---
The fire crackled low, barely warming the shadows around it. Ash clung to the embers like memory to bone—clinging, stubborn, smoldering.
Marcel Jekz sat against a broken pillar of stone, breathing shallowly. Not from injury, but the weight of something unseen pressing down on every inch of him. The others were scattered nearby, each in their own silence. Lira picked at her blade's chipped edge, and Tarin rubbed the spot on his wrist where his gauntlet had melted during the battle. Neither spoke.
They had been on the run for days.
Despite the distance they'd covered—forests crossed, rivers forded, mountains shadowed—the air still whispered with Seravos's malice. His aura was like a storm at their backs, stretching far beyond what should've been possible. Cold. Smothering. Endless.
The shard pulsed faintly against Marcel's chest, and with it came the voice only he could hear:
> [System Notification: Memory shard exposure sustained. Proximity to high-level undead field increasing corruption. Current corruption: 12.6%. Recommend minimal usage.]
He closed his eyes, resisting the urge to reach for more clarity, for answers. The power of Memory could show him what Seravos had done, where he had come from. But at what cost?
"Still there?" Tarin asked softly, eyes on the sky.
Marcel gave a slight nod. "Too close."
Veyla stood nearby, arms crossed, eyes scanning the dark treeline. She hadn't slept in three days. Few of the warriors had.
They were joined by nearly fifty survivors now—ragged A, B, and C rank fighters from Ashveil. Some limped, others were still burned or cursed, and more than a few bore bandages soaked through from wounds that wouldn't close. They had lost over half during the first escape. Seravos's undead had hunted them like hounds, even after the city fell.
"Why hasn't he followed?" Lira asked, voice brittle.
"He doesn't need to," Veyla answered. "His rot follows on its own."
A quiet cough came from one of the older warriors nearby. Captain Haryn, once the shield of Ashveil's western gate, leaned heavily against a spear carved from petrified bone. "He's bleeding into the world. That's why the sky smells wrong."
No one argued.
---
Meanwhile, far to the east—
In the 9th Domain, the city of Mireholt stirred under a different kind of pressure.
Captain Velka stood atop the watch tower, arms folded behind his back, cloak still bearing the black ash of Ashveil. The letter he'd sent to Marcel had gone unanswered, but he knew it wasn't by choice.
Teleportation had cost them dearly—two rare crystals shattered and a high mage drained to the edge of death. But it was worth it.
The moment his force arrived—eleven A-rank survivors and twenty-seven B-ranks—the unrest that had plagued Mireholt began to settle. Word of Ashveil's fall had sparked panic. Rumors of undead crossing domains had broken trade lines and frozen the guilds in fear.
Now, Velka's presence brought stability. The people needed strength, and he gave it to them.
Even so, dread lingered.
The A-rank beasts—the Hollowrider, Breakmaw, and the Bleakflame Wyvern—had vanished. None had been seen since breaching the 8th domain's edge. Their silence felt like a missing breath in a room filling with smoke.
And Velka knew the silence would not last.
---
Back at the edge of the Empire—
The Imperial banners flew high as the crimson-gold army set up along the broken ridgelines near the next city.
They did not come for Ashveil.
They came for Highreach, a city of merchant kings, whose coin flowed into the Empire's veins like lifeblood. Protecting it was essential. Let Ashveil rot, let the Wastelands fall—neither held allegiance, only strength.
And strength without order was dangerous.
So the Empire sent troops—not to avenge, but to contain. Seravos was not their enemy. He was a threat to commerce, and for that alone, he must be stopped.
A general in black-gilded armor watched the horizon where the sky still throbbed violet. "At least the Wastelands are gone," he muttered. "One less thorn to manage."
---
Later that night, in the forest—
Marcel leaned against a fallen tree, staring into the darkness. He had not used the shard since Ashveil, but he could feel it pulsing now. Memory called to him. Promised understanding. Truth.
But each time it answered, a part of him blurred.
He could hear whispers—not words, just echoes of things not his. A child crying in the ruins. A beast's name spoken in prayer. The last command of a forgotten king.
He shook his head and looked at Lira, who had finally fallen asleep against Tarin's shoulder. They looked… peaceful, if only for a moment.
The system pinged again:
> [Corruption threshold stabilized. Recommended cooldown: 24 hours. Do not exceed usage beyond passive resonance.]
Marcel closed his eyes and whispered, "I won't lose myself."
But the shard said nothing in return.
---
Wind tore through the canyon like a predator, carrying with it the scent of blood, ash, and something fouler—Seravos's aura. Even after days on the run, even after crossing mountains and dead rivers, his presence pressed against their lungs like a vice.
The survivors barely spoke. Every breath was heavy. Every silence, heavier.
Marcel Jekz walked ahead, his eyes shadowed, shoulders hunched beneath the growing weight of the shard and leadership. Behind him, Tarin kept to the rear, watching their trail. Lira stayed near Veyla, whispering now and then, checking on her bruised arm. Emberjaw limped silently at her side—his great form less luminous than usual, his flames dulling as though affected by the cursed air.
The others—ranked warriors who had once stood tall in Ashveil—were broken into cliques. A-ranks didn't look at anyone. B-ranks kept weapons close. C-ranks flinched at every crack of stone.
The system's cold screen appeared before Marcel.
> [System Notice: Shard Corruption: 17.6%]
Prolonged exposure to Memory strain detected.
Mental capacity nearing threshold. Recommend restraint.
Entity Aura Detected: S-Class – Seravos. Range: UNKNOWN.
He dismissed it with a blink, jaw clenched. He could still feel Seravos behind them—like a mountain watching, breathing. The shard pulsed faintly at his core.
"We can't keep going like this," Veyla said softly as they slowed to camp near a cliff face. "They're barely holding it together."
Marcel nodded but said nothing. His eyes stayed on the trail ahead.
Then chaos struck.
A scream echoed from the front. A clash of steel. Then a flash of crimson light.
Tarin drew his blade instantly. "Ambush."
But it wasn't beasts.
It was survivors.
A pair of B-ranks had turned on a group of C-ranks, cutting them down in cold silence. Another A-rank—a man with a silver crest—stepped forward, declaring he would lead them now. And when someone disagreed, he buried a lance of flame through their chest.
Veyla growled low. Emberjaw let out a hushed snarl.
"We can't just stand here," Lira whispered.
"Yes, we can," Marcel said.
They crouched behind a ridge, watching the nightmare unfold.
It wasn't one ambush—it was a cascade. Factions splintered further. Some survivors attacked others for supplies. Others killed just to ensure no one slowed them down.
It was survival at its ugliest.
> [System Notice: Memory Trigger Available – Recent Deaths Detected]
Access past fragments? Y/N
"No," Marcel muttered.
Minutes passed like hours. The sky darkened further. A survivor staggered past their hiding place, bloody and wide-eyed, whispering about betrayal and madness. Marcel didn't stop him.
Then came the final wave—three groups clashing at once. Screams. Burning magic. Crushed skulls. In the madness, no one noticed Marcel's group slipping deeper into shadow.
Until someone did.
"You!" A voice cried. "That's Marcel—he has a shard—!"
Three warriors, bloodied and wild-eyed, charged toward them.
Marcel stepped forward and reached inward.
> [System Notice: Initiating Memory Surge on Multiple Targets]
Warning: Mental stress risk HIGH. Corruption Risk: 29.4%]
Proceed? Y/N
"Yes."
The world tilted.
The air shimmered, then cracked. Whispers rose in a chorus.
Marcel saw it all—their pasts, their regrets, the betrayals that made them who they were. A man burying his brother alive. A woman forced to kill her son to protect a secret. A boy who poisoned his entire unit to survive a siege.
The three attackers screamed.
One collapsed instantly, another clawed at their own face, and the third fell to his knees, sobbing.
> [System Alert: Corruption Level: 32.1%]
Recommend immediate disengagement.
Marcel breathed in sharply and released the power.
His knees buckled. Blood trickled from his nose. Veyla caught his arm.
"You're bleeding again," she said, voice tense. "You're burning yourself out."
Marcel wiped it away and looked past her.
The traitors were either unconscious or broken. They moved through the wreckage—Tarin silent, Lira watchful, Veyla's lips pressed in a hard line. Emberjaw nudged aside a corpse with a low growl.
No one else tried to stop them.
"This is what's left of us?" Lira muttered. "This is survival?"
"No," Tarin said quietly. "This is what survival costs."
Marcel said nothing. The shard pulsed again. Somewhere ahead, the mountains stretched on, and Seravos's shadow still clung to the horizon.