood what they felt. He understood why.

Adam’s presence wrapped around him like sunlight, softening the shadows clinging to his form, making him don the mask of the supportive older brother. But without that light, without the warmth of Adam’s voice grounding him in the role he played…

The castle saw him for what he was.

A silent killer, a shadow that reaped lives as easily as breathing. A man without conscience, who struck fear into anyone who met him alone at night. A somewhat exaggerated reputation, but not one Sasrir could deny either. Not when what had happened two months ago was still fresh in everyones mind.

At the next turn, a third Guard stiffened, back going ramrod straight as Sasrir approached. His fingers twitched at his side, as if unsure whether to salute, flee, or hold his breath and pray for invisibility.

Sasrir passed him without a sound.

Only when the black silhouette vanished down the next stairwell did the man’s legs give a slight, visible shake, and he leaned weakly against the wall.

Sasrir did not slow. Did not speak. Did not flinch at their fear.

His footsteps carried him deeper into the castle’s shadowed heart—silent, immaculate, and entirely inhuman.

Only Adam ever saw him otherwise.

Only Adam made him act otherwise.

But now, with the boy behind closed doors, wrapped in golden ink and the soft illusion of safety…

Sasrir moved like the thing he truly was. The degenerate shadow of a God, the container for His depravity and darkness, the vessel for His wounds and pain. The Dark Angel, the Deputy of Heaven, the Left Hand of God...the Hanged Man.

Sasrir returned to his quarters in silence, closing the door behind him with a soft click that felt strangely final. The room was dim, lit only by a few scattered candles—flames that leaned away from him rather than toward him. He lay down on the bed without even removing his boots, staring at the ceiling for a breath that stretched far too long to be human.

Then he sank.

Not into sleep, but straight through the layers of waking thought and consciousness, plunging into the place Adam had never visited—and never should. His Soul Sea.

It took form around him all at once, as if reality there snapped awake with him standing in its center. Compared to others’ Soul Seas—calm lakes, storming oceans, orderly voids—Sasrir’s was an impossibility. It shouldn’t have existed. It contradicted itself. Yet it held.

It was a sea, yes, but no water lay in sight. Instead it was a roiling, endless spiral of colors—every hue imaginable and countless ones no human eye should ever perceive. Reds and greens melted into shades of ultraviolet whispers, while gold bled into something like sound made visible. The entire mass pulsed, swirled, fractured, and reformed constantly, a ceaseless creation and destruction in one motion. It felt like witnessing every sunrise and every apocalypse at once.

The “surface” of this kaleidoscopic maelstrom churned like a liquid madness, but stabbing out of its center was a single black mountain. Its slopes were formed of soil so dark it devoured light; dirt that looked like the burned remains of something once fertile. Sparks of color from the sea would fling themselves against its base, only to hiss, die, and be swallowed by the darkness.

Sasrir stood on the mountain’s peak, boots sinking slightly into the dead earth. Despite the chaos below, up here the air was still—motionless, heavy, reverent.

At the summit stood the cross.

It was enormous, easily thrice Sasrir’s height, forged not from wood nor metal but from liquid shadow. The substance flowed in slow, viscous waves, dripping upward instead of downward, defying gravity and reason alike. Every time a tendril slithered across the surface, the shadow seemed to whisper—not in words but in intentions and emotions, volatile ones, dangerous ones.

At irregular intervals, an outline appeared on the cross: a figure with five heads, each one too indistinct to name yet too real to dismiss. Sometimes it flickered. Sometimes it lingered. And sometimes one of the heads would tilt toward Sasrir as if acknowledging him before vanishing into black ripples.

He gazed upon it without bowing, without reverence—only with a patient, quiet acceptance. This was as familiar to him as breath.

But then a sound—not a sound, but the inversion of one—shivered across the sky.

Sasrir turned.

Above the horizon, the sky cracked.

Not like glass, but like bone. A fissure tore itself open from one end of reality to the other with a dull, shuddering snap. Through the fracture spilled a vast pressure, ancient and malign, until the crack ruptured entirely—

—and everything fell.

Blackish-red mud poured from the broken heavens in a roiling deluge. It wasn’t water. It wasn’t liquid. It wasn’t even matter in the way the living understood it. It writhed as it fell, twisting like half-formed limbs and tangled nerves trying to remember what shape they once had. The mud splashed into the chaotic sea below, and where it landed, color recoiled as if in horror.

The rainbow vortex dimmed, shrank, sickened.

The mud spread like rot, turning brilliance to sludge, turning possibility to stagnant decay. It soaked the sea until feverish tendrils of corruption clawed at the mountain’s base, itching to climb.

Sasrir watched it all in absolute silence.

Then he lifted one hand.

Color obeyed him instantly.

Swirling blobs of pure hue—crimson swarms, golden smears, shards of impossible blue—ripped themselves from the remaining pockets of untainted sea and spiraled upward toward him. They swelled, collided, merged grotesquely, corrupting themselves in their eagerness to serve. The bright shades bled together into ugly murk, then into pitch-black lumps of trembling substance.

A multitude of them. Dozens. Hundreds.

Each one swirling, warping, straining to become something they could not.

They gathered around Sasrir like a halo of corrupted creation, waiting for his will to shape them—or to unleash them.

All the while, the wounded sea writhed below. And above, the crack in the sky slowly began to recede away and fade.

Bringing one of the trembling black spheres before him, Sasrir studied the image within with a gaze utterly devoid of warmth. Detached. Clinical. The sphere pulsed once, its surface thinning just enough to reveal Adam—clutching his ribs, teeth grit as pain lanced through him. A memory. A moment. A wound.

Sasrir did not blink.

Another sphere drifted closer of its own accord, brushing lightly against his shoulder. Within it, Adam was feeding blood to the Unshadowed Crucifix, face tight with strain and a kind of quiet dread. Another floated upward to replace it—a scene of Adam sitting with one leg extended, wrapping a bandage around a deep cut on his thigh.

More gathered. More displayed their truths.

Dozens of orbs like little suffering planets. Hundreds, if one counted those hovering further off in miserable constellations. Most showed Adam. A smaller handful revealed Kai or Athena—Kai’s fist split open on a monster’s skull, Athena’s shoulder crushed under the weight of a collapsing stone pillar. Gemma and Seishan were conspicuously absent, not because they had never been harmed, but because Sasrir had never once considered them his. They were teammates. Useful, occasionally. But not allies whose burdens he instinctively bore.

For every scene projected here was a moment—fleeting or catastrophic—when his Flaw, that cursed Scapegoat, had dragged the suffering of those closest to him into himself as well. The wounds they endured, the pain they swallowed, the fear they hid… all of it had echoed in his own flesh and bone.

The number of injuries was staggering. Bruised knuckles. Torn muscles. Split lips. Broken ribs. Lungs punctured. Limbs shattered. Organs ruptured. Poison in blood and blood on stone. The sheer volume of hurt was immense enough to make the average mind recoil.

Sasrir felt nothing.

Of course he did not.

This was his purpose. This was why he was made. To bear the world’s sins. To take the wounds meant for others. To crumble so they might stand. To bleed so they might breathe.

He would do it willingly, endlessly, happily—so long as Adam remained safe.

His existence had been shaped by Adam’s wish, pulled into being by the desperate, if subconsciouss, clarity of the young man’s Envisioning. Adam had needed someone, and Sasrir had become that someone so thoroughly, so absolutely, that there was no part of him left untouched by that mandate.

So he played the part.

He joked. He teased. He played human when it mattered, shifted when it didn’t. He steadied Adam’s shaken resolve, grounded him when panic clawed, guided him when doubt threatened to break him. He made himself the anchor, the confidant, the companion—whatever the boy required.

And he would continue to do so always.

Even if it required secrets. Even if it required lies. Even if he had to act behind Adam’s back, manipulating threads the young man could never perceive.

Adam might be angry if he knew. Might feel deceived. Might turn away.

Sasrir didn’t care.

As long as Adam was safe. As long as Adam was happy.

And Adam would never need to know.

Once the visions of physical harm faded, new orbs drifted forward—heavier, darker, shaped not by bodies but by minds. These were not memories or images. They were raw emotions, distilled into spheres so dense they seemed to warp the air.

Sadness.
Regret.
Fear, sharp as broken glass.
Panic, trembling and breathless.
Loneliness, cold as deep seawater.
Self-blame, thick as tar.

They pulsed weakly, radiating the poisonous weight of every moment Adam—or the others—had quietly broken on the inside.

Sasrir regarded these too, though his expression barely shifted. Slowly, almost gently, he ran a finger along the length of the nearest one. It shivered under his touch like a frightened animal.

Then, without a word, he turned toward the shadow-cross.

The orbs floated from his hand and rose upward in a slow, reverent procession. One by one they touched the liquid darkness, sinking in without a ripple, devoured wholly and silently.

When the final sphere vanished, the cross flickered.

The shadows shuddered, almost as if choking on what it had just swallowed. Then, with a stuttering pulse of black light, the five-headed silhouette appeared again—this time not flickering, but solidifying, even if only for a heartbeat.

And in the center of those five indistinct faces, a single vertical red eye snapped open.

It burned like a ruby filled with simmering fire.
A gaze of judgment. A gaze of hunger.
A gaze of recognition.

It stared at Sasrir.

Then closed.

The figure vanished, dissolving into ink-black ripples. The liquid cross settled once more—though its limbs now stretched ever so slightly wider, taller. A centimetre or two, perhaps more.

It had grown. Fed, strengthened by the negativity Sasrir had given to it.

Sasrir watched it with quiet understanding.

This was simply how things were.

This was one of the deepest secrets Sasrir had kept from Adam—the true nature of the Hanged Man Uniqueness, a truth buried deep within the recesses of his Soul Sea and, by extension, his very being. Unlike Adam’s Visionary Uniqueness, which slumbered passively in the vast, shared Sea of Collective Subconsciousness, Sasrir’s Uniqueness was awake, active, and insistent. It did not slumber; it did not remain distant andunivolved.

It had no voice, no literal consciousness, yet it had desires—directions, imperatives, instincts inherited from its' Godhood itself. Its singular aim was as maddening as it was absolute: to contain all the sins, all the madness, all the madness of the world, and to do so even at the cost of going mad itself.

Sasrir had no illusions about it. The Hanged Man was not a being to be reasoned with, negotiated with, or bargained with. It was a mechanism, a living will of containment, a predator of moral and existential weight. And as its human—or semi-human—vessel, Sasrir became its hands. Its instruments. Its shadow in the waking world.

Every night, as Adam slept peacefully in his bed, Sasrir would slip silently from his own, with the ghostlike grace of someone who had been walking in shadow for centuries. He would kneel beside Adam’s sleeping form and slip into his shadow, reaching down into the corners of his mind, pulling away the burdens the boy shouldn't bear-not the memories themselves, butt the sensations and feelings that accompanied them. 

This was why Adam seemed unfazed by pain, why he could fear something in the moment but be unbothered when remebering it the day after. Sasrir had snipped that possibility. 

All of it—the visions of potential harm, the guilt, the terror, the shame—was drawn from Adam and offered to the Hanged Man on its black liquid cross. A ritual. A duty. A sacrifice. The burdens were never Adam’s again; they were Sasrir’s, absorbed, contained, and stored deep in the folds of the Chaos Sea. And every night the cross shimmered faintly in acknowledgment, growing imperceptibly, ever vigilant, ever hungry.

Adam had never asked for this, not directly. He had wished, yes, but the wish had been incomplete, naive, desperate in its simplicity. He had wanted “Sasrir himself” as the concept—a companion, protector, confidant originating from his own self, absolutely trustworhty and knowledgable. Yet Adam also got more than he bargained for.

Instead, he got "Sasrir" but with his own personality as the base, rather than Grisha. But Sasrir wasn't just made up from Girsha: he was also the controller of the Chaos Sea, the substitute prepared to deflect the Will of the Primordial One. When Sasrir was Envisioned into the world of Shadow Slave, he brought the Chaos Sea with him.

Within the confines of his Soul Sea, Sasrir could draw upon that power. The colors, the vortex of chaos, the ever-shifting rainbow-madness that surrounded him—he could manipulate it, bend it, let it consume itself or create new forms from its infinite possibilities. Outside of it, in the waking world, that dominion was locked away, unusable. But within, forget Mordret or the Soul Snatcher, even the Skinwalker itself would find itself nothing more than a meal to the Sefirah, devoured whole if it attempted to invade his soul.

Sasrir knew what his purpose was in this. The Curator had promised Adam a way to transcend to Sequence, to surpass a mere Sequence 0. And the key to this was Sasrir, the Chaos Sea inside him. He had already foreseen how it would go:

Upon Adam becoming the Visionary, Sasrir would also become the Hanged Man. Then, the two would fuse together and combine influence over the Chaos Sea. Once this happened, Adam could Envision the remaining three Uniqueness' and achieve a status infintiely close to a true God Almighty. If Adam or Sasrir could accomodate the Legacy or both the Storm God and the Sun God, they would only need to Envision the White Tower Authority to succeed.

Ofcourse, this was just his own conjecture-Sasrir couldn't use the Chaos Sea to borrow the Authority of Omniscience like the original Sasrir from LOTM. But he found it a reasonable ad likely method, poetically faithful to the actual story. And perhaps even the White Tower could be substituted, possibly with the powers of the Demon of Dread who wielded Truth, or Weaver who commanded Fate.

But that was all in the far future. For now, his purpose was to hold, to absorb, to neutralize, to protect. That was his role. That was his calling. That was why he could not, would not, and would never reveal the truth to Adam. The boy’s peace depended on ignorance.

So Sasrir remained in the shadows, in the silence, in the chaos he alone could command. He bore the sins Adam could not, the suffering that had no name, and the corruption that had no rest. And in doing so, he anchored Adam—not in power, not in dominance, but in safety.

It was a secret of the deepest kind. One that could never be spoken aloud.

And yet it defined him completely.

Chapter Text

The mess hall of Bright Castle was unusually warm that morning.

Sunlight spilled through an open archway, painting soft gold across the long tables and cracked stone floor. Someone had left a pot of stew simmering early, so the air carried the gentle scent of herbs and something vaguely like chicken — though I was certain nothing resembling a chicken lived anywhere on this cursed shore.

I sat with my bowl in both hands, blowing on the steam as Sasrir plopped down across from me with all the grace of a falling boulder.

“Mornin’,” Sasrir said, hair still damp from washing, shadows clinging lightly to his cheekbones. “Try not to choke on your enthusiasm. It’s unbecoming.”

I squinted at him. “Try not to choke on your own ego. It’s already too big for this table.”

Kai, sitting neatly on my right, hid a smile behind his spoon. He watched us bicker quietly, eyes soft and amused, as though seeing something rare in the Dream Realm.

It was rare — this warmth, this normality.

I jabbed my spoon pointedly in Sasrir’s direction. “You’re just jealous I slept like a baby.”

“You slept like a slain baby,” Sasrir corrected without missing a beat. “Dead to the world. You didn’t even move when the crab knocked over the pantry shelf.”

I blinked. “…Wait, that noise was real?”

Kai stifled a laugh behind his hand.

Sasrir leaned back smugly. “I handled it.”

“You held it like it was a bomb,” Kai added gently.

“I held it a strategic distance from my face,” Sasrir countered.

I snorted broth out my nose, and Kai let out an honest, soft giggle — the kind that made a few nearby Sleepers glance over subtly.

“Hard to believe we’ve been doing this for weeks now,” I said after the laughter faded, stirring my stew thoughtfully. “Feels like we’ve fought half the monsters on this shore.”

“Two-thirds,” Sasrir corrected.

Kai nodded politely. “…Almost three-quarters, I think.”

I blinked. “Why do the both of you keep score?!”

Sasrir shrugged. “Professional pride.”

Kai added, “It’s useful for planning future routes.”

I threw my free hand up. “I hate you both.”

But I was smiling.

Sasrir smirked, swirling his spoon. “Remember those hammerhead dog-things? The ones that tried to eat you the first time we stepped back into the Labyrinth?”

I groaned. “Don’t remind me. One of them grabbed my cloak and almost dragged me into a coral pit.”

“You screamed louder than the manta shriekers,” Sasrir said.

Kai coughed delicately. “It was… rather high-pitched.”

I looked betrayed. “Kai, not you too—!”

Sasrir chuckled, letting shadows curl lazily around his fingers. “And then there were the Crustacean Centurions. Good grief. I swear I’ll never be able to look at seafood the same way.”

Kai’s eyes softened. “But you two handled the giant one well.”

I perked up immediately. “Exactly! See? Praise!”

“You only handled it because you melted it from behind,” Sasrir said.

“We handled it nonetheless,” I retorted, proudly thumping my chest.

Kai smiled again and pointed his spoon at Sasrir. “And your ability to make them freeze up is extremely useful. I can hit them with my bow so much easier when you’re stopping them from moving.”

As the three of us ate in companionable quiet, I finally spoke again, voice soft:

“…Speaking of monsters. Do you remember when we first met?”

Kai nearly choked on his stew. “Oh spirits, don’t remind me.”

Sasrir grinned slowly. “Ah yes. That day.”

Kai turned his bowl slowly in his hands. “You two were… very dramatic.”

I pointed accusingly at Sasrir. “He is the reason we almost fought you!”

“I assumed he was a disguised monster,” Sasrir said primly. “He popped out of the fog in total silence, levitating in the air. What else was I supposed to think?”

Kai blinked innocently. “I was just… walking.”

“You were floating,” Sasrir countered. “Silently. Menacingly. At least three feet off the ground.”

I groaned, burying my face in my hands. “You’re lucky I didn’t just blast you with a Light Pillar on the spot. We had just spent like an hour dodging those manta shriekers. My ears were still ringing.”

Kai tilted his head. “…Thank you for being too tired to attack me. And for being lost enough to encounter me.”

Sasrir scoffed. “We were not lost.”

“You were going in the opposite direction of safety,” Kai said.

I laughed. “Which is a polite way of saying yes, we were lost.”

Sasrir muttered into his bowl. “Debatable.”

Kai continued, voice warm with nostalgia:

“And then you dropped your weapon once you finally saw my face.”

I paused at that, before shrugging nonchalantly. “Yeah well, who could have expected to find the Nightingale wandering around in the middle of the Forgotten Shore? I mean, it turns out you’d been here a whole six months longer than us, but we’d never even heard about you!”

Kai and Sasrir burst into shared laughter and I couldn’t help but join in.

Kai sat across from me and Sasrir, the soft glow of the mess hall’s lanterns catching in his dark auburn hair and turning it almost copper. Even in the plain light of morning, he looked like he’d stepped out of some painting — the warm brown lamellar armor resting comfortably on his tall, slim frame, the deep blue fabric beneath adding a quiet elegance that didn’t match the typical rough Dream Realm décor.

I pretended not to notice how half the hall kept sneaking glances at Kai… but the smirk on Sasrir’s face gave away that he did.

“Anyway,” I said, continuing our earlier banter, “first time we met him, Mister Perfect here didn’t trust us at all.”

Kai blinked, face as polite and serene as ever — which only made him look more ethereal. His ivory skin caught the faint shimmer of the lights, and when he glanced away bashfully, the electric green of his eyes almost seemed to glow. A couple of nearby novices actually paused mid-bite just to look at him. Kai didn’t notice.

Sasrir leaned his cheek against his fist. “Can you blame him? Look at that face. If I looked like that, I’d assume everyone wanted something from me too.”

Kai flushed a little, lips pulling into the shy smile that always revealed the dimples in his cheeks. A few people at a nearby table visibly melted.

I tried not to laugh. “Yeah, yeah, I get it. He’s pretty enough to make statues jealous.”

Kai ducked his head, embarrassed. “I’m… really not—”

“Buddy,” I cut in, “if you walked past a group of girls right now, we’d have to swim out of a sea of fainting bodies. Maybe a few guys too.”

Sasrir nodded solemnly. “Definitely a few guys.”

Kai covered his face with one hand. “Can we talk about something else?”

But despite the fluster, there was a warmth to him — that natural gentle charm, the kind that made even this bleak realm feel less sharp. He had no arrogance about him, none of the entitlement that could have come so easily with a face like his. Just that soft radiance, the quiet humor in his eyes, and the impression that he genuinely liked being here with us.

“Fine, fine,” I said, leaning back. “We were talking about how it took a whole week before you stopped avoiding us.”

Sasrir clicked his tongue. “Avoiding? More like monitoring from a dramatic distance.”

I snapped my fingers. “Exactly! Every time I looked up, there he was — perched on a ledge with his hair blowing dramatically, looking like some tragic prince watching over us mortals. If a painter had been there, they would’ve retired on that image alone.”

Kai groaned softly, but his smile was fighting its way back. “I wasn’t trying to be dramatic.”

“Oh, sure,” I said. “You just happen to look like that by accident.”

Sasrir nodded in agreement. “Some people roll out of bed and look like normal human beings. You roll out of bed already ready for a hero’s movie.”

Kai opened his mouth, then closed it, unable to argue.

The lighthearted chatter lasted another few seconds — until I, still laughing, added:

“Anyway, you didn’t trust us until we killed Artus, and—”

My words cut short.

The moment the words slipped out, I felt it like a cold tap on the back of my neck. The air between us shifted — not heavy, but quieter. More fragile.

Kai lowered his gaze, lashes shadowing those shockingly green eyes. “You didn’t have to do that,” he murmured, voice softer now, missing the earlier humor.

Sasrir straightened slightly. I winced. The memory of that harrowing night lurked unspoken at the edge of the table.

“Yeah,” I said, rubbing the back of my neck. “Well. I wanted to show you I meant it.”

“And,” Sasrir added gently, “that we wouldn’t leave you behind.”

Kai’s fingers tangled with the edge of his cup. The hall’s distant chatter seemed to fade, leaving only the warmth of the lanterns and the three of us holding the moment between us.

Then I nudged Kai’s arm, voice light again. “Besides, if we hadn’t done what we did, you wouldn’t be here right now.”

Kai smiled — small, genuine, radiant. “I’m glad I am.”

And just like that, the softness returned. The warmth. The easy brightness of three people who had survived enough darkness to appreciate mornings like this.

As we finished eating, I stretched and stood up. We didn't have a shift today, so after making some plans later in the day, we went our separate ways-Sasrir went to the Memory Market to look for new weapons, Kai went to train his archery while I...went back to my room and lay down on my bed. 

Yes, I was lazy. Shoot me.

Eventually, I exhaled, gave up, and let myself sink into the oldest of them — the moment we met him.

The flashback rose like a tide.

Fog. Rain. And the sound of Sasrir swearing under his breath.

The Coral Labyrinth was already one of the Dream Realm’s less pleasant gifts, but add in a storm that made visibility drop to arm’s length and you had the perfect recipe for misery.

“I’m telling you,” I muttered as we trudged between twisting walls of pale coral and slick stone, “this place changes every time we turn around.”

Sasrir grunted beside me. “No. You keep turning around. I’m navigating perfectly fine.”

“You walked us into a dead end five minutes ago.”

“That was a scouting maneuver.”

“It was a wall.”

“Some walls need to be scouted.”

I rolled my eyes, pulling my hood lower as cold droplets slid down the back of my neck. The air smelled of salt and damp stone, and the labyrinth groaned quietly with every gust of wind, like it resented us being there.

Fog swirled thicker, dimming the faint glow of the coral around us. The rain wasn’t heavy — just enough to blur the world, to make everything smudged and shifting.

I wiped water from my eyes. “We’re never getting out of here…”

“Whine louder,” Sasrir said. “Maybe the walls will pity you.”

I opened my mouth to retort — and then froze.

The fog in the Coral Labyrinth wasn’t just thick — it was downright hostile, like everthing else here. Every gust of wind stirred the mist like something alive, and every shadow looked like it was waiting for us to mess up. It made visibility nigh-impossible, yet Icould clearly seea humanoid figurestanding in the fog, seemingly slighlty off the ground.

“Sasrir,” I hissed, grabbing his arm.

He squinted into the swirling grey. “Oh, fantastic. A creepy statue. I love it when horror tropes show up in my morning.”

“It wasn’t there a second ago.”

“…I officially don’t love it anymore.”

We stopped walking. The figure didn’t move.

Didn’t sway in the wind.

Just stood, perfectly still, like someone had carved him out of shadow and tossed him into the maze.

Sasrir whispered, “Think it’s one of those mimic-things pretending to be human?”

“Probably.”

I swallowed. “Or a hallucination monster. Or a lure beast. You know. Something normal.”

Normal for the Dream Realm, anyway.

We slowly drew our weapons.

Then — out of absolutely nowhere — the figure raised a hand in the most unsettling, slow-motion wave I’d ever seen.

“Oh hell no,” Sasrir muttered. “Humans don’t wave like that. That’s serial-killer energy.”

The figure called out through the fog:

“…Hello?”

The voice echoed strangely, probably shuffled around by the labyrinth’s acoustics. It didn’t help. If anything, it made him sound like he was speaking from inside my skull.

I whispered urgently, “Sasrir, I swear to God, if that thing climbs onto the ceiling—”

The figure took a step toward us.

Not fast.
Not aggressive.
Just… a step.

Which somehow made it ten times worse.

Sasrir barked, “Don't move!”

The figure froze instantly.

Then—

“…Should I move back?”

“No!” both of us shouted.

The stranger seemed deeply confused. “…Slowly?”

“No!” I snapped. “Don’t move at all!”

He paused.

“…I think I’m doing very badly at this conversation.”

I clenched my teeth. “Sasrir, it can talk. Monsters can talk. You know what else can talk? Sirens. Mimics. Possessed armor—”

“Don’t forget soul-eaters,” Sasrir added helpfully.

The figure tried again. “I promise I’m not a monster.”

Which is exactly what a monster trying to lure us would say.

I whispered, “Why would he say that—why would anyone say that?”

Sasrir narrowed his eyes. “Suspicious. Extremely suspicious.”

The figure shifted awkwardly — and the wind caught his hair, revealing just the faintest gleam of bright green eyes.

I froze. “…Why does it look pretty?”

Sasrir hissed, “That’s very suspicious. Pretty things are always the most dangerous.”

Before we could decide whether to run or fight, the stranger raised both hands nervously and shouted:

“Um! If you’re lost, I can help! I’ve been here a while and—”

Sasrir cut him off. “A while? How long is ‘a while’? Long enough to become a monster?”

“I—I don’t think I’ve become a monster—”

“That’s exactly what someone who's a monster would say!”

The stranger looked completely helpless now. “…Should I lie down? Would that help?”

“Just don't move!” I yelled again.

He froze so quickly it was almost superhuman.

Everything went silent. Just rain, fog, and three very confused people staring at each other.

Finally, the figure spoke again — much smaller this time, voice trembling like someone trying to sound harmless.

“…I think we’re having a misunderstanding.”

No kidding.

But despite the absurdity… something about his tone made me hesitate.

Soft.
Sincere.
Not predatory.
Not sharp.
Not shifting or distorted like most Dream Realm creatures.

Just a guy.
A worried one.

I exhaled slowly. “Okay. Fine. Let’s all stop shouting.”

Sasrir lowered his weapon a fraction. “But we’re watching you. Closely. Don’t do anything… weird.”

The figure nodded rapidly, eager.

Considering later events, it still amazes me that this was how we met one of the nicest people in the world.

A confused, terrified, soaking-wet prince-looking man in armor, accidentally convincing us he was a monster.

Looking back on it now, it almost seemed like Fate was pissed off we were changing the script so much, it decided to just force one of its' encounters onto us.

And this encounter was none other than Kai Nightingale.

Chapter Text

I flicked another pebble.

Clack.

It bounced off the wall, fell to the floor, and joined the growing pile of what I had begun calling my Rock Army. At this point I had enough stones to stage a coup against the local pebble monarchy.

I stretched my legs out and leaned back on my elbows, staring up at the dark, ruined sky of the Dark City. A steady, cold wind slid between the broken towers, humming faintly like a spectral flute. Fitting accompaniment for my boredom-inspired performance.

I pursed my lips and whistled again — this time starting confidently with the opening line of Take On Me.

doo-doo—doo-doo doo-doo—doo-doo doo-doo—doo-doo…

Unfortunately, confidence wasn’t the same as talent.

My whistle cracked halfway, spiraled upward like a dying bat, then crashed straight into an off-key catastrophe.

Huh, what do you know, maybe I do have a talent for writing after all.

I held up a hand solemnly.

“Moment of silence for that note. It didn’t deserve to die this way.”

The wind respected my request. Or maybe it was just awkward.

Either way, I grabbed another pebble, flicked it, and watched it topple off the wall without making a sound.

“Terrible,” I muttered. “Even the rocks are bored.”

My eyes drifted over to the decapitated Statue of the Saintess — towering, headless, and looming over the edge of the city like a disapproving aunt who caught you eating cookies before dinner. The missing head had been tossed down somewhere into the abyss years ago by the Nameless Sun, where it rested for eternity with the rest of the Starlight Seven.

I cleared my throat and tried singing again:

“I walked through hell to get this far…
and now I’m throwing rocks at—oh look, a scar…”

I glanced at the old gouge on the nearby wall, shrugged, and improvised:

“Dark City blues, got nothin’ to lose,
I’m singin’ to myself ‘cause I blew a fuse…”

“Beautiful,” I whispered to myself. “Absolutely Grammy-worthy.”

Then the shadow next to me twitched.

A moment later, Sasrir’s head slid out of the darkness like a shark breaching water, followed by the rest of him, stepping fully onto the cracked stone. His expression said he had heard at least fifteen seconds of my singing and deeply regretted not waiting longer to emerge.

“It’s done,” he said, deadpan.

I brightened immediately. “Done done? Or ‘I did half and then gave up’ done?”

He raised a brow. “Done done.”

“Oh, perfect.” I sat up straight, clapping my hands once. “Sunny is going to lose his mind when he finds it.”

Sasrir paused. “You say that like it’s a good thing.”

“It is,” I said proudly. “It means emotional reaction. That shows he’s still human. I’m practically doing him a favor.”

Sasrir just stared.

I tossed another pebble. This one ricocheted against the wall and hit the decapitated Saintess’s foot.

“Nice,” I said. “Bonus points.”

He sighed. “I still don’t see why asking me to carve that message into the ruins was necessary.”

“It wasn’t,” I admitted. “But imagine it: Sunny and the Cohort stroll into the Dark City months from now, exhausted, depressed, dragging themselves through nightmare mobs… and suddenly—”

I waved my hands dramatically through the air.

“BOOM. A mysterious, terrifying omen on the wall. Something cryptic. Something ominous.”

Sasrir blinked. “The first thing on the wall is a smiling stick figure holding a balloon.”

“A scary smiling stick figure,” I corrected.

“With a balloon.”

“Exactly. It’s the ambiguity that will haunt them.”

He rubbed his forehead. “I sometimes question whether you require monitoring.”

“You do monitor me,” I pointed out. “Constantly.”

“Yes,” Sasrir muttered. “And strangely, it doesn’t help.”

I laughed and flopped onto my back, arms spread wide. “What else am I supposed to do? We’re stuck here for a year and a half waiting for Nephis to show. Can’t fight the Soul Devourer, can’t escape, can’t even go sightseeing because the local attractions want to eat me.”

Sasrir sat down beside me with the resignation of a man accepting a lifelong burden. “There are other ways to pass time.”

“Like?”

“Training. Planning. Patrolling. Preparing for—”

“Booo-ring.” I grabbed a pebble and tossed it upward. It bonked me on the forehead on the way down. I graciously ignored it. “We’ll do all that too. But if I don’t find something stupid to keep myself entertained, I’m going to start naming the monsters.”

“You already named three of them,” he reminded me.

“That’s because they deserved names,” I said defensively. “Knife-Hands Kevin had personality.”

“He also tried to disembowel you.”

“See? Personality.”

Sasrir exhaled sharply — the sound halfway between annoyance and suppressed amusement.

I flicked another pebble, letting silence settle for a few seconds before I asked, “So… how long before Sunny and the Cohort get here?”

“Hard to predict exactly,” Sasrir said. “But when they do…”

I grinned, eyes sparkling with completely unjustifiable pride. “They’re going to see my masterpiece.”

Sasrir shook his head slowly. “You are irredeemable.”

“Thank you,” I said cheerfully. “High praise.”

He sighed again — long-suffering, resigned, but unmistakably fond.

“Fine,” he said. “What now?”

I hopped to my feet, dusting off my pants. “Now? We find more rocks.”

“Why?”

“So I can invent a sport called ‘Saintess Pebble Golf.’ I need to practice my swing.”

Sasrir covered his face with one hand. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it.”

He didn’t deny it.

Which meant I won.

Sasrir and I lingered near the crumbling ledge, the hollowed-out head of the Saintess’ statue staring blindly past us into the Dark City. A faint wind sighed through the empty streets—like the city was trying to imitate me and failing even worse.

I flicked another stone into the gloom and quickly did the maths.

Clack.

“Nephis will be here in… what, a year and a half?” I said, as though casually observing something mundane like the weather. “Do you think she’ll still be all stoic and righteous when she sees what this place is like? I’m honestly excited. It’ll be like a reunion party, only they don’t know they’re attending and don't know it's a reunion.”

Sasrir’s eyes narrowed; the shadows around him shifted like irritated serpents. “Don't go thinking anything stupid. We wait for her. We give her the all the pointers she needs to storm the Crimson Spire, and then we  leave this godforsaken place.” His voice was clipped, sharp. “That was the plan.”

“Yes, yes, the plan.” I stretched my legs out in front of me, lying back and propping my hands behind my head. “But we could… I don’t know. Add a little… seasoning.” I wiggled my fingers. “Something entertaining. Something memorable. A little chaos never hurt anyone.”

“It hurt a great many people,” Sasrir muttered. “That’s literally what chaos does.”

“Details,” I said with a dismissive wave.

He stared at me, long and unimpressed. “What exactly are you planning?”

“Ohhh, nothing. Nothing serious.” A grin crept up my face anyway. “Maybe I’ll poke them a bit. Shadow their steps. Drop a cryptic message or two in their path. Throw something deeply traumatic at Sunny. You know—bonding activities. We did kill the Black Knight after all, who will disembowl Sunny now?”

His expression didn’t change, but the air around him darkened. Always a sign of disapproval.

“Or,” I continued, more brightly, “I could go further. I could greet Sunny personally. Shake his hand. Compliment his hair. Then enslave him through his True Name. You know, the usual dramatics. Wouldn’t that be—”

“No.”

His voice cut like a blade.

“Come on—”

“No.” Firmer. “You do not enslave a person you have just met, who has never done anything to you. Not unless they strike first. Not unless they force your hand. That is a threshold, Adam.” His gaze locked on mine, harder than the stones I’d been throwing. “What you aretalking about is following the path of the Sovereigns, of Anvil and Song. And you are not them.”

I scoffed, rolling onto my side and plucking another pebble from the ground. “Why can't I be? Doesn’t lording over all of Humanity and being worshipped as living Demigod now sound fun?"

“Because,” Sasrir replied, “those who fall into the trap of easy pleasures often end up with brutal deaths. I won't allow you to wallow your life away in decadence."

I flicked the stone—harder this time.

Clack.

“…You’re so dramatic,” I said. "Aren't you meant to be my negative side?"

“I am correct. And if you classify 'sensibility' as 'negative' then yes, I do.”

“Annoying.”

“That means it's working.”

I groaned, dragging my hands down my face. “Fine. Fine. I won’t enslave Sunny. Not right away.”

“Not at all.”

“We’ll negotiate.”

He hissed through his teeth.

Before he could lecture, I cut in, “Look, Sasrir, I’m bored. Out of my mind. You can handle looming stoically for twenty months, but I’m human. Humans do poorly with waiting. We start… improvising.”

“You throw rocks at walls and whistle off-key,” he corrected.

“Exactly. And that gets old. Fast.”

He stared at me for a beat longer, then sighed—a sound like a thousand rotting doors creaking open at once.

“There are ways to pass time without putting the future at risk,” he said. “You could train.”

“I did train. Yesterday.”

“You worked for fifteen minutes.”

“It was a concentrated fifteen.”

“You took a nap afterward.”

“A powerful nap. Mentally enriching.”

He made a noise that bordered on a groan. “Now I understand how our parents must have felt for sixteen years."

“And just like them, you love me anyways.”

“…I tolerate you.”

“High praise.”

Despite everything, he stepped closer—close enough that his presence cast a faint, comforting shadow over me. “Just… keep a lid on things, alright? You know you can trust me,” he said quietly.

I smirked, tipping my head back so I could see the overcast sky. “I trust you more than anyone else in this world Sasrir, even more than myself.”

I tossed another stone.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

And for a little while, the only sounds were falling pebbles and the broken whistle of someone who really had nothing better to do.

I had just drawn back my arm for another throw when Sasrir froze.

Not visibly, because he didn’t move like a normal person to begin with—he simply went perfectly, utterly still. The shadows under his feet tightened with a low shiver, coiling inward like a creature scenting blood.

I didn’t need the warning.

“…What is it?” I asked, already letting the stone drop from my hand.

His head tilted, ever so slightly. Listener mode. His awareness spread out into the darkness like ink in water.

Something was coming.

“Movement,” he murmured. “Northeast. Heavy. Wet. Not human.”

My relaxation evaporated. All the harmless banter, all the lazy whistling… gone. It was like someone snapped a cord inside me and replaced everything with cold, disciplined instinct.

Justice had activated.

I stood up, dusting off my palms, the weight of the Dark City settling differently on my shoulders. “Distance?”

“Within five minutes.”

Of course it was.

I stepped away from the ledge, eyes narrowing at the drowned streets below. The Dark City liked to hide things—liked to mask sound, warp light, and twist shadows.

But even here, some monsters were too large to hide well.

And I soon saw it.

A ripple at first. Then a bulge in the murk. Then—

A form emerged from the half-collapsed alleyway, dragging itself forward with slow, deliberate weight. Water dripped from its hunched shoulders in steady rivulets, like it had crawled straight out of a submerged cavern.

It was tall. Taller than me, taller than Sasrir’s humanoid form by a head or two. Its limbs were long, gaunt, and uneven—as if they’d grown at different speeds and never quite matched. Slick veiny skin stretched taut over a skeletal frame, webbed at the elbows and knees, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat under sludge.

Its head—

…was wrong.

Too wide. Too smooth. No eyes.

Just a slanted ridge where a face should have been, twitching as if sniffing for prey through nonexistent features. Its mouth hung half-open, jagged teeth jutting outward at crooked angles, like pieces of shattered bone shoved into raw gum.

It made a sound.

A wet, bubbling croak that echoed off the drowned stone.

Sasrir exhaled softly. “Drowned Ghoul,” he said. “A large one.”

I grimaced. “Ah, I hate these fucks. They're always so smushy."

“Do not underestimate it.”

“I wasn’t planning to. I've learnt that the hard way, remember?.”

The creature lurched forward—slow but purposeful. Wretches hunted like blind crustaceans: by vibration, by heat, by the scent of living flesh. It would pinpoint us any second.

I checked my footing, shifted my stance, felt my heartbeat steady into that familiar pre-fight rhythm. Banter was gone. Whistling was gone. The Forgotten Shore had its fun, but combat was a line I never crossed carelessly.

“Alright,” I murmured. “Plan?”

Sasrir’s shadows slid around him like ink gathering into a blade. “I distract. You finish.”

“Fine. Fine. Let’s kill the thing before more show up.”

The Drowned Ghoul raised its head—if you could call that bulbous slab a head—and let out a shrill, shuddering cry, the kind that vibrated in your ribs and made the ruined city itself sound like it was groaning.

Then it charged.

Water splashed, stone cracked, and the air filled with the reek of something long dead yet stubbornly moving.

I stepped forward to meet it, Steel Memento in one hand and the Unshadowed Crucifix in the other.

Even bored people have priorities.

The Wretch lunged—fast. Much faster than anything that rotted and smelled like that should be.

I stepped sideways just as its clawed arm smashed into the wall behind me, stone exploding like brittle sand. Shards scraped my cheek. If that hit me squarely, I’d be pulp.

Sasrir was already moving.

His form unraveled into a streak of living shadow, slicing across the creature’s legs. Tendrils lashed upward, hooking into its tendons and dragging hard. The Wretch staggered, shrieking.

Good. Opening.

I darted in, sword already burning with essence.

It swung blindly, catching only empty air as I slid beneath its reach. Its claws carved a deep gouge into the pavement where my head had just been. A hair slower and I'd be missing half my torso.

I slammed mmy blade into its ribcage.

Bone cracked. Skin split. The creature spasmed, jerking sideways with a horrible garbled howl—half water, half something like a choking child.

It thrashed wildly.

Too wildly.

One of its limbs whipped out and clipped my shoulder—just a graze, but enough to spin me and leave the blade embedded in the monster's side. Pain flashed hot down my arm. If that had been direct…

“Move!” Sasrir barked.

I didn’t need the reminder.

I ducked under another swipe, slipping behind the creature as Sasrir’s shadows dragged at its spine, wrenching its posture open. It tried to twist toward me, but its head couldn’t quite rotate this far.

Good.

I didn’t give it a chance to learn how.

I summoned a second sword-longer and thinner this time-and drove it into the gap between its shoulder blades hard. Essence flowed like a burning flood, bursting through brittle bone. The creature convulsed violently, limbs shuddering as its spine gave with a wet crack. The Enchantment activated, drawing upon the creature's death throes to grow stronger.

It collapsed forward, gasping like a drowning animal.

Not dead. Not yet.

These things never died politely.

I grabbed its twisted head, braced my feet, and slammed it into the stone.

Once.

Twice.

The third hit cracked the skull. Dark fluid splattered across the pavement like spilled ink.

The fourth made it stop moving.

I stood there for a moment, panting. My hand throbbed. My shoulder screamed.

Sasrir re-solidified behind me, wiping stray droplets of monster gore off his sleeve with the air of someone swatting dust from a coat. “You were almost hit.”

“I noticed,” I muttered, rolling my shoulder and hissing at the ache. “Thing swung like it wanted to fold me in half.”

“It nearly did.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll add it to the list of things trying to murder me.”

I nudged the corpse with my toe. It didn’t twitch. Good.

Fast. Brutal. Over.

[You have slain an Awakened Beast-Drowned Ghoul]

But another few seconds of carelessness, and I’d be the one on the ground, dripping into the cracks.

Sasrir looked toward the ruined street. “There will be more.”

“Always is,” I said, shaking the blood off my hand. “That’s why we kill fast and leave faster.”

We exchanged a glance.

Then we vanished into the Dark City before the next thing found us.

By the time Sasrir and I made it to the gates of Bright Castle, the sun—or whatever paled light filtered in over the ruined walls—was dipping low. My shoulder no longer throbbed from the Ghoul back in the Dark City, already healed by the Rejuvinating Bloom, and I heard voices ahead that I recognised-or one of them, at least.

Kai.

I froze mid-step, motionless for a heartbeat. Sasrir’s shadow flickered beside me.

“Please… there must be someone I can talk to,” Kai’s voice floated over the open courtyard, calm but tight with frustration.

A Guard’s voice—stern, low, almost clipped—countered him. “Mr Nightingale,I don't have anything else I can say to you. This type of stuff...nothing ever comes of it.

I blinked. That was… unusual. Usually, the Guards were either brash or dismissive, sometimes outright hostile, especially to outsiders. But this one? His tone held a subtle respect, tempered with hesitation. And then I noticed the small tell: the way his hand lingered on the hilt of his halberd, the slight pause in his breath, the faint rise and fall of his shoulders. He knew exactly who Kai was. Recognized him instantly. And yet, he could not, or would not, budge.

Kai’s voice cracked. “Please, I’m asking you personally. Do you have any idea what this means? This isn't right, this isn't moral, we can't just let him get away with it!"

The Guard shook his head, politely but firmly. “I’m sorry, Night. Tessai and Gemma protect their own.”

I glanced at Sasrir. He gave nothing away—his usual inscrutable expression, though the way his shadows flickered around his shoulders told me he was reading the situation. He was thinking.

I crept a little closer.

“…This isn’t just a request! I can’t just—” Kai’s words cracked, and for the first time, I heard the strain in his voice. Deeply upset. This wasn’t just a routine squabble over a favor. This was personal. Something important was at stake. He muttered something I couldn't hear underneath his breath, and then looked at the Guard with a steadied gaze.

“…I know ywhat the Host is like,” he said finally, almost to himself. “But this affects everyone. Please.”

The Guard’s response was the same polite refusal, but I caught a flicker of hesitation in his eyes. Kai’s reputation wasn’t just legend—it commanded attention even here, in the middle of the Forgotten Shore. But the rules of Bright Castle? Even Kai Nightingale had to bow to them.

Sasrir shifted beside me. “Do you want to intervene?” he murmured.

I shook my head. “No. Let him make his case. I want to hear what he’s so upset about.”

Kai’s hands were clenched at his sides, sleeves wrinkled from how tightly he’d been gripping them. His voice dropped lower, almost pleading: “You don’t understand… if I can’t reach them soon, things could spiral… there’s no one else who can—no one else—”

The Guard’s hand remained steady on his halberd, but there was a tension in his posture now. He wanted to comply, I could see that. He was trying, just like I’d seen soldiers do when faced with impossible orders. But the rules had been handed down. Rules weren’t something you bent for even the brightest star of the Dream Realm.

Kai’s jaw tightened. His normally perfect composure cracked in tiny increments—slight tremors in his shoulders, his lips pressed too tightly together. I could almost feel the desperation radiating off him.

“…I’ll come back another time,” he finally said, voice quieter now, but still sharp with frustration. “I’ll wait as long as I must—but…” He paused, shoulders slumping, hands dropping to his sides. “…I can’t just ignore this. Not this time.”

The Guard gave a small, almost imperceptible nod of his head, rigid in obedience, and repeated himself: “I’m sorry, Kai. I wish you luck.”

Kai’s face was taut with emotion, but he didn’t argue further. I straightened, brushing dust off my sleeve. “Well… let’s go see how he’s doing. From the sounds of it, he intends to pick a fight with the Host all by himself.”

Sasrir inclined his head, shadows shifting along the courtyard stones. “Agreed.”

And with that, we stepped into the inner courtyard, toward Kai, toward whatever storm had brought him to this point.

Sasrir and I stepped forward together, closing the space between Kai and the Guard. “Hey,” I said, raising my hands slightly, trying for calm, friendly energy. “What’s going on here?”

Kai looked at me, eyes flickering between annoyance, frustration, and… something else. Recognition. He knew us from our encounter in the Coral Labyrinth the day before, or maybe he had caught up on the rumours going around about Sasrir and myself. Either way, we were in Kai's eyes.

But that didn't mean he trusted us.

“I… I can’t say,” Kai finally muttered, voice low. Not refusing, not lying exactly—just… unable to speak.

I raised a brow. “Seriously? That’s it? Come on, Kai, you can trust us.”

He shook his head slightly, shoulders tight. “…I really can’t. Thank you for your concern, but this doesn't involve you, and I don't want it to.”

I frowned, glancing at the Guard. “And you?” I asked, stepping just a little closer. The man’s posture stiffened; his hands gripped his halberd lightly.

“I… I have nothing to add, sir,” he said. Polite, disciplined, but closed off. That was one thing about these Bright Castle Guards—they were trained to obedience first, judgment second. Even when they wanted to speak, most wouldn’t cross the line.

Kai sighed softly, a sound that carried more weight than words. He straightened, took a slow breath, and… walked away. Not angrily, not in defeat—just deliberately, purposefully, vanishing toward the inner courtyard. His steps were quiet, but every one of them seemed measured. Like he was trying to make a point without saying a word.

I blinked. “He… just left.”

Sasrir tilted his head, shadows flickering across his face. “Apparently.”

I groaned, running a hand through my hair. “And the Guard? He’s not going to say anything either. Brilliant. Perfectly helpful.”

Sasrir shrugged, leaning against the edge of the gate. “Not our problem. Whatever this is, it’s nothing to do with us, just as Kai said. Let the Castle handle its' own issues, we just need to focus on putting food on the table.

I followed Kai’s departing figure with my eyes, already spinning possibilities in my head. Something was wrong—something big. His expression… it was belonging to a man deeply frustrated, who had recently encountered either a tragedy or a dead-end. Maybe even both. If he was looking to speak with Tessai or Gemma, I could roughly guess what had happened, too.

I sighed, brushing off my cloak. “Fine. Let’s go inside. He didn’t want to talk, and the Guard isn’t going to help. Nothing to do but carry on like usual.”

Sasrir’s shadow followed me as we passed through the gate, but I could feel his quiet assessment of the situation. Calm, precise, clinical—the way he always was when the playful banter ended and the real world intruded.

As soon as the massive doors closed behind us, shutting out the courtyard and the fading light, I leaned against a wall, already running through ideas.

“Alright,” I muttered under my breath, mostly to myself, “if Kai isn’t going to tell us, then we’ll figure it out ourselves. Something’s up… maybe we can get a lead before he has to deal with it alone. Or…” I smirked despite the tension, “…maybe it’s a good excuse to stir things up a little.”

Sasrir didn’t respond—he never did when I muttered schemes like that—but I knew he’d heard. He ould interject and complain if I was planning haphazardly, or without proper direction, but for stuff like this he knew I was always serious.

I just had to make sure I didn’t overstep, didn't annoy ay of the big fish. Not yet.

Because whatever Kai was facing… I didn’t want him handling it alone. And if I could have a little fun along the way… well, why not?

Chapter Text

The morning fog clung to the edges of the Settlement like wet cloth, faintly silver under the anemic Dream Realm sun. I stood beneath the warped awning of the little shrine they’d given me — “Father Adam’s Corner,” someone had painted on a plank above it, horribly crooked — and handed out small packets of food one by one.

“Next,” I said cheerfully, passing a wrapped piece of dried meat and a handful of something vaguely bean-like to a Sleeper. “Eat it slow, or your intestines will file a complaint. Trust me.”

The woman laughed. A few others in the line chuckled as well — some soft, some weary, but genuine enough. The Dream Realm rarely offered moments light enough to laugh about, so I tried to force a few into existence wherever I could.

It helped that I could skim their surface thoughts without much effort.

A flicker of fear in that man? Make a joke about Sasrir’s stern face.
A bloom of embarrassment in that young girl? Pretend not to notice she came back for seconds.
Lingering grief in another? Offer a quiet word, a touch on the shoulder, a reassurance.

Mind-reading made most of this easy. Not heroic, not particularly divine — just practical.

“Here you go,” I said to a tense-looking man. “Enjoy it while it's warm. Warm enough, anyways."

He snorted in spite of himself and walked off, tension loosening a little.

Behind me — or rather, looming over me like a very stylish gargoyle — Sasrir stood with arms crossed, face carved into the sharpest “don’t try me” expression imaginable. Shadows clung to him like a second outfit, and every time he shifted, the Settlers in line shuffled nervously.

He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t need to. His mere presence kept troublemakers away.

Or, at least, it kept them alive by discouraging them from trying again.

A group of rowdy Hunters had once tried to snatch our supplies. Sasrir had sent them home with broken arms and horrible trauma. The Settlement never forgot.

Still, today was different.

Today, I wasn’t just here to hand out food and fake priestly wisdom.

I had… an agenda.

And every time I smiled gently at someone, every time I placed food in their hands, every time I let the persona of "Father Adam" radiate calm and comfort…

…I stole little glances at the Settlers’ thoughts.

Because Kai had been clearly upset yesterday, and had refused to tell me or Sasrir what happened. And the Guard refused to talk, too — which meant something was wrong, and someone was hiding it. Which meant I had to investiage things myself.

In the novel, Kai rarely lost his composure. When he did, it mattered.

Which was why I was here, wearing a warm smile and a holy aura, while mentally combing through the minds of every person in this queue like I was sorting laundry.

Sasrir leaned slightly toward me. “Your face is too calm,” he murmured quietly. “You’re scheming.”

I passed a food packet to a young man and lowered my voice. “Of course I’m scheming. Why else would I wake up early on a day we’re supposed to rest?”

He grunted. “I had hoped you’d say ‘I enjoy helping people.’”

I shot him a flat look.

“…Okay, stupid hope,” Sasrir admitted.

I resumed handing out rations, all smiles again.

While I did get a certain pleasure from playing the Good Samaritan-nothing perverted, but geniune happiness at doing some good in the world-that wasn't all I was here for.

My charity today had two goals:

Feed the hungry.

And find the bastard who upset my future teammate.

One of those goals was just a bonus. The other was mandatory.

The morning passed in its usual rhythm. I moved through the Settlement outside the Bright Castle with a practised calm, handing out small packets of food to the Sleepers clustered around me. I cracked small jokes here and there—gentle ones, timed just right—and the people around me brightened in ways that never failed to lift my own mood.

Maybe I was a bit of a natural empath.

Once the last packet was given out and the small crowd dispersed to eat, I lingered. I gave them a few minutes, then drifted casually into their midst, sitting on an old crate and sparking light conversation. I warmed the air with easy humour, gentle questions, a little harmless gossip—nothing out of the ordinary.

And when the atmosphere felt just right, I slipped the bait in.

“You know,” I said with a light shrug, “I met a young man the other day. At the Castle gate. He was arguing with a Guard—seemed pretty upset about something. Don’t know the fellow, never seen him before. Anyone know what that was about?”

I said it with perfect bland curiosity. Not too pointed. Not too innocent.

There was a ripple among the group—quick glances, a hesitation I immediately felt through the surface of their minds. One woman, older and worn but sharp-eyed, finally exhaled and spoke.

“That man you saw… that was Kai.” She glanced around, as if confirming they were safe from eavesdropping. “Kai Nightingale. The singer. The famous one. He’s been here… a year? Yeah. Six months before you and your friend arrived.”

I widened my eyes slightly, tilting my head in mild surprise. “Is that so? I wouldn’t have guessed.”

“He doesn’t flaunt it,” she murmured. “Keeps his head down. Helps people. Has friends—and a lot of women who still pine after him.” A small, humourless smile. “But one of the closest ones… she was hurt.”

The air shifted. Everyone else pretended to focus on their food, but I felt the spike of dread and anger roll through their thoughts.

“Hurt?” I echoed softly.

The woman swallowed. “Two nights ago. A pair of Guards—drunk, stupid, and cruel—cornered her. She fought back. They nearly killed her for it. I heard she survived the night, barely. But I don’t know if she made it since.”

Silence settled like dust.

“I don’t think Kai’s handling it well. He’s been trying to see someone, but the Guards won’t let him inside the Castle even if tries to pay the fee. He was at the gate yesterday begging to be allowed in.”

I let a thoughtful frown crease my brow, as though I were only now grasping the seriousness of the situation. But inside, gears were already shifting. Planning. Calculating. The moment I had heard the first hint of Kai’s panic at the gate yesterday, I had known something was wrong.

Now I knew exactly what.

And I knew what I was going to do next.

My expression darkened—not theatrically, not for show, but with a quiet, controlled anger that made the small cluster of Sleepers fall still.

“What were their names?” I asked.

The woman stiffened. “Adam… don’t get involved in that.”

“I’m already involved,” I replied evenly. “What were their names—and where is the girl now?”

A few others shifted uncomfortably. A man to his left muttered, “She’s somewhere in the Settlement. Too poor to afford the Castle’s medical fee. Kai’s been buying scraps of medicine for her. It’s… bad.”

“But the Guards—” someone began.

“Names,” I repeated, voice soft but unyielding.

The woman hesitated, lips tight. “Ardan. And Malik. They’re both stationed near the Outer Barracks. They drink too much and throw their weight around.”

I nodded once, storing the information away. “And the girl?”

“Two lanes down, past the broken well. Third shack on the right.” She grimaced. “Adam… please. Leave it. Those two already nearly killed her. If anyone pokes them again, they’ll finish the job.”

Others murmured agreement, trying to dissuade me—warning me about repercussions, about trouble I didn’t need, about how nothing ever changed here except for the worse.

I held their eyes one by one.

“I grew up being taught to help people who are being hurt,” I said quietly. “And I have a Memory capable of regeneration."

That silenced them.

A few looked away, ashamed. A few swallowed, resigned. The woman sighed heavily. “…You’ll do what you want anyway.”

“Probably,” I admitted with a small, rueful smile.

I reached into my bag, pulled out one last packet of food—the emergency one I usually kept for the most desperate—and placed it gently into the hands of the nearest Sleeper.

Then I stood, dusted off my hands, and jerked my chin toward Sasrir.

“Come on. We’re going.”

Sasrir straightened instantly from his lean against the wall, the air around him shifting from relaxed menace to ready violence. Without a word, he fell into step beside me.

Together, the two of us walked toward the direction of Kai Nightingale and the wounded girl—toward whatever we were about to find.

-------------------------

The shack was a little larger than the others around it—patched with mismatched planks, crooked at the seams, but at least not caving in. Someone had tried to keep it clean. Someone had cared.

I knocked lightly.

For a long moment, nothing happened. Then came the faint rustle of movement—shuffling, a soft thump, something metallic being dragged aside. Footsteps approached the door, hesitant, uneven.

The latch clicked.

Kai eased the door open just wide enough to peer out.

He looked… exhausted. Dark circles bruised the skin under his electric green eyes, and his normally perfect auburn hair was tied back sloppily, strands escaping everywhere. But the moment he recognized me and Sasrir, his wariness melted into confusion.

“You two… from the Castle gate,” he said quietly.

“That’s us,” I replied. “We heard what happened. We’re here to help.”

Instantly, Kai’s expression hardened—fear, defensiveness, and a restrained, simmering anger all passing through those too-beautiful features.

“No,” he said shortly. “You can’t. I don’t need—this. And I can’t trust—”

I lifted my hand.

The Regenerative Bloom unfolded from my palm like liquid crystal, petals unfurling with a soft, breathlike motion. The gem pulsed with verdant light, green washing over the muddy street and reflecting in Kai’s stunned eyes.

Sasrir stood silent behind me, arms crossed, the mere shape of him radiating readiness.

Kai swallowed.

“That’s…” His voice grew small. “A healing Memory?”

“Regenerative,” I corrected gently. “Strong. Effective. And we’re offering it freely.”

He looked between us—first at me, then at Sasrir—trying to find the trick, the hidden angle, the inevitable cruelty.

There wasn’t one.

Finally, with a shaky exhale, he stepped aside.

“…Alright,” he murmured. “Come in.”

The interior smelled faintly of herbs, mold, and dried blood. It was dim, lit only by a single shard of sunlight filtering through a gap in the boards. In the far corner, on a thin bed stuffed with old cloth, a young woman lay motionless.

Her breathing was shallow. Her skin was grey and waxen. Bandages around her abdomen were soaked a dark, rusted red.

Kai hovered near her like a wounded animal, fear and shame and protectiveness twisting his expression.

“This is Mira,” he said softly. “My friend.”

I stepped closer, the Bloom pulsing warmly in my hand.

Time to see how bad the damage really was.

The Bloom’s light dimmed after the second drop sank into Mira’s skin.

Her breathing, once thin as a whisper, deepened. The ghastly tension in her face loosened. Color didn’t quite return—she was still pale, still frighteningly frail—but the immediate danger, the slow slide toward death… that was gone.

Malnourishment, infection, the rot settling into her wounds—none of that made it easy. The Bloom struggled, I could feel it, as if pushing through muck. But it worked. The worst had been pulled back from the edge.

Kai leaned over her, hands shaking slightly as he checked her pulse, her bandages, the rise and fall of her chest. Every breath she took made his shoulders sink lower in relief.

“She’s… she’s stable,” he whispered. “Actually… stable.”

He looked up at me, green eyes shining—grateful, overwhelmed, and unsure of what to do with either emotion. For a moment, he just stood there, lips parted, trying to find words.

Then he abruptly dipped forward, not quite a bow but still close to one.

“Thank you,” he said earnestly. “I—I don’t have enough to repay you, but I can give—wait, hold on—”

He spun around, rummaging through a small chest. Coins clinked. Cloth rustled. A Soul Shard flashed dully. He looked like he meant to empty the entire shack if needed.

“No, no,” I said, stepping in. “Kai, stop. You don’t owe me anything for this.”

“But I—this kind of healing—this has to be worth—”

“It isn’t,” I cut him off. “Not when it comes to saving someone. Keep it.”

He frowned, offended now. “That’s ridiculous. You can’t just—”

“I can,” I said, “and I did.”

“That’s not how these things work!”

“That’s exactly how they work for me.”

We both glared at each other, one stubborn out of principle, the other out of gratitude so intense it was panicking him. Kai opened his mouth to continue arguing—

Sasrir placed a hand on my shoulder. Hard.

Then he addressed Kai with icy calm:

“If you truly want to repay us,” he said, “join us on our next hunt. You’re an archer. It will be useful.”

Kai blinked.

Then blinked again.

“…That’s it?”

Sasrir shrugged. “Payment enough.”

Kai looked between us—my irritated expression, Sasrir’s unreadable stare—and finally, finally let himself breathe.

“Alright,” he said softly. “I’ll join you.”

Some of the tension drained from his posture. His shoulders relaxed. Even the lines around his eyes eased.

For the first time since we’d stepped into the shack, Kai Nightingale actually looked like a person again—not a cornered beast, not a desperate friend, but someone letting out the breath they’d been holding for days.

“…Thank you,” he murmured once more. “Both of you.”

And this time, he didn’t reach for anything to give in return.

I smiled at Kai’s soft thanks—couldn’t help it. He looked like someone who’d been drowning and finally got to breathe.

But the moment passed. My smile faded. My voice hardened.

“We’re not done here.”

Kai straightened, confused. “…What?”

I folded my arms. “The two Guards who did this—Ardan and Malik. I won't let them get away with this.”

The change in him was instant.

Those electric green eyes darkened, cooling into something bitter. His jaw clenched. His fingers curled at his sides. Anger radiated off him, sharp enough to taste, yet underneath it… resignation.

“Those two,” he muttered. “Of course.”

He hesitated. The anger didn’t vanish, but it deflated—like he’d been carrying it for too long, and it had worn him down more than he wanted to admit.

“Look,” he said quietly, “I know what you’re thinking. But… there’s nothing to be done. Gunlaug won’t care. He barely listens to anything that doesn’t benefit him directly.” He exhaled sharply. “I’ve tried. I’ve tried everything short of fighting them myself, and that’d just get me executed for starting trouble.”

He shook his head, shoulders slumping.

“I appreciate everything you’ve done. Really. But this is where it ends.”

“Mm,” Sasrir murmured behind me.

I glanced back. He wasn’t frowning, wasn’t scowling. In fact… he was smiling.

A slow, dangerous, familiar smile.

Kai noticed it too. “What? Did I say something wrong?”

Sasrir didn’t answer. Instead, he gave a casual little tilt of his head toward the door.

“Come with us,” he said.

Kai blinked. “To the Castle? Now? I… I can’t. I can’t leave Mira like this—”

“She’ll live,” I said, tone gentle but firm. “And you said you wanted to repay us.”

Kai grimaced, struggling. His protective instinct warred with his sense of obligation. He looked back at Mira, then at me, then at Sasrir—who still hadn’t stopped smiling like someone who already knew the ending.

Finally, Kai let out a slow breath.

“…Alright. I’ll go.”

Sasrir nodded once, satisfied.

I turned toward the door, pushing it open and stepping out into the dim, fog-draped street. Kai, still visibly conflicted but determined, followed. Sasrir brought up the rear with that same infuriatingly calm air.

The shack door shut softly behind us.

And just like that, the three of us headed back toward the Bright Castle.

Sasrir didn’t waste a second.

The moment we stepped back into the outer courtyard, he strode directly toward the front gate Guard—the same man from earlier—and stopped so close the Sleeper had to crane his neck upward just to meet Sasrir’s eyes.

“We are here,” Sasrir said, voice low and perfectly level, “to present a criminal case before Lord Gunlaug and request formal judgment.”

The Guard’s expression froze.

His mouth opened. Nothing came out.

Beside me, Kai stared at Sasrir like the words simply didn’t compute. The idea of asking Gunlaug for justice—in the Forgotten Shore—felt like insanity. No one did that. No one even imagined doing that.

But Sasrir did not blink. He did not repeat himself. He simply waited.

After a silent, suffocating moment, the Guard swallowed. Hard. Then, trembling slightly, he nodded and scrambled inside, almost tripping over his own boots in his haste.

Kai leaned close to me and whispered, “Is he serious? You’re not actually planning to—”

But before he could finish, Sasrir spoke without turning around.

“Patience,” he murmured. “You will understand soon.”

Kai fell silent.

We waited. The air grew tense and heavy, guards at the walls keeping their eyes carefully elsewhere so as not to meet ours. Even the wind felt like it didn’t want to make noise.

After several minutes, the original Guard returned—and he wasn’t alone.

Four more Guards marched behind him in a tight formation, armed to the teeth. Not the usual ragged spears and machetes either—proper polearms, reinforced armor, face masks. The kind of heavy mobilization reserved for outbreaks, rampaging abominations, or the rare, unthinkable occasion when Gunlaug felt threatened.

They were afraid of Sasrir. All five of them.

Kai’s breath hitched at the sight.

“I… I think this was a bad idea,” he whispered.

I laid a hand on his shoulder briefly—not to reassure him, but to keep him from bolting.

“Relax,” I said. “If we intended violence, no one here would be standing right now.”

That didn’t seem to relax him at all.

The Guard captain cleared his throat, voice cracking slightly as he spoke:

“Lord Gunlaug… will hear your petition.”

They fell into formation around us—two in front, two at our sides, one behind. A full escort. Or a full containment squad depending on how you looked at it.

We began walking.

Through corridor after corridor, torches burning bright against carved stone, the footsteps of our escort echoing like drums. At first, people greeted us warmly—waves, friendly nods, cheerful calls of “Morning, Adam!” and “Sasrir, you’re back early!”

But then they noticed the armored guards.

They noticed where we were headed.

Smiles faded. Conversations stopped. People stepped away from the walls to watch in silent curiosity or whispered worry. Some even moved to follow us, like drifting boats caught in the wake of a storm.

By the time we reached the inner hall, a small crowd trailed behind us—settlers, Sleepers, even a few Hunters and other Guards. Not close enough to cause trouble. Just enough to see something rare, something unheard of:

People daring to defy the decadent order imposed by the Bright Lord and his sadistic Lieutenants.

Then the doors opened.

The throne room of the Bright Lord was already lit, already waiting—and Gunlaug himself sat upon his elevated seat, draped in his armour of liquid gold, his heavy gaze locking onto us the instant we stepped in.

And I could tell despite not being able to see his face-He was smiling.

But it wasn’t pleasant, or amused, or even curious.

It was the smile of a man who already smelled blood in the water.

“Welcome,” Gunlaug rumbled, his voice echoing off the walls. “I hear you have… grievances to bring before me.”

Chapter Text

Gunlaug’s voice rolled through the hall like distant thunder, and for a moment, nobody answered.

The Guards behind us shifted—barely. Kai stood stiff as a plank, doing his best not to look like the world’s most famous singer accidentally wandering into a lion’s den. Sasrir was unreadable as ever, a cold shadow at my side.

And me? I stepped forward.

If Gunlaug was expecting fear, or trembling, or hesitation… he was going to be disappointed.

I bowed my head just slightly—just enough to stay polite without actually meaning it.

“Yes,” I said. “I do.”

My voice echoed back at me, swallowed by the massive hall.

Gunlaug leaned back lazily in his gilded seat. Even from a distance, the molten-gold armor seemed to pulse faintly, alive in a way no armor should be. He tapped a finger against the armrest, thoughtful.

“Then come,” he said. “Speak.”

I walked forward until I stood beneath the first step of his dais. Sasrir stayed a half-step behind me. Kai stayed farther back, still clearly unsure if he should even be here.

Gunlaug studied me, head tilting slightly like he was examining a new animal he hadn’t seen before.

“Well?” he prompted.

I raised my head.

“Two nights ago,” I said carefully, “two of your Guards assaulted an innocent woman. She fought back, and they responded by nearly killing her.”

The hall vibrated faintly with murmurs—some shocked, some uneasy, some darkly amused.

Gunlaug lifted a hand, and the room fell silent instantly.

“And you,” he said, his tone slow… deliberate… almost indulgent, “believe this is worthy of my personal intervention?”

“I believe,” I replied, “that if order exists in the Bright Castle, then this is the kind of rot that needs to be cut out before it spreads.”

Gunlaug chuckled.

Not loudly. Not joyfully. Just a low, rolling sound—as if he’d heard the world’s most charming joke and didn’t mind acknowledging it.

“So.” Tap… tap… tap went his finger on the throne’s arm. “You accuse my men.”

My jaw tightened. “I do.”

Gunlaug’s golden helm didn’t move, but I could feel his smile widen.

“And what,” he continued, “makes you so certain this incident happened as you say?”

Behind me, Kai finally stepped forward, eyes flashing with barely bridled fury.

“Because I was there,” he said. “And because I buried the bloodstains myself.”

The hall rippled with reaction—Gasps. Recognition. Whispers.

“Is that—?” “Nightingale?” “The Kai Nightingale?” “What is he doing here?”

Even Gunlaug paused.

Just for a heartbeat.

Then the golden helm tilted faintly in Kai’s direction.

“…Interesting.”

I exhaled slowly.

This was the moment. The point of no return. The path that led either to justice… or to a very messy, very public fight.

Sasrir’s shadow curled subtly around my feet.

Gunlaug leaned forward.

“Well then,” he said, voice smooth as oil. “Let’s not waste any time.”

He snapped his fingers.

Two Guards stepped out from behind the pillars— and I recognized them instantly.

The perpetrators.

They looked confident. Smug. Triumphant. The kind of swagger men wore when they thought their sins were protected by power.

Gunlaug gestured lazily toward them.

“Let the accused step forward.”

My hands clenched. Kai’s breath caught. Sasrir’s eyes sharpened like drawn knives.

The confrontation had begun.

I drew in a steady breath and began.

“Two nights ago,” I said, projecting my voice so it carried across the entire chamber, “these two Guards assaulted a Sleeper named Mira. They were drunk, armed, and acting without provocation. When she defended herself, they escalated—beating her until she was left bleeding in the dirt, barely alive.”

Kai stepped up beside me, expression tight and controlled… but his hands were shaking.

“I witnessed it,” he said. “I was the one who carried Mira away afterward. I was the one who treated her wounds the best I could. And I’m telling you now—if Adam hadn’t healed her this morning, she would already be dead.”

Gasps. Whispers. The crowd swelled behind us as more people filtered in, no doubt drawn by the sheer audacity of the scene—someone leveling accusations against Guards right in front of the Bright Lord himself.

Gunlaug rested his chin on his fist, as though enjoying a play.

But the two Guards? They strutted forward like they owned the room.

The taller one—a thick-necked brute with a stupid grin plastered across his face—laughed.

“What a sweet little story,” he drawled. “Shame it’s complete nonsense.”

The other folded his arms, snorting. “Yeah. Sounds like someone’s trying to cover for a whore who got what was coming.”

A sharp, collective intake of breath rippled through the room.

Kai froze—color draining from his face.

My vision narrowed. Sasrir’s shadow twitched.

But I forced myself to stay still.

Gunlaug didn’t interrupt. Of course he didn’t.

I spoke again, voice colder now.

“Mira isn’t a prostitute. She’s a Sleeper who works in the textile quarter. And witnesses heard her screams. They saw you two dragging her. That alone should be enough to—”

“Oh please,” the thick-necked Guard scoffed loudly, waving a dismissive hand. “What witnesses? Show them. Drag them in. Let’s see who’s stupid enough to lie for your pet singer boy.”

Kai inhaled sharply.

“And this,” the second Guard added, spreading his arms smugly, “this is your proof?” He jerked a thumb at Kai. “A pretty face with a crying story? Someone who fainted his way into the Dream Realm from a stage?”

A ripple of laughter came from somewhere behind the pillars.

That was when I realized we weren’t alone.

The Host had arrived.

Tessai and Harus stepped out first—two towering shadows flanking Gunlaug like decorative statues.

Tessai wore his perpetual sneer, eyes glittering with that familiar cruelty. He didn’t even pretend to hide his contempt for us—or his delight in the Guards’ mocking.

Harus looked… elsewhere. Off-balance. Emotionally hollow, like someone drifting between breaths, not quite present in the moment.

Gemma and Kido entered together. Gemma looked uneasy, gaze flickering from the Guards to Kai to Gunlaug. Kido looked confused, maybe even impressed that anyone would dare challenge Gunlaug’s authority so publicly.

And then there was Seishan.

Standing apart. Regal. Serene. Watching us like we were the most entertaining development she’d seen all week.

When our eyes met, she actually smiled.

It was a mix of sympathy, amusement and interest.

The room felt suddenly smaller. Heavier. Like the palace itself was waiting for blood.

One of the Guards shrugged, spreading his arms wide.

“Look, Bright Lord,” he said, tone oily, “this is simple: we didn’t do anything. The Sleeper girl probably fell. Or got into a fight with her boyfriend. Or maybe pretty-boy here roughed her up and is blaming us. Who knows?”

A few chuckles came from the more loyalists in the room.

Kai’s jaw trembled. “You—!”

I gently caught his arm.

Not now.

The second Guard leaned forward, sneer widening.

“We serve the Bright Castle. We bleed for it. You think we’d risk our positions for some—”

Sasrir took a step. Just one. Everyone shut up.

Gunlaug’s helm turned toward him slowly.

“Oh?” Gunlaug murmured. “Does the shadow have something to add?”

Sasrir didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, letting his eyes rest on the two Guards with an expression that could only be described as patient, clinical boredom.

When he finally spoke, his voice was soft— No, soft wasn’t the right word. Quiet. But sharp enough to slit a throat.

“They’re lying.”

No hesitation. No qualifiers. Just simple fact.

The temperature of the room seemed to drop.

Gunlaug leaned back again.

“Well, well,” he said with a low laugh. “How fascinating this is becoming.”

The crowd whispered. Some leaned closer. Others backed away.

I took a breath.

Because this was only the beginning.

And now the entire Bright Castle—and the Bright Lord—were watching.

Harus moved.

It was slight—just the tilt of a neck that looked like it was barely holding onto the spine beneath it—but it was enough. The hunchback’s hollow eyes, always unfocused and drifting, actually fixed on us. On Sasrir, specifically. Something in that deadened stare crawled under my skin.

My pulse jumped despite myself.

He dies in a corner in the original novel, I reminded myself. A pathetic death. Nothing to fear. Nothing to fear. If Sunny can kill him, then I can too.

But knowing the future didn’t make the present any less unnerving.

Sasrir, for his part, didn’t seem remotely bothered by Harus’ attention. If anything, the shadowborn warrior’s stance only sharpened, chin rising a fraction, his presence pressing against the room like a blade against a throat.

The tension was so thick it felt like the air might crack.

Gunlaug finally broke it.

The Bright Lord reclined back into his throne as if settling comfortably into a bath, the sharp amusement draining from his voice. “Enough,” he said, almost bored. “The evidence is… inconclusive.”

Kai stiffened beside me. “What? But Mira—”

Gunlaug flicked a hand. “Bring her forward, then. Let her speak.”

Kai almost choked on his own breath. “She can’t! She’s still too injured—she hasn’t even woken—”

Tessai let out a barking laugh, sharp and vicious. “Then end this nonsense already. We all have better things to do than indulge gutter rats and outsiders.”

A smattering of snickers and murmurs rippled through the gathered Guards. The crowd behind us bristled—but no one spoke. Fear sealed every mouth shut.

I felt the weight of their stares. Contempt. Hostility. The kind of casual cruelty that came from the certainty that no one would challenge them.

For a moment, all I could hear was my own heartbeat. I reached up and rubbed the crucifix around my neck.

And then I stepped forward.

My voice cut clean across the throne room.

“I demand a trial by combat.”

Silence. Absolute, ringing silence.

Every gaze snapped to me—Seishan’s narrowing with interest, Tessai’s widening in disbelief, Harus’ hollow sockets somehow seeming even darker. Even Sasrir shifted, just enough to give me a sidelong look.

Kai stared at me like I’d lost my mind.

But I didn’t look at any of them. I looked only at the Bright Lord.

“If your men are innocent,” I said, my voice steady, “they’ll win.”

I let the implications hang in the air like a guillotine.

The throne room exploded.

Whispers surged through the gathered crowd like a wave breaking—sharp, frantic, disbelieving.

“He invoked trial…?” “Is he insane?” “A Hunter challenging Guards—” “—why would they fight amongst themselves—”

Tessai reacted first.

The brute surged upright with a roar, veins bulging along his neck. “YOU LITTLE—”

The two accused Guards joined in, shouting over each other, spitting insults, fury, and panic. “This is a joke!” “Trial my ass!” “We won’t be—”

Gemma sucked in a breath, hands clenching at his side as he looked at me like he wanted to kill me. Harus merely stared, unblinking, expression unreadable. Kido looked at me like she was seeing me for the very first time—really seeing, eyes narrowed in analytic surprise.

But none of it mattered, because—

Gunlaug laughed.

No—he erupted.

His head snapped back and he unleashed a bellow of laughter so loud it made the torches shiver in their brackets. The sound ricocheted off stone walls like thunder. Guards fell silent mid-shout. The crowd hushed instantly. Even Tessai stumbled back a step, eyes wide.

Gunlaug kept laughing. And laughing. And laughing.

Nearly a minute passed.

Each second stretched tight enough to snap as the Bright Lord emptied his lungs, and I bet tears of amusement were squeezing from the corners of his eyes. Finally, as the echoes faded, he drew in a slow, steadying breath.

Then— For the first time since we’d entered— Gunlaug rose from his throne.

Liquid gold armor shifted with him, gleaming in the light like a warning. He stood tall, casting a long, heavy shadow that reached all the way to our feet. His amusement vanished, wiped utterly clean.

What replaced it was cold contempt.

He looked down on me—on Sasrir, on Kai—as if we were something he’d found stuck to the bottom of his boot.

Then he drawled, each syllable dripping with disdain:

“A trial by combat, is it?”

The hall held its breath.

Even my heartbeat felt too loud.

Gunlaug’s lips curled—not into a smile, but something hungrier, sharper.

“Well now,” he murmured, “isn’t that… interesting.”

Gunlaug’s voice rolled through the hall like grinding stone.

“And who,” he said slowly, savoring every word, “will you nominate as Champion?”

My jaw tightened. I didn’t speak yet—but he wasn’t waiting for an answer.

“The supposed victim…” He flicked his fingers dismissively. “Still unconscious, yes? Can’t fight. Pity.”

His gaze shifted to Kai.

“Will the singer step forward?” A pause. A cruel smile. “I hear your voice is quite famous, Nightingale. But I wonder… do your hands know how to do anything besides pluck strings?”

Kai paled.

Before he could muster even a breath, Gunlaug was already turning to me.

“Or perhaps you, Preacher?” His tone soured mockingly. “You seem awfully eager for justice today. Care to bleed for it? Or should we see if your God will intervene?”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t have to.

Gunlaug’s eyes slid past me like a blade, landing on the shadowed figure at my back.

“Ah,” he purred. “Of course. There is one more option.”

Sasrir didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t even look up.

Gunlaug leaned forward on the edge of his gleaming armor, voice dropping into something darkly delighted:

“Maybe your little pet—” He gestured lazily at Sasrir. “—wants to spill some human blood for once.”

The hall tensed.

Hunters stiffened. Guards gripped their weapons. A few Sleepers went pale.

Everyone knew Sasrir was dangerous—nobody knew how much. And Gunlaug, damn him, was trying to turn that fear into an excuse.To see just what secrets Sasrir was hiding, to see if he posed a threat to Gunlaug's despotic reign.

Beside me, Kai swallowed hard. Sasrir remained perfectly still. Not a muscle twitched—but I felt it. Like the shift in air pressure before lightning strikes.

Gunlaug straightened, gaze sharp as a knife.

“So tell me,” he said softly. “Which Champion will stand for your accusation?”

All eyes fell to me.

But as the hall waited for my answer, Sasrir stepped forward.

No sound accompanied the motion. No flare of aura, no ripple of killing intent.

He simply moved—and suddenly the hall felt colder.

“I will, of course.”

His voice was quiet. Not loud, not theatrical. Just inevitable.

A murmur rippled through the crowd like a shockwave. Even the Hunters—hardened, jaded, violent—leaned back as if something enormous had shifted in the air.

Sasrir tilted his head, the barest hint of a smile touching the corner of his mouth.

“The question you should be asking…” He lifted his gaze to Gunlaug, then let it slide toward the accused Guards. “…is who will stand on their side?”

The two Guards froze. Then trembled. Then nearly collapsed entirely.

Their faces drained of all color, lips quivering like men standing before the gallows. A moment ago, they had been sneering, arrogant, smug.

Now?

One let out a broken noise and stumbled backward. The other’s knees knocked audibly as his weapon clattered against his armor.

Facing a malnourished girl was one thing.

Facing the Reaper of the Dark City—the shadow walker, the best Hunter the Forgotten Shore has seen in years—that was another entirely.

They wouldn’t have mustered the courage even if they’d been given ten lives and a hundred blessings.

The hall fell utterly silent.

No one breathed. No one spoke.

Even Gunlaug’s confidence seemed to have flickered—only a fraction, but enough for me to see it.

Sasrir continued to stare at the two Guards, expression serene, voice still gentle:

“Well? Which of you wishes to meet the gods today?”

Neither answered.

Neither could.

They stood like statues carved from pure terror.

And for the first time since stepping into this hall, I saw doubt creep across the Bright Lord’s golden throne.

The silence shattered—exploded—under the weight of Tessai’s bellow.

“ABSURD!”

The Giant’s voice slammed through the throne room like a battering ram. Several Sleepers flinched. One actually stumbled. Even Harus blinked, as if roused from some distant nightmare.

Tessai surged forward a step, the floor cracking beneath his heel. He was enormous—towering, swollen with muscle, veins bulging like ropes beneath ash-gray skin. His armor screeched from the strain of containing him. The air around him distorted with barely restrained brutality.

His furious gaze snapped to Gunlaug.

“My Lord, this farce has gone on long enough!” he thundered. “That brat speaks nonsense! He’s looking for any excuse to slander our Host, to spit on your authority!”

He jabbed a finger toward me—thick as a branch, knuckles like boulders.

“And that whore—yes, the one who ‘mysteriously’ can’t show up—no doubt she seduced him into this! Whispered lies into his ear until he ran here whining about justice!”

He sneered, lips curling back over teeth stained with whatever lunch he’d eaten last.

“Justice? Justice?” He spat the word like it tasted rancid.

“This coward wants to twist your laws! Manipulate you into cutting down loyal men of the Guard! This entire stunt is a disgrace, a joke! Just throw them out—better yet, have them whipped for causing disorder in your hall!”

He cracked his neck, a sickening sound of bones grinding.

“And if they dare complain—if they dare keep pushing—we can solve this RIGHT NOW.” He slammed a fist into an open palm, the impact echoing like a war drum. “No ‘trial.’ No theatrics. Just blood on the floor.”

Behind him, the accused Guards nodded frantically, hiding behind the giant like he was a living fortress.

Sasrir didn’t move. I didn’t look away.

And Gunlaug? Gunlaug didn’t even blink.

The Bright Lord stood languidly before his throne, face unreadable behind that mask of liquid gold, eyes half-lidded as though Tessai’s roaring tantrum were nothing more than wind whistling through a window.

He let the Giant rant.

Let him stomp and howl

It was clear—painfully clear—that Gunlaug didn’t care about Tessai’s anger. He didn’t care about the girl either, he didn’t even care about the accused Guards.

What he cared about was the fact we had brought trouble to his front door and demanded he deal with it. For a man like Gunlaug, this was bordering on treason, on defiance. In fact, if not for the goodwill and reputation I had built up over these past six months, I was sure he would have ordered Harus to cut me down on the spot. I wasn't Nephis-I didn't have the legacy of the Immortal Flame Clan to protect me. Here, on the Forgotten Shore, I was a nobody. 

Though, I was already changing that.

And as Tessai finished with a final, snarled:

“This is INSANITY, my Lord!”

Gunlaug merely tilted his head—calm, composed, amused again.

As if this entire uproar was nothing more than entertainment to him.

As if he was waiting—hungry—for what would come next.

“In that case,” Gunlaug drawled, tilting his head just slightly, “why don’t you volunteer… Tessai?”

The room froze.

Absolutely froze.

Every Sleeper, every Hunter, every Guard nd Artisan and Handmaiden—even the accused men behind Tessai—went rigid as if the air itself had turned to ice.

Even I blinked, surprised.

Tessai, however—Tessai went pale.

Not much, not dramatically. But enough that someone with eyes sharper than most—someone like me—caught the flicker of fear that crossed his brutish face.

“M–My Lord,” he started, his deep voice suddenly lacking its usual thunder. “I was merely suggesting—merely saying that this is beneath—”

Gunlaug didn’t even speak to him. He just turned his head and stared silently, the shimmering gold of his faceplate reflecting Tessia's own ugly mug back at him.

Then—

A soft voice cut through the hall like a silver blade sliding free of a scabbard:

“Are you a coward, Tessai?”

Silence rippled outward as heads turned.

Seishan stood a bit apart from the others, elegant and pristine as always—every movement graceful, every word cool and sharp enough to draw blood.

She blinked slowly, lips curved in a polite, deadly little smile.

“Your shouting was so impressive,” she continued. “I assumed you were volunteering. Otherwise… why speak so loudly?” She let her gaze drift down Tessai’s frame, pausing deliberately around his waist. “Unless that enormous size of yours is simply compensation for...something else that is lacking, perhaps.”

A few Hunters swallowed audibly.

Someone in the back snorted.

Tessai’s face went from pale to furious scarlet in a heartbeat.

His jaw clenched hard enough that the muscles stood out like thick ropes, his enormous hands trembling with murderous restraint. His gaze snapped to Seishan—pure fury—before swinging toward the only target he was allowed to kill:

Sasrir.

Sasrir didn’t even blink, didn’t move, didn't smile at the crass insinuiation Seishan had made on his behalf. He simply looked at Tessai the way one might look at a dying animal thrashing on the ground—pitying, but not enough to intervene.

The sight nearly drove the Giant mad.

For several long, suffocating seconds, Tessai’s chest heaved—rage, humiliation, raw instinct clashing with whatever primal sense of survival he had left.

Then, finally—

He nodded.

Slowly.

Stiffly.

Like a man stepping into his own grave.

“…Fine,” Tessai growled, voice raw and shaking with fury. “I will crush this bloody shadow.”

A ripple of fear and anticipation swept the crowd. The trial was no longer a matter of justice.

It had become bloodsport.

And Tessai had just agreed to fight the Reaper.

Gunlaug’s pleased mood returned—bright and terrible.

As if this was exactly the outcome he had hoped for.

“Then let justice begin,” Gunlaug’s voice boomed, slow and deliberate, his hand sweeping in a dismissive arc as he sank back into the golden throne. The echoes of his words hung in the hall like a storm just on the horizon.

The crowd immediately shifted, parting to form a wide circle in the polished stone expanse. Whispers rushed through the spectators, a tide of excitement and fear that prickled at the skin. Some tried to inch closer, others braced along the edges, all of them keenly aware that this was no ordinary duel.

Tessai stepped down from the dais, his massive frame filling the space. Every movement radiated raw, contained power. With a grunt, he summoned a Memory—a two-handed longsword that shimmered faintly with icy blue light, edges serrated as if to rend both steel and bone. The blade hummed subtly, vibrating against the cold, heavy air.

Almost simultaneously, his Aspect awakened. Dark blue scales shimmered across his skin, thickening and hardening until they resembled plates of solid ice. The room’s temperature dropped noticeably; frosty breath fogged the air, and tiny crystalline snowflakes formed along the floor, vanishing almost immediately under the heat of the bright torches. It wasn’t just a show—the armor was practical, each layer of ice as strong as steel, each shard a possible weapon in Tessai’s hands.

He hefted the sword with ease, swinging it experimentally once, and the sound of ice scraping ice resonated like a clap of thunder. The circle of spectators collectively inhaled. Even the seasoned Hunters and Guards shifted slightly, calculating the danger.

Sasrir remained where he stood, unflinching. The shadows around his form stretched, curling like ink across the floor, absorbing the chill that tried to creep toward him. Every instinct in Adam’s body tensed; he felt the weight of the fight before it even began. He knew that a single slip—misjudging the reach, underestimating Tessai’s speed—could end in disaster.

Tessai’s eyes scanned the circle, finally locking on Sasrir. The two of them—predator and shadow—stood in silence for a heartbeat that seemed to stretch into eternity. The air between them crackled, icy vapor swirling, heavy with the promise of violence.

And then, with a low growl, Tessai advanced, the two-handed sword raised, ice plating creaking and glittering in the torchlight. The duel had begun.

Sasrir’s hands moved with the calm precision of a seasoned predator. In his left, a Steel Memento Memory materialized—a halberd that gleamed faintly with a metallic sheen that seemed almost liquid under the torchlight. In his right, he drew a shadow scimitar, its curved edge wreathed in darkness that seemed to pulse and writhe of its own accord.

It was an odd pairing, a curious blend of the measured and the unpredictable, but I had learned long ago that this was entirely Sasrir. He experimented constantly in battle, testing combinations that others would never even consider. The halberd provided reach and brute force, the scimitar agility and cunning—two halves of a deadly equation that, when wielded together, made Sasrir unpredictable and terrifying.

Shadows swirled around him, flooding the space like an inky tide. The darkness licked at Tessai’s armor, trying to pull attention and focus, but Sasrir remained solid, fully materialized. He wasn’t here to vanish and strike from the void; he intended to fight. Blade against blade. Shadow against ice.

I could feel the weight of the moment settle over the arena. Even the spectators seemed to lean forward involuntarily, sensing that this fight would be something beyond spectacle—it would be a demonstration of precision, strategy, and raw power.

Tessai’s icy boots scraped against the stone floor as he advanced, the temperature around him dropping still further, frosting forming along the edges of the circle. Frost traced the seams of the stone, and the torches’ flames flickered, tiny tendrils of heat wavering as if reluctant to disturb the cold.

Sasrir’s stance was perfect, coiled yet relaxed, his shadows pulsing subtly with anticipation. He didn’t speak, didn’t taunt, didn’t move until the first strike came. His silence was a promise: he would end this duel swiftly and efficiently, but only on his terms.

I watched, pulse quickening, realizing that the fight unfolding wasn’t just about justice or spectacle. It was a test of every lesson I’d learned alongside Sasrir. Every battle, every narrow escape—they had all led to this precise moment.

And as the icy aura of Tessai collided with the shadowy presence of Sasrir, the first sparks of metal on metal hissed through the air, signaling the beginning of a duel that would be over in an instant—or end disastrously if either underestimated the other.

The air between them shimmered with tension. Tessai, a giant of impossible girth, moved first. Each step shook the stone underfoot, sending faint vibrations that I felt in my chest. His massive frame was clad in frost-crusted armor, the Aspect of ice coating him like a living glacier. Every swing of his longsword left icy trails in the air, freezing the ground where the blade cut through it. The cold radiated outward, slowing anyone who dared step too close.

Sasrir didn’t flinch. He adjusted his grip, halberd in one hand, shadow scimitar in the other, the edges catching the torchlight. His smaller frame belied the lethal precision coiled within. Most importantlyy though, his smaller frame hid three black suns that burned dark light-Sasrir had advanced to Demon only three weeks ago, finally catching up to me. Though, I was nearly approaching Devil by this point.

Tessai swung. The sheer force of the blow forced Sasrir to twist, halberd barely intercepting the massive longsword. Sparks erupted as metal scraped metal, and a wave of frost surged outward, coating the halberd in ice. Sasrir used the momentum, slashing with the scimitar, a strike meant to cut through joints and gaps. Tessai’s armor absorbed it, but the movement forced the giant to stagger back slightly—an unusual crack in his otherwise perfect composure.

The next swings came in a blur. Each of Tessai’s strikes was slow, deliberate, crushing—but each left a trace of frost that slowed the space around him. Sasrir danced through the cold, spinning his weapons in arcs, the halberd striking from unexpected angles while the scimitar darted like a shadowed snake. With three Soul Cores fueling him, Sasrir could afford riskier maneuvers, exploiting openings that a mere Beast like Tessai could not afford, as well as making up for their physical disparity.

Tessai tried to close the distance, using sheer size to overwhelm, but every step was countered by Sasrir’s agility. Sasrir ducked, spun, and rolled, striking at the Frost Aspect when the giant overextended. Shadow tendrils lashed out with each feint, slashing at Tessai’s legs, coating them in darkness that resisted the freezing aura. The Degeneration of a Shadow Ascetic, subtle but lethal, began to slowly accelerate Tessai’s exhaustion—forcing him to compensate for every slow-motion swing. 

The coldness itself was inneffective, blocked by Tessai's own Aspect, but the mental effects of the shadows was still as potent as ever-though it required contact with actual skin, and Tessai's ice armour made that difficult.

A massive swing from Tessai caught the halberd squarely, sending Sasrir sliding across the stone floor. Frost cracked under him. But instead of panicking, Sasrir used the momentum, driving the shadow scimitar up and into Tessai’s midsection. The strike didn’t pierce the armor fully, but it forced a grunt from the morose giant. Three Soul Cores allowed Sasrir to withstand punishment that would have crushed ordinary Sleepers, and he wasn’t shy about using them.

The crowd watched, wide-eyed. Even I felt the bite of fear and awe; the duel moved faster than anything I’d expected. The Frost Giant’s swings slowed with exhaustion, the thick ice coating his armor cracking under repeated, precise strikes. Sasrir’s halberd danced like liquid steel, slashing through gaps and delivering blunt force where it would hurt most, while the scimitar darted between defenses, cutting arcs of darkness that Tessai could not touch.

The space between them seemed to freeze, though Tessai’s Aspect did the actual work. Frost clung to the stone floor beneath his feet, thickening with every swing, and the air itself seemed to resist movement. Tessai, the largest Sleeper on the Forgotten Shore, moved with slow, deliberate precision. Every strike of his two-handed longsword was like a battering ram; every step sent tremors through the hall. His Frost Aspect coated him in dark blue ice, making him look less like a man and more like a living glacier, his eyes cold and unyielding.

Sasrir felt the chill immediately, the frost slowing his reflexes ever so slightly. Even with three Soul Cores, he had to be precise; one misstep could shatter bone or pierce flesh. He materialized fully, shadow scimitar in his right hand, halberd in his left, but the combined weight of the weapons felt heavier than usual in the icy air. The smaller Reaper’s movements, though fluid, were now constrained—Tessai’s swings weren’t just forceful, they were designed to limit space, to pin, to freeze him in place.

The first unprepared clash was brutal. Tessai swung his massive sword in a horizontal arc, sending shards of ice flying as the halberd parried the blow. The impact rattled Sasrir’s arms and forced him back several steps. A wave of frost radiated outward, chilling him to the bone and slowing the very ground he tried to pivot on. The Reaper struck back with his scimitar, stabbing low at Tessai’s knees, but the giant shifted his weight and absorbed the attack with his armored leg.

Sasrir danced around the edge of Tessai’s reach, trying to find an opening. Every time he struck, the Frost Giant’s sheer size allowed him to shrug it off, even as the ice-coated ground worked against Sasrir’s footing. Each dodge required perfect timing, each parry demanded immense concentration. It was a fight he could win—but only if he didn’t make mistakes.

Tessai’s next attack forced him back to the wall. The giant’s sword came down like a battering ram, and Sasrir barely managed to block it with the halberd, sparks flying as metal clashed. The impact drove him back, scraping his boots along the frozen floor. The Reaper could feel his advantage slipping; Tessai’s strength, size, and frost aura made every move a gamble.

Then, a narrow opportunity appeared. As Tessai overextended with a swing intended to crush Sasrir against the wall, the Frost on the floor began to crack. The ice, uneven from the first series of attacks, gave way slightly under the massive weight of the Frost Giant’s next step. Sasrir saw it in a flash—he feinted to the left, drawing Tessai’s attention, and spun under the descending sword.

The halberd jabbed into a weak spot between the Frost armour from Tessai's Aspect, while the scimitar slashed across Tessai’s thigh at the same moment. The combination was precise, calculated, and deadly—his Soul Cores allowed him to absorb the strain and push the attack past Tessai’s massive defenses. The ice under the giant cracked loudly, shifting just enough to destabilize him.

Tessai stumbled, one massive leg slipping slightly on the fractured ice. The swing faltered, the strike slowed, and for the first time, the Frost Giant lost balance. Sasrir pressed the advantage immediately, shadow tendrils lashing out, reinforcing his attacks and keeping Tessai off balance.

With a final, expertly timed strike, Sasrir drove the halberd into Tessai’s midsection while slashing across the other leg with the scimitar. Tessai crashed to the ground with a deafening thud, frost cracking around him like shattered glass. He was still alive, still breathing, but fully subdued—unable to continue fighting without risking his life.

Sasrir stood over him, chest rising, shadows receding as he lowered his weapons. His smaller frame was barely scratched, his Soul Cores still fully functional, but he felt the strain from the Frost Giant’s immense size and relentless offense. He had narrowly tipped the scales in his favor, exploiting a single flaw in Tessai’s stance.

The hall was silent except for the groan of ice and Tessai’s labored breathing. Myself, Kai, and the crowd could barely process what had happened: the smaller, faster Reaper had triumphed—but only by the tiniest margin. Every onlooker knew that without that crack in the ice, the duel could have gone the other way in an instant.

I rubbed the crucifix around my neck, a shiver running down my spine despite the outcome, and Kai just stared, mouth slightly open, finally understanding the terrifying precision and danger that came with having Sasrir fight on their side.

The hall was still. The echoes of crashing ice and metal had barely faded before the spectators’ murmurs began to ripple outward, a growing tide of disbelief, fear, and awe.

Gunlaug, having seated himself back on his golden throne at the start of the duel, leaned forward slightly, his expression unreadable beneath the glinting metal. His fingers drummed against the armrest, deliberate and measured, but the faint tension in his body revealed that he was not happy with the outcome-or maybe he had just remebered something unpleasant. Either way, the look he sent our way was downright menacing, despite the fact we couldn't even see his eyes.

Seishan, regal and composed as ever, let a small, almost imperceptible smile curve her lips. It was a geniune one this time, one of amusement—it was appraisal, the kind that comes from a commander recognizing a tactician’s brilliance. Her gaze lingered on Sasrir, noting the control of shadow and weapon, the fluidity and discipline. Even the tiniest slip would have been fatal, and she recognized that Sasrir had danced right on the edge and not once faltered.

Tessai himself, still sprawled across the frost-cracked floor, struggled to regain his composure. The fury in his eyes burned, and I thought he might try and sweep Sasrir's legs out from under him. He didn't get the chance though, as after the slightest twitch Sasrir pressed the spike on his halberd down harder, drawing blood and making the man hiss.

Harus, who rarely seemed present even when standing in the room, let his hollow, hollowing gaze focus fully on Sasrir for the first time. For a moment, I felt the chill even though the hunchback’s attention wasn't even on me. But the subtle shift in Harus’ posture—a slight lean forward, the faint twitch of his fingers—was enough to indicate that even this otherwise indifferent, almost dead-appearing figure had registered Sasrir as a proper threat: as an equal.

Tessai’s subordinate Guards and other nearby Sleepers could barely speak, the usual arrogance drained from their faces. Some had thought the Reaper was more shadow than flesh, something that could be toyed with, yet they now stared with wide, fearful eyes. Every whispered calculation and bravado-filled claim had been punctured in a single, mercilessly executed duel.

Gemma and Kido, standing together, were visibly shaken. Gemma’s face paled slightly, unease flickering across his features as it warred with conflicted opinions. Kido, on the other hand, seemed to reassess everything she thought she knew about the balance of power here. She opened her mouth, closed it, and then simply nodded to herself, as if accepting a new, uncomfortable truth: Sasrir was not to be underestimated.

Even the crowded corridors behind the initial circle of watchers seemed to hold their collective breath. Murmurs surged and spread like wildfire. “Did you see that?” “Tessai…” “That’s impossible…” The words were fragments, but the tone was unanimous: awe, fear, and a grudging respect.

Standing beside Sasrir, I caught Kai’s gaze. The singer’s expression was a mix of amazement and concern, his fingers curling nervously around the hem of his sleeve. Kai had known Sasrir was dangerous, but seeing the skill, the precision, and the near-miraculous timing displayed in such a high-stakes duel made the danger real in a way that words could never capture.

Sasrir, for his part, didn’t appear to notice any of it. The shadows clinging to his weapons receded slightly, his breathing steady. The small cut along his forearm had already stopped bleeding and he was nearly done catching his breath, Soul Cores humming faintly beneath his skin. Every motion he had made in that duel had been deliberate, every dodge calculated. In his mind, the fight was already over—any reaction outside of himself was secondary.

Gunlaug finally spoke, his voice low but cutting through the lingering silence. “Impressive.” It was one word, but it carried weight, carrying over the awe and tension in the hall. Even the other members of the Host, flanking him, felt the ripple. Tessai’s jaw tightened; Tessai’s fellow officers shifted uncomfortably. A single word from the Bright Lord could change the balance of power, and he had just acknowledged Sasrir.

Seishan inclined her head fractionally, a rare gesture of approval, while Gemma and Kido exchanged wary glances. Harus remained silent, but the way his hollow eyes lingered on Sasrir suggested that this duel had awakened something in him. The hall was still tense, but the balance of authority had subtly shifted—everyone present now knew that Sasrir was not just a shadow to be feared, but a force that could not be ignored.

The whispers began to rise again, lower at first, then louder, spreading through the corridors: Sasrir had officialyproven himself as one of the strongest Sleepers in the Forgotten Shore, beyond any doubt or speculation.

And, watching it all, I couldn’t help but let a small, satisfied grin tug at my lips.

Gunlaug’s gaze swept lazily over the throne room, eyes resting on Sasrir just long enough to convey quiet expectation. “Justice has been served,” he said, his tone deliberate, almost casual. The words were heavy with authority, but not with finality. He made no move to intervene further. The two Guards trembled at the edge of the circle, their pale faces betraying fear, but Gunlaug’s posture indicated their punishment would be minimal—barely more than a slap on the wrist.

Tessai, lying on the floor, blue frost cracking across his massive frame from the duel, lifted his head slightly. His expression twisted into a bitter sneer. “So this is it?” he spat, his voice laced with venom. “You beat me… and for what? For no result! My two Guards will walk away scot-free, and this—this pathetic display changes nothing!”

The crowd around us tensed, whispers rippling like stormwater. Even the Host shifted, their expressions varying between awe, shock, and apprehension. Gemma’s hands clutched the blade hanging from his waist; Kido’s brow was furrowed in disbelief; Seishan’s smile remained poised but tight; Harus’ hollow eyes—finally stirred by Sasrir’s presence—glimmered with cautious attention. Gunlaug himself remained immobile, reclining slightly, a faint shadow of amusement emanating from his form as though he had expected this reaction.

And it was expected: if Sasrir had faced the two Guards directly, he could have killed them and then ended the matter, just like Changing Star did in the original novel. But he fought Tessai on their behalf, and so, had no say in how they would be handled afterwards. 

But I wouldn't accept that.

Sasrir didn’t respond. His shadowy form remained materialized, the scimitar in his right hand steady and gleaming. His eyes flicked to me, dark and calculating, seeking confirmation. I met his gaze and shook my head once, sharply. No hesitation, no words—just the silent order to finish what needed finishing.

Time seemed to stretch, every breath and movement magnified. In one smooth, fluid motion, Sasrir drove the tip of his scimitar down into Tessai’s exposed eye, slicing through ice, muscle, and bone with terrifying precision. Even on the ground, the Giant’s massive body convulsed in disbelief for a heartbeat before stilling completely. The blue frost shivered and cracked, melting into the floor, leaving him a lifeless, motionless form.

The hall was utterly silent. Tessai’s mocking words and threats died on his lips. His chest heaved once before going still, leaving only the echo of his final insult suspended in the air.

In Sasrir's ears, a voice only he could hear announced the reult of his most-recent conquest.

[You have slain a Dormant Beast-Tessai.]

[You have received an Echo.]

Sasrir straightened, shadow curling back around him like a cloak settling into place. His voice, calm and low, cut through the tension like a blade:

“Now,” he said, deliberate, measured, “justice has been served.”

Chapter Text

I cursed under my breath, teeth gritted, as the stone-forged sword whizzed past my ear and slammed into the ground with a thunderous crash. I backpedaled, trying to keep my footing on the uneven floor of the training hall, my muscles already screaming from repeated swings. Saint didn’t give me a moment to breathe, each attack perfectly measured to push me just past my limits.

The Azure Blade felt heavier with every block, my arms going numb from the constant jarring impacts. Each strike from Saint sent a shiver through my bones, reminding me that I was still sloppy, still slow. I could feel sweat dripping into my eyes, burning, but I didn’t dare wipe it away—every second counted.

The fourth swing caught me as I overextended my step, tangling my feet in my own misjudged movement. Saint’s shoulder slammed into me with a controlled force, and I hit the ground hard, the sound echoing across the hall. My chest heaved, breath uneven, as I tried to push myself upright.

Her stone sword rested against my throat, a perfectly precise pressure, as if to remind me just how far I still had to go. I growled in frustration, and she tilted her head almost imperceptibly, waiting for me to recover. With a sharp command in my mind, I felt her ease the pressure and step back, the sword sheathing itself neatly.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Sasrir leaning casually, clapping slowly, mockingly. Of course he would. Of course someone had to be amused while I was reduced to panting like an idiot. I scowled, glaring at him, but there was nothing to do but push myself upright and keep going.

“Surprise, surprise,” he said, voice low but dripping with amusement. “Saint takes the fourth round again. Seriously, Adam… what are you doing?”

I grit my teeth, my pride prickling.

“I thought I was meant to be the frontline fighter,” he continued, eyes glinting with a teasing challenge, “and you, the manipulative mastermind. So tell me… why are you beating yourself up like this?”

I flinched at the words. Not because he was wrong—but because he made me feel it. Each strike from Saint had shredded more than my arms and legs; it had gnawed at my patience, my focus, and yes, even my ego.

I opened my mouth to reply, but no words came. Instead, I let my jaw tighten and turned my attention back to Saint, who was already shifting her stance, waiting for my next move.

Focus, I told myself, teeth clenched. Ignore him. Predict her. Adapt. Just survive this round without looking like a complete idiot.

I gritted my teeth and muttered under my breath. Come on, Adam. This isn’t life or death. This is training. You can handle this. My muscles screamed in protest as I tried to steady my legs and refocus. Saint didn’t stop—she was patient, but relentless, making sure every misstep, every hesitation, punished me just enough to drive improvement.

I shook my head, trying to clear the fog of fatigue. The blows weren’t fatal, but they weren’t easy either. My mind raced, running through angles, footwork, timing. I had to learn. I had to improve. Every strike I blocked—or failed to block—was a lesson written in muscle ache and stinging pride.

I rolled my shoulders, swung the Azure Blade experimentally, testing the range, the timing, trying to anticipate her next move. Saint mirrored me perfectly, as if reading my thoughts, and I felt that familiar pang of frustration. I hated being predictable, hated being outmatched—even by my own creation.

Focus. Control. Patience. Don’t let her teach me the hard way.

I inhaled sharply, tasting the copper tang of sweat in my mouth, and squared my shoulders. The next round wouldn’t be like this. I would anticipate better, move faster, strike harder. Saint might be relentless, but she was mine to command, mine to learn from. And I would—not could, would—get it right before the session ended.

------------------------------

I hit the ground hard, chest heaving, arms splayed out like I’d been wrung through a press. Every joint, every muscle, every nerve in my body screamed in unison. Even breathing felt like a task meant for someone else, someone stronger. My fingers twitched uselessly as I tried to push myself up—and failed.

Saint hovered above me, her ruby eyes fixed on my prone form. There was that faint, almost imperceptible flicker in her gaze—mocking, disdainful, the kind of distaste that only a creature who knows it owns you can display. I groaned, every sound scraping my throat raw, and waved her off with a weak flick of my hand. “Back,” I muttered, my voice rough. “Soul Sea. Now.”

With a blink and the faint shimmer of her Essence, she dissipated, leaving only the lingering sense of judgment. I swallowed a groan and lay there, staring at the ceiling, wondering if my body would ever forgive me for this. Every bone felt like it had been twisted into shapes no human should endure, and every muscle screamed as though I’d asked them to run a marathon at the edge of a cliff.

Then, the shadow of a familiar presence fell over me. Sasrir. His boots scraped softly against the floor as he came closer, and my stomach twisted involuntarily—not from fear, but from the realization that he was perfectly composed while I looked like a wrecked puppet.

He crouched down, producing the Rejuvenating Bloom from somewhere beneath his cloak. The single drop he squeezed onto my tongue felt like ice-cold water to a man on the brink of death. My chest eased, my lungs opened, and the dull ache in my limbs faded slightly, replaced by a trembling, grateful warmth that spread through my veins like sunlight through frost.

“Relax,” Sasrir said softly, voice steady and calm, yet carrying the faintest edge of amusement. I let the words wash over me, letting them anchor me as I tried to stop trembling.

He dropped the Memory on my chest, its passive healing thrumming against my skin. I could feel it seeping into me, knitting torn fibers, calming stressed nerves, coaxing life back into my limbs. It was almost… blissful. My eyes closed, relief crashing over me in heavy waves, and for the first time since training began, I allowed myself to feel just how completely wrecked I’d been.

But even as I lay there, still trembling under the Memory’s hum, I couldn’t help but glance at the spot where Saint had been. Her presence lingered in the air, like the faint scent of iron and cold fire, reminding me that even under Sasrir’s watchful care, the lessons she’d hammered into me would stay—and that I’d never be allowed to forget them.

I exhaled shakily, letting the healing bloom do its work. Every part of me still ached, but at least now I could sit up without screaming. At least now, I could survive to fight another day.

I groaned again, letting the Memory hum against my chest as I tried to focus on something other than the screaming ache in my muscles. And as much as I wanted to just lie here and pretend the world didn’t exist, my mind couldn’t stop replaying the last hour of training. Saint… Saint had been relentless. And I had seriously underestimated what “training with Saint” meant.

I had gotten the idea from Sunny, back in the original novels, who had insisted on trying to learn the discipline, precision, and brutality possessed by the Echo. Sunny had made it sound almost… fun, even though the novel was crytsal clear Sunny got his ass beat

But Saint wasn’t fun. Saint was a force of nature wrapped in ice and judgment. Every swing, every feint, every flick of her wrist felt like it carried centuries of calculated intent. And I was flailing around like a rookie who had barely survived the Academy’s basics.

I was training with Effie too, learning her wolfish and reckless style of fighting, compounding itwith Saint's cold efficiency and killing-machine mindset. If I could pull it off, I was confidant I could become one of the greatest swordsmen of my generation.

And, I was on my way, sort of. Maybe. At least, that’s what I told myself, gasping and swearing under my breath. Because while Sasrir had been standing there like he’d invented combat itself, absorbing every move, every trick, every pattern of Saint’s assault like he was a sponge made of steel and shadow, I had been bleeding metaphorical—and sometimes literal—bullets. Where Sasrir got that talent, I had no idea. It sure as hell didn’t come from me. If anything, my instincts were still the equivalent of a kitten learning to pounce, clumsy and often painful.

And yet… despite all the bruises, the aching muscles, and the humiliation of constantly being bested by my own Echo, I had made progress. I had actually learned something. I could anticipate her swings a little better now, adjust my footwork with slightly more grace, react with slightly less delay. For a complete novice who had only survived the Academy’s basic training, that was… not terrible. Not Lost from Light level, Changing Star level, or War Princess level, not by a long shot. But it was a start.

I let out a shaky laugh, bitter and tired, letting my hands twitch over the floor. Sasrir made it all look effortless, as though he had been born with a memory of every strike, every parry, every nuance of combat already etched into him. Me? I had to wrestle with it, claw at it, wrest every lesson out of my brain and body with sweat, blood, and pain. My brain felt fried, my body felt betrayed, and yet, in the midst of all that misery, there was a flicker of satisfaction. I was learning. Slowly. Cumbersomely. But I was learning.

And right now, surviving, breathing, letting the Memory knit me back together—that was enough. For today.

-----------------------------

The mess hall smelled like roasted meat and fresh bread, the warm scent mingling with the faint tang of polished stone. Sunlight streamed in through high windows, glinting off the polished table surfaces and illuminating the occasional flicker of dust in the air. I sank into the bench beside Sasrir and Kai, letting the comfort of routine wash over me for the first time in hours. Lunch here wasn’t a battlefield, and for now, that was enough.

We ate in silence at first, the clinking of utensils and the soft scrape of plates on wood filling the empty spaces between us. I chewed slowly, savoring the simple meal, letting the food give my body something it desperately needed after the morning with Saint. My muscles still ached, every limb reminding me of the blows I had taken.

Kai finally broke the silence, his voice casual but laced with genuine curiosity. “So… training going well?”

I shot a sideways glance at Sasrir, who was quietly slicing his meat with precision, his expression neutral as ever. “Great,” I said quickly, forcing a grin that didn’t quite reach my eyes.

Sasrir’s voice cut in, calm and measured as always. “Terrible,” he said, and the deadpan delivery nearly made me choke on my bread.

I groaned, dropping my fork back onto my plate. “Which is it, then?” I muttered.

Kai shrugged, clearly enjoying the back-and-forth. “Sounds about right,” he said, smirking. “Classic you two.”

We bantered quietly, trading small jokes and observations about the hall, the food, and who had been slacking during morning duties. The silence was easy and comfortable, the kind that comes from long familiarity, where no one felt the need to fill every gap with words.

And then—like a storm rolling in from nowhere—Gemma appeared.

He plopped down on the bench beside me with the subtlety of a catapult, glaring in my direction like I had personally offended him in some unimaginable way. His brown hair was slightly tousled, his uniform tight across his shoulders, and his eyes—bright, sharp, and clearly unimpressed—locked onto me.

I swallowed, trying not to smile. Sasrir and Kai didn’t even flinch; they simply continued eating as if a thundercloud hadn’t just taken a seat next to me.

Gemma’s glare softened—not in kindness, but into something more like simmering, barely-contained irritation. He picked up his fork, stabbing the meat on his plate with almost violent precision before shoving it into his mouth. Chewing angrily, he made it clear that he was thoroughly displeased with… well, everything, including me.

Since Tessai, since the nightmarish aftermath that followed, Gemma had been… unpleasant. Polite on the surface, yes, but with a deep, constant undercurrent of fury that made the air around him seem colder. And I didn’t blame him; we had put him in an extremely tight spot, possibly at risk of being ousted as a traitor and executed, and he still hadn't forgiven us for acting without thinking about his side of things. Still, I didn't particularly care about Gemma's sttitude to me-while he didn't seem to engage in it himself, he protected rapists and murderers in his group.

As far as I was concerned, he was scum deserving of death. But since he was also useful, and hadn't actually been too hostile to me, I was willing to cooperate honestly with him.

Still, I couldn’t help but feel a little amused as I watched him attack his food, cheeks flushing slightly as he mumbled under his breath about inefficiency, recklessness, and a whole list of things I was pretty sure didn’t actually exist.

Kai, of course, smiled at the display, leaning back with a chuckle. Sasrir, ever the picture of stoic detachment, barely twitched an eyebrow. I, on the other hand, had to bite my lip to stop myself from laughing outright.

We ate quietly for a few moments, Gemma’s scowling energy hovering over me like a storm cloud, and yet somehow, despite it all, it felt… familiar. Comfortable, even. Life in the mess hall had a rhythm to it: eat, breathe, survive, and maybe tease each other just a little. For now, that was enough.

And somewhere beneath Gemma’s anger, I could see the faint trace of obligation, the recognition that his loyalty—to Gunlaug, to orders, to duty—was absolute. Especially after what had happened with the last Lieutenant. There was no choice but to follow. Rage or no rage, he obeyed. And I, for one, was relieved.

I chewed my last bite, glancing around at the two men beside me. Sasrir, calm as a shadowed river. Kai, warm and teasing. And then Gemma, glaring at me like I’d just insulted the sun itself. For all the tension, all the history, all the exhaustion… I couldn’t help but feel that, at least for a moment, we were exactly where we were meant to be.

Gemma finished the last bite of his meal with a sharp crunch and slammed his fork onto the plate. Without another word, he stood, the chair scraping harshly against the stone floor. He paused briefly, eyes narrowing at the two of us, and spoke over his shoulder.

“Gunlaug wants a meeting. All of the Host will be there,” he said flatly, voice clipped and cold, before pivoting and marching away, the hem of his cloak swishing with each purposeful step.

The mess hall seemed to hold its breath after he left. The only sound was the fading echo of Gemma’s boots against the stone floor, retreating into distance.

Kai shifted nervously, wringing his hands in his lap. “Should we… be worried?” His voice was tentative, hesitant, the edge of unease clear. His eyes flicked between Sasrir and me, betraying that he didn’t like the sound of this at all.

Sasrir shook his head slowly, dark eyes calm and unwavering. “No,” he said evenly. “The matter is settled for today. Gunlaug has no reason to openly condemn us—not when it would risk shattering the Host itself.” His tone was absolute, precise, like a blade cutting through doubt.

I frowned, scratching the back of my neck. “True, but… we haven’t gotten full control over the Guards yet. That faction is still resisting my influence. They’re stubborn, unpredictable. Until we bring them in line, we aren’t completely safe.”

Sasrir’s eyes glinted coldly. “Then we just need to hang a few troublemakers. Settle the rest by example. Fear works faster than negotiation.”

Kai flinched so violently he nearly dropped his spoon. His pale face blanched, lips pressed into a thin line, but he didn’t speak outright objection. Instead, his voice trembled softly, more a whisper to himself than a command. “I… I don’t know if… hanging people really solves anything…”

Sasrir’s gaze met Kai’s, dark and unyielding, and the Reaper’s voice remained unruffled. “It does. And it is not my concern whether it is comfortable to hear. Results matter.”

I ran a hand through my hair, trying to reconcile the words with what I knew of our situation. Sasrir’s methods were terrifyingly effective, and I had learned long ago that questioning them openly did nothing but slow things down. Still, Kai’s unease gnawed at me.

“I—” Kai swallowed hard, voice still quiet, “I understand… but it just feels so harsh. Maybe… maybe there’s another way?” His eyes darted to me, almost pleading. He wanted to argue, but didn’t want to push too far. Mira's condition was still fresh in his mind.

I offered him a small, strained shrug. “We don’t really have another choice, Kai. Not if we want the Guards to actually fall in line. Sasrir’s right—sometimes the lesson has to be brutal for the rest to learn.”

Kai’s shoulders slumped, a soft exhale escaping him. He glanced down at his untouched bread, quietly picking at it with nervous fingers, murmuring, “I just… wish it didn’t have to be this way.”

Sasrir leaned back slightly, expression unreadable, as if he hadn’t heard a word. His presence alone seemed to anchor the room in cold calculation. The lesson had been delivered; it was only a matter of execution.

I exhaled, feeling tension creep along my spine. Having the entire Host gathered in one room was never casual, and knowing Gunlaug’s tendencies, I had a sinking feeling that today’s meeting would test more than just our authority over the Guards.

Kai let out a small, uneasy whistle, muttering softly, “I just hope… hope nothing goes horribly wrong.”

I shot him a glance, half amused, half worried, feeling the familiar weight of responsibility settle over me. With Sasrir standing beside me like a living weapon, and Kai quietly moralizing from the sidelines, we were about to walk into a room where power, fear, and politics collided—and I had a sinking feeling it was going to be worse than anything I’d faced so far.

The mess hall was emptying when I realized it was time. Lunch was over, and the meeting—Gunlaug’s meeting—was about to begin. I felt the familiar tightening in my stomach, a mix of anticipation and that prickling sense of being measured by a thousand eyes. Sasrir fell into step beside me, silent as always. I glanced at him briefly; his dark eyes didn’t betray a flicker of emotion. Typical. Calm as ever.

Kai wasn’t allowed in. I tried not to think about it, but the absence of his gentle presence made the tension in the air heavier. He would have whispered his worries, probably fidgeting with his sleeves and softly objecting to the idea that we were walking straight into the den of the Bright Lord and the Host. Instead, it was just us, and that made every step feel louder, heavier.

I pushed the door open, stepping into the hall last. Immediately, a wave of authority hit me, thick and suffocating. The entire Host was assembled, each member seated or standing with that careful poise that suggested they knew exactly how to weigh someone with a glance.

“Ah—sorry I’m late!” I said, forcing a chipper tone into my voice. I tried to make it sound casual, even lighthearted, but I could feel the weight of their scrutiny like iron pressing against my chest. Sasrir didn’t move a muscle beside me. Not a single twitch. Silent as stone.

Gunlaug sat in his familiar throne at the far end of the hall, high and imposing. If I hadn’t seen him stand off it during the duel, I might have genuinely believed he was glued there, like the mythical God Emperor of Humanity itself. His presence radiated control, authority, and an unsettling calm that made the hairs on my neck stand on end. The faint glint of his fingers on the armrest reminded me that this was a man who never wasted motion.

Seishan stood slightly apart, as perfect as ever. Pale grey skin, eyes cool and unreadable, lips curved into a delicate smile that somehow managed to be both beautiful and completely inscrutable. She inclined her head as we entered, her nod smooth, elegant, and silently assessing. I felt my pulse quicken, though I couldn’t tell if it was from nervousness or a strange, magnetic awe that always seemed to follow her.

Gemma was already seated with Kido. The two of them had paired up like clockwork, Gemma ignoring us completely, posture rigid and expression brooding, as if the air itself offended him. Kido, on the other hand, leaned slightly forward, curiosity flickering across her features as she took us in, eyes darting back and forth between myself and Sasrir. I couldn’t help but feel a little exposed under that scrutiny, as if every misstep might be catalogued and judged.

Harus, as always, remained a fixture beside Gunlaug. The hunchback was as unsettling as ever, standing motionless yet somehow present in every shadow, his gaze sliding over us like a fish swimming in dark water. His hollow, unreadable expression made me shiver slightly; it was impossible to tell whether he registered our presence—or if he simply existed in a space slightly removed from our reality.

I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself. The air was thick with unspoken authority, a tangible tension that seemed to vibrate against my skin. Gunlaug’s eyes, sharp and piercing even from the throne, flicked toward me the moment I stepped fully into view. I gave a quick, polite bow, trying to look composed.

“Good,” Gunlaug said finally, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. “All present. Let us begin.”

Sasrir remained silent, shadow still at his side, but I could feel the quiet weight of his presence bolstering me in a way Kai never could. That dark reassurance made me straighten my spine, even as the tension pressed down.

Every eye in the hall was on us now, evaluating, waiting. The meeting had begun, and I knew—intuitively—that nothing here would be simple, nothing would be safe.

The room was smaller than I expected for a meeting with the Host. Only seven of us in total, counting Sasrir and me. The rest—the Bright Lord himself and his Lieutenants—sat around the circular dais like predators in a carefully arranged nest. The air hummed with authority, cold, sharp, and deliberate. I could feel it pressing against me as I made my way toward Gunlaug’s left side.

Sasrir moved silently, shadow trailing him like a second skin. He claimed the largest seat available after the throne, too big for him but somehow perfect in its imposing emptiness. He didn’t bother with the chair’s impractical size; he simply lowered himself into it with a grace that made the heavy wood seem like a mere prop. I felt a flicker of admiration, even as I reminded myself not to think too much—my own nerves were enough without adding awe to the mix.

I took my place at Gunlaug’s left, standing rather than sitting. The throne’s height made the Bright Lord seem like he was looking down into the core of the world, and I felt distinctly small. But I straightened my shoulders and forced a calm expression. Sasrir’s silent presence near me made the world feel slightly less threatening.

Harus turned, slowly, deliberately, those hollow eyes locking on me like they were peeling through flesh and bone. “It seems your friend will need a new chair,” he said flatly, his voice echoing faintly in the still room. The words were measured, but there was a trace of mockery hiding beneath the monotone, as if he took pleasure in silently noting the absurdities of life.

I smiled and inclined my head. “Indeed. Tessai was a few sizes bigger than him. Still, I’m sure Sasrir will grow to fit it in time.” My tone was calm, almost casual, but I made sure the statement carried just enough pointed edge to stand out.

Harus let out a short, snide chuckle, the sound dry and hollow. It wasn’t loud, but it carried across the room like a stone skipping over a frozen lake. Then, just as suddenly, he returned to his statue-like stillness, as if nothing had happened. I didn’t miss the slight tightening of his posture before he settled again—an imperceptible acknowledgment that he had been amused, but only just.

Gunlaug, for his part, did not react immediately. His dark eyes swept over me and Sasrir with that calm, predatory precision he always carried. Then, almost imperceptibly, he tilted his head and looked around the circular dais, letting his gaze settle briefly on each of the Lieutenants. It was the kind of silent scrutiny that made you want to shrink into the floor.

Finally, he gestured with a single, measured hand toward Kido. The motion was slow, deliberate, as though he were marking her as the first to speak—but not by choice. By right, Gunlaug’s authority demanded he acknowledge her, and the gesture left no room for argument.

Kido’s shoulders stiffened as she rose, carrying the faint weight of being recognized yet carefully masking any hint of nervousness. Her posture was perfect, precise, the kind of poise that made it obvious she had been trained to stand in a room like this since birth. But beneath the flawless exterior, I could sense the tension coiled like a spring, every careful movement calculated to avoid drawing disapproval. She cleared her throat, adjusting her stance, and the room seemed to hold its collective breath.

I shifted slightly, glancing at Sasrir. He was the picture of calm, shadowed and unreadable as ever, sitting slightly too tall in the chair meant for someone larger. I could feel the subtle thrum of his presence, reassuring and intimidating all at once.

Gunlaug leaned back slightly, fingers tapping the armrest with quiet authority. Seishan sat with that usual perfect poise, serene and inscrutable, her pale grey skin almost luminous under the muted light. Gemma and Kido remained partnered in their odd, silent alignment—Gemma brooding and indifferent, Kido poised and carefully attentive. And Harus… Harus was still there, still watching, still unsettling, a living shadow beside the Bright Lord.

The room was silent, every movement magnified, every shift in posture significant. Kido finally began to speak, her voice steady but carrying that subtle edge of tension that only came from knowing the weight of the Host’s scrutiny.

I exhaled quietly, bracing myself. This was it. The meeting had begun.

Kido cleared her throat and began in a voice that was calm, measured, and practiced, like a conductor leading an orchestra. “We’ve identified the primary supplies that are currently in shortage,” she said, her tone crisp and professional. “Raw materials for Memory forging are all running low. Without replenishment, production will inevitably slow in the coming cycle.” She paused, letting the information hang in the air for a moment, then continued.

“We’ve also encountered difficulties with several of the workshops. Equipment failures in two of the Memory forges caused a minor backlog, though our artisans have worked overtime to compensate. Additionally, scheduling conflicts among the workers have reduced efficiency in certain sectors.” Her eyes scanned the room briefly, as if to make sure her words were registering. “Revenue for the last month has remained stable despite these issues. Stock levels remain sufficient for daily operations, though reserves are now slightly below optimal thresholds for emergency production.”

I blinked. Logistics. Finance. Stock levels. Taxes. My brain was still wrapped around the idea of the Host as a group of predators, strategists, and warriors, not accountants and warehouse managers. I hadn’t expected the first topic of the meeting to be inventory management and production statistics. But then, looking around, it made sense. The Forgotten Shore wasn’t just the Castle—it was a sprawling settlement, home to hundreds of people, both inside the Castle and outside in the wider settlement. Someone had to track the flow of resources, someone had to ensure that taxes were accounted for, production quotas met, and that the gears of society didn’t grind to a halt.

I stole a glance at Sasrir. He remained perfectly still in his oversized chair, his eyes observing Kido with a faint, unreadable intensity. Even he seemed unshaken by the mundane nature of the report; or maybe he honestly justdidn't care about it at all.

Kido continued, detailing the specific quantities needed for each category of artisan work, the projected shortages for the next quarter, and contingencies for unexpected production halts. She even provided notes on the quality of materials received from external suppliers, pointing out which sources had been inconsistent and which had exceeded expectations.

Gemma, seated beside her, made no move to comment. His expression was the same scowl he wore perpetually, as if the very discussion of supplies offended him on principle. Kido, however, didn’t flinch or waver. She simply presented the information, efficient and precise, and moved on to the next topic: revenue allocation and storage.

As the numbers and details passed over me, I felt the weight of administration pressing down in a way that was very different from combat. Here, mistakes didn’t just risk a failed attack—they could starve a section of the settlement, slow production, or cripple the Host’s financial stability. The mundane precision required was almost terrifying in its own way.

I couldn’t help but think back to the lessons from training with Saint and Effie. Fighting was brutal, exhausting, and dangerous, but at least it was immediate—either you succeeded or you failed in the moment. This… this was slow, calculated, methodical. A different battlefield entirely, but no less deadly if mishandled.

And yet, I couldn’t help but admire Kido. She carried herself with a confidence that made every figure she recited and every observation she made feel like a weapon in its own right. In her hands, even statistics became a form of power, a subtle way to manipulate outcomes before the first sword was ever drawn.

And suddenly, I felt like a bit of a fool.

Seishan was the next to speak, sitting up higher in her chair, her melodious voice coming from parted lips. It cut through the quiet hum of the meeting, calm and deliberate, each word measured, carrying an authority that seemed to make the very air hold still. She began cross-referencing the reports from her Handmaidens with Kido’s numbers, comparing the production data to the stockpiles and pointing out where distribution had been inefficient or where reserves could be stretched further. Her observations were sharp, precise, and utterly meticulous—the kind of precision that could make or break a settlement if acted upon correctly.

I tried to follow along, I really did. My eyes tracked her lips, my mind nodded at the correct intervals, and yet… my attention was slipping, sliding away like water seeping through cracks in stone. It was an amazing trick, really, considering I was standing right beside Gunlaug, the man whose very body was coverd by a Transcendent Echo, radiating the kind of power that made the hairs on my arms stand at attention. How could my mind wander now? How could I allow myself to drift while the Host—the Bright Lord, his Lieutenants, even Harus’s hollow stare—observed?

And yet it did.

I felt myself being pulled backwards, carried by memory like a tide over jagged rocks. The sensation wasn’t painful, just inevitable, like standing on the edge of a cliff and letting the wind take you. My vision blurred slightly at the edges as the present faded, replaced by echoes of a day that was burned into me with fire and shadow. The day Sasrir had killed Tessai.

Weeks ago, or maybe it felt like months—time had compressed since then—Sasrir had moved with that terrifying calm. Every motion deliberate, precise, like a sculptor chiseling away at an imperfection. Tessai, the head of the Guards, had fallen in a sequence of strikes that were almost cruel in their efficiency, a blitz of halbard and scimitar that seemed to obey no direct system.

I remembered the sound: the ice cracking, the hiss of metal against frozen armor, the faint, horrifying silence that followed. The way Sasrir’s shadow curled around him as he stood over Tessai, the deliberate calm of his breathing, the slight ripple of darkness that seemed almost alive. And the way I had felt—frozen, half in awe, half in disbelief, my body trembling despite knowing I had nothing to fear in that moment.

It made my present surroundings—the polished floors, the murmuring Host, Kido’s clipped, efficient explanations, Seishan’s calm assessment—all feel strangely unreal, like a dream I was forced to step through while my mind replayed an old, terrible truth.

And yet, somehow, I managed to stay upright. Somehow, I reminded myself to nod occasionally, to shift my weight, to let Seishan continue speaking without noticing that my thoughts were elsewhere. My breathing slowed, shallow but controlled, and I focused on the cadence of her voice, letting it act as an anchor while my memories swirled around me.

It was almost maddening how natural it felt—the duality of presence and reflection. Here I was, standing in the circular dais beside the throne of the Bright Lord, one of the most powerful men I’d ever seen, listening to Seishan outline logistics and resource management. And yet, half my mind was reliving a fight that had been nothing short of apocalyptic in its precision. A fight I had started.

I shook my head slightly, trying to center myself. Focus, I told myself. This isn’t the time to replay old battles. 

I exhaled softly, letting my shoulders slump fractionally, just enough to feel the tension release. Seishan’s voice continued, precise, steady, unyielding, and slowly, slowly, I felt the present claw its way back into my awareness. The meeting, the numbers, the Host—all of it snapped back into focus. My ears registered Kido’s continued explanation, Seishan’s cross-references, and even the slight scuff of Gemma shifting in his seat.

Yet my mind soon slipped backthen again.

-----------------------------------

The instant Tessai’s massive body crumpled beneath Sasrir’s precision strike, a silence fell over the dais that was almost physical in its weight. Even the torches seemed to dim, their flames quivering as if afraid to cast light on the aftermath. Then, as though the stillness had been a signal, movement exploded into the room.

Harus, who had stood like a statue at Gunlaug’s right side the entire duel, shifted imperceptibly at first. Then, with a sudden, visceral cracking of joints, his hunched back straightened in a motion that sounded like splintering wood and grinding stone. The sound alone was enough to make a few of the Guards flinch. In the same heartbeat, a Memory manifested around his wrist—a chain flail, each link heavy and blackened, the ball large enough to crush stone, spinning loosely as if eager for impact. It coiled around his arm like a living extension of his body, the metal links rattling with a promise of destruction.

And then he rose. Not slowly, not gradually. Harus’s already unnerving frame doubled in size and then nearly tripled, towering over the Host like some demon of legend. His newfound height seemed almost unreal, shadows stretching along the hall, curling along the edges of his limbs like smoke licked by fire. The chain flail in his hand shimmered faintly in the torchlight, each link reflecting a dull, sinister glint.

The sudden transformation was enough to break the composure of most present. Every Guard and Hunter in the room reacted instinctively, drawing weapons in unison. Swords, halberds, spears—the clang of steel against steel filled the hall as the secondary defenders of the Host scrambled to take positions. Even Gemma, normally calm and contained, snapped his own blade free with a sharp hiss, his posture defensive, muscles coiled.

Kido reacted differently. She wasn’t afraid in the same way as the others—her mind raced, calculating angles, escape routes, and potential counters—but even she sought shelter, stepping behind Gemma with a subtle flick of her cloak to obscure her body from any stray swings or misdirected strikes.

Seishan remained unnervingly calm—or at least, she appeared so. She did not move to draw a weapon, though her pale grey skin was almost ghostly against the dim hall. Her eyes, wide and unblinking, held a frozen, unreadable expression. Was it shock? Confusion? Strategic calculation? It was impossible to tell. Her lips were slightly parted, as if to speak, but no sound came. Even in that suspended, tense moment, she exuded the aura of someone untouchable.

And then there was Gunlaug. The Bright Lord’s reaction was instantaneous, violent, and absolute. The golden armor adorning his form rippled, each plate shifting with a metallic hum, catching the light and refracting it into shards across the circular dais. His entire body seemed to surge, a wave of authority and power that filled the hall, vibrating through the stone beneath everyone’s feet. A roar erupted from behind his facemask, the sound impossible to mistake, a single sentence cutting through the tension like a thunderclap:

“What have you done!”

The words didn’t just carry anger—they carried accusation, judgment, and the raw, unfiltered weight of someone who ruled through fear and awe alike. Every head in the hall instinctively lowered or turned, even those armored and ready for combat.

Sasrir didn’t respond immediately. He merely shifted his weight slightly, the shadows coiling around him like a living serpent. Below him, blood and brain matter seeped out from the hole in the back of Tessai's head and eyesocket.

The room was a hurricane of tension. The Guards and Hunters froze mid-motion, unsure what to do next, unwilling to act without orders from their leaders. For the Guards, that meant Gunlaug himself now.

Gunlaug’s golden armor shone almost painfully now, each reflective plate moving independently, like molten metal alive with fury. His hands clenched into fists, sending tiny echoes through the hall. “Explain,” he demanded, his voice now low, lethal in tone, though still carrying the resonance that made even the most seasoned warrior hesitate. “Immediately. Why is a subordinate—nay, a servant—of mine prepared to bring destruction into my hall?”

The rest of the Host remained pinned between awe and fear. Gemma and Kido’s breathing had slowed to careful, controlled inhales; even seasoned Hunters hesitated, unsure of whether to act, speak, or run. Their eyes, however, never wavered from Sasrir, a quiet tension in the way their hands flexed, as if preparing to move the instant the man made a motion.

“What have you done?!”

It wasn’t a question of disbelief; it was a proclamation of absolute, burning wrath. The sound cut through the hall, reverberating off the stone walls and freezing every Guard and Hunter in place. Even seasoned combatants instinctively lowered their weapons. Gunlaug’s eyes, while not visible behind his facemask, were no doubt melting in rage, fixed with unflinching judgment on the Sleeper who had dared kill Tessai in his presence.

Sasrir didn’t flinch, didn’t shift a muscle. His posture was calm, almost casual, but there was a quiet tension in the way his hands flexed at his sides. The chain flail at Harus’s wrist rattled, a subtle reminder that the room could erupt into violence in an instant—but Gunlaug’s gaze never wavered from Sasrir.

The room itself felt as if it were holding its breath. The Guards and Hunters tensed, aware that any sudden motion could trigger a cascade of death. Gemma and Kido froze mid-step, eyes flicking between Sasrir and Gunlaug, calculating whether intervention was even possible. Seishan’s gaze remained locked on Sasrir, her pale face betraying the slightest hint of shock—an almost imperceptible twitch of her lips, a narrowing of her eyes.

Gunlaug’s voice lowered, deadly and deliberate, every word sharp as a blade. “Explain yourself. How dare you bring this upon the Host without permission. How dare you kill in my hall!”

Sasrir’s eyes met the Bright Lord’s, calm and unyielding. He didn’t respond immediately, letting the weight of his actions—and the collective tension of the room—settle in fully. Every muscle in the hall was taut, every mind running scenarios, yet none dared interrupt the confrontation.

Standing beside Sasrir, I felt the full weight of the moment. The room seemed charged with static, a storm of authority, fear, and power. Even with Harus looming like a giant in the corner, it was clear that Gunlaug’s wrath was directed entirely at Sasrir. I could see it in the rigid line of the Bright Lord’s shoulders, the way his golden armor seemed to vibrate with contained fury.

Harus, for his part, remained still, flail coiled and ready, a silent sentinel rather than a threat. The hunchback’s black eyes flickered briefly toward Sasrir, but his demeanor was neutral. The danger wasn’t Harus—at least, not yet. The danger was the wrath of a lord who had seen his order, his control, and his hierarchy directly challenged.

Gunlaug’s next words were low, but every syllable cut like sharpened steel. “You will answer for this, Sasrir. Here and now, you will answer or you will be cut down."

The words left no room for misinterpretation. Sasrir had crossed a line, and the Bright Lord’s fury was absolute. Every eye in the room followed him, waiting, watching. Every heartbeat felt like a drum, counting down to an outcome none could predict.

And in that moment, standing at Sasrir’s side with my mind still raw from the duel with Tessai, I felt the full weight of the Host crash down on me at once. Harus’s grotesque transformation, the violent surge of power filling the hall, and Gunlaug’s wrath—all of it merged into something almost unbearable. The air felt electric, charged enough to split me apart, yet some instinct buried deep in my bones recognized one thing with absolute clarity: Harus wasn’t moving because he had yet to beordered to. He only moved with purpose. And Gunlaug’s rage, as immense and blinding as it was, did not necessarily mean immediate destruction.

The hall froze around me. The moment stretched thin, drawn tight like an unstruck chord. Every eye was fixed on that fragile balance between obedience and annihilation. One wrong breath, one wrong twitch, and the entire Forgotten Shore would drown in blood.

Harus let the chain flail hang for a heartbeat longer than necessary, the iron ball tapping against the floor with a cold, deliberate thud. Each tap echoed like its own sentence. Only after savoring that moment did he straighten fully, monstrous and towering, waiting for Gunlaug’s command—or perhaps for the acknowledgment that even ascended into a nightmare, he still served the Bright Lord alone.

Sasrir’s voice cut through the suffocating pressure with perfect calm. “I was merely enforcing justice.”

The understatement was almost comical, considering the corpse on the floor.

Gunlaug’s armor rippled violently, golden plates rattling like thunder. “You were ordered away!” he roared. His voice was a hammer, and I felt the vibration in my ribs. “You had no authority to strike here! You had no permission!”

Sasrir didn’t so much as blink. “I was not told as such,” he answered, tone flat. He gestured almost lazily toward the vague head-motion Gunlaug had previously made. “Your gesture means nothing to me. Orders must be explicit.”

He let a cold pause hang before adding, almost lightly, “Tessai’s death was… an accident, then.”

Gunlaug’s reaction was immediate. The gold around his arm warped and twisted, reforming into a massive battleaxe with a metallic groan. The thing was large enough to cleave a horse in two. Light from the torches rippled along its edge as if even flame bowed to it. The space around us felt ready to collapse.

Instinct shoved me forward before fear could hold me back. I raised my hands, heart pounding so hard it rattled my teeth. “Lord Gunlaug,” I began, voice tighter than I wanted, “please—allow me to clarify.”

Sasrir didn’t move. He simply watched me with a cool, distant expression, as if observing whether the dam would break or hold.

I pushed on. “This wasn’t meant as defiance,” I said, trying to steady the waver in my voice. “Sasrir acted because Tessai threatened those under our protection. There was no intent to undermine your authority. It was a fair trial, witnessed by everyone here.”

Gunlaug’s focus narrowed on me, then flicked back to Sasrir. The battleaxe shifted slightly. Even that small motion sent fresh panic prickling across my skin.

Sasrir tilted his head. “If you wish blame, assign it to me alone. I accept responsibility.” He said it like he was identifying a painting, not admitting to killing a Lieutenant in front of the Host.

I swallowed and stepped closer, palms still raised. “This can be prevented in the future,” I said quickly. “Clearer orders, clearer boundaries—misunderstandings like this won’t happen again. But the Host must remain unified. A single spark, no matter how justified, can burn the entire foundation. We must unite to survive in this nightmarish world.”

Gunlaug didn’t answer. The pressure of his silence pressed against my lungs. The golden light of his armor pulsed, softer now but still dangerous.

Slowly—agonizingly slowly—he lowered the axe. Not fully. Not safely. But enough that I could breathe again.

I didn’t drop my hands until I was certain he wasn’t going to strike.

That was when Seishan moved. Smooth, deliberate, cold. She stood without urgency, her pale grey skin catching the torchlight. Her expression was unreadable—beautiful, distant, serene.

“How,” she asked, voice slicing through the last remnants of tension, “do you intend to compensate for this mistake?”

Her expression revealed no trace of familarity, or favour or partnership. She looked down at me like you would a slab of meat on the counter: whether she was mrely playing the role, or had geniunely decided to cut me loose here, I couldn't tell.

I forced myself to face her. “What would you consider sufficient?”

She tilted her head, just slightly. “I defer to the Bright Lord.”

Of course she did.

Gunlaug rose to full height, metal groaning softly. “You were warned,” he said, fire banked but present. “First for your association with Athena. Now this. You have killed one of my best warriors.” A long pause. “I require a replacement.”

Sasrir spoke before anyone else could breathe. “I will serve as the new Guard Primarch.”

Gasps. Anger from the Guards. The shuffle of hands gripping weapons. I felt the heat of their resentment settle on both our backs.

Gunlaug let the outrage ripple through the room, then dismissed it with a single cold glance.

“And you,” he said, turning to me, “will also serve me.”

The words hit hard, but were not unexected in the slightest. Men like Sasrir were impossible to tempt, as Gunalug should now, so the next best thing was to threaten them. I was to be his hostage, kept close so he could keep an eye on Sasrir.

My stomach clenched. My thoughts lurched. Sasrir stiffened beside me, shadows tightening around him. In response, Harus’ chain flail went taut, metal whispering across stone.

I bowed deeply before fear could paralyze me. “I accept your command, Bright Lord,” I said. My voice was steady, though my pulse was a frantic drum. “I thank you for your mercy.”

Mercy. Funny word.

The room held its breath. Sasrir’s eyes flicked toward me, sharp and unreadable. Seishan’s elegant profile tilted in a gesture of approval. The Guards seethed. And Harus’s chain scraped the floor like a reminder that mercy was not a permanent state—merely a pause before fate resumed its course.

In that bow, with the weight of Gunlaug’s demand settling like a collar around my neck, I understood something bitterly clear:

Power in the Forgotten Shore was bought with obedience, blood, or sacrifice. And today, Sasrir had paid in blood: the rest, would be taken from me. 

Just as I intended.