Laughter echoed through the neon-lit haze of the slums, bouncing off rusted metal walls and flickering holographic signs.
Patterns—strange, almost mystical—twisted along the cracked pavement, glowing faintly in colors that fit beautifully with the old, broken sci-fi era surrounding them.
The city's decay was painted with these mysterious designs, as if the past itself had left behind cryptic messages for those who cared to look.
"Hahaha! Look at Jet, Lamar—he's talking to Lady Axel again," rumbled a deep, guttural voice, its tone thick with the primal, unrefined quality of an unholy man.
The speaker was Hemel, an old man whose gray hair receded like the tide, leaving his wrinkled forehead exposed to the harsh light.
His eyes sparkled with mischief, and his lips curled into a grin of pure amusement.
Hemel watched with delight as the young, messy-haired blond—Jet—stumbled over his words, trying desperately to impress Lady Axel.
She stood nearby, her features an unsettling blend of fish and octopus, her skin shimmering with iridescent scales and tentacles twitching nervously.
Despite her odd appearance, something about her had captured Jet's heart, a mystery that both fascinated and disturbed Hemel.
Deep down, Hemel couldn't understand what spell this peculiar woman had cast over the boy.
To him, she was… well, a little ugly. Yet, years of experience had taught Hemel to observe with caution; there was more to this situation than met the eye.
"Shut up, old man!" Jet snapped, springing to his feet and hurling his battered drinking bottle across the room.
It clattered harmlessly against the bar counter, missing its target by a wide margin.
The sound rang out, mingling with the low hum of malfunctioning machinery.
At the center of the bar, sleek metal stools gleamed under shifting pulses of blue, red, and green light.
The intricate patterns etched into the bar's surface seemed to come alive, reflecting the chaos and beauty of the slums themselves.
Seated in the middle, Lamar—the silent king of this ragtag group—slowly turned to face Hemel.
His dark eyes, bottomless and cold as the void between stars, fixed on the old man with a deadpan stare.
The once lively atmosphere froze in an instant; no one dared to speak under Lamar's gaze.
Over the years, Lamar had become surrounded by a growing crowd of strange followers—creatures and people alike, drawn to his enigmatic presence.
His hand, clutching a palm-sized metallic square, it soon began to tremble slightly.
A subtle vibration pulsed through it, catching Lamar's attention.
'The Vest of Obscure is shaking?' he wondered, his curiosity piqued.
But why? What could be causing this disturbance?
A glimmer of excitement and hesitation flickered in Lamar's eyes, breaking through his usual stoicism.
For the first time in ages, a faint smile tugged at his lips.
Hemel saw it and nearly choked on his drink. He smiled!
The infamous Lamar—the mad cultist himself—had actually smiled?
Shock rippled through Hemel and the others. In the dim glow of the slum's mysteries, anything seemed possible.
From the initial shock, a deeper sense of fear took root.
The mysterious cube in Lamar's hand began to crack, its surface splintering with ominous intent.
Lamar's face twisted into a storm of emotions—fear, shock, grief—all swirling together so intensely that his very aura seemed to spill out, washing over everything around him.
A blinding light erupted from his body, his dark red glow radiating heat and sending sparks that conjured blood shards of every imaginable shape and size.
This transformation—condensing his energy into tangible shards—was something inconceivable, nearly impossible by any normal measure.
"Energy in solid form!" Hemel's voice rang out, loud and incredulous, but no one paid him any mind.
All eyes were glued to Lamar's trembling hand.
The blood shards, infused with the essence of Lamar's years of refinement, infused themselves into the fractured cube.
Only then did everyone realize—the cube was leaking.
A sickly green pus, some unknown liquid, slowly levitated back into the cracks, drawn by the dark glow of Lamar's energy.
His veins bulged grotesquely, blood oozing from his eyes and nose.
The once serene blackness of his gaze was now bloodshot, burning with infinite hatred.
The shards of blood soon wrapped around the vest of Obscure, folding themselves around the round cube in impossible ways.
Were they not hard?
How could they bend so easily?
Burning questions gnawed at Hemel's heart, but he would find no answers tonight.
The vest of Obscure glowed an angry red as the leaking liquid finally ceased.
Glowing spears of energy coiled around it, like a miniature sun radiating an unholy blaze—a beauty refined over decades.
Its light illuminated the floating flames scattered about the bar, casting eerie shadows.
Mysteriously, this small, floating sun drifted into Lamar's hands.
He looked different now—older, drained. It was clear this ritual had cost him dearly.
He tucked the glowing vest of Obscure into his pocket and slumped back into his seat, barely aware of when he'd stood up.
Reaching into another pocket of his unique coat, he pulled out an ancient book, its cover patched and stitched, exuding an unsettling aura that made Lamar's expression darken further.
"Why did the vest of Obscure grow so violent?" Lamar pondered, his thoughts heavy.
"The cost of soothing its anger was far too high—thirteen years of my refinement, gone in an instant."
The veins on his face pulsed darker, more sinister.
Years of painstaking refinement, the very essence that kept him alive, squandered so easily.
To Lamar, this was unacceptable. Losing energy in battle was one thing—victory always demanded sacrifice—but to lose over a decade of work to a mere tool?
"How infuriating."
"But why?"
The question plagued Lamar's mind.
"I was so close to refining the second vest."
Over the years, his actions had grown increasingly reckless as he neared his goal. Now, frustration boiled over.
Clenching his fists, he lost control and slammed them against the metal bar table, sending a shudder through the room.
"Only a dozen more lives and I would have succeeded! Damn it!"
"I gave everything to this cursed object, and now it's taken what it was supposed to give me."
"Now I'm stuck as Vestige One—for who knows how long."
"I… was so close to evolving."
"Everything would have worked perfectly, if only…"
Lamar's face grew even more sinister, veins throbbing, bloodshot eyes never softening.
As Lamar's body trembled, he released a silent sigh.
What more could he possibly do?
He needed the Vest of Obscure far more than it needed him.
"Fine. I'll restart," he muttered under his breath.
"But first, I need to figure out what happened. After all, what's another ten years?"
" I'll just have to keep a low profile for now."
His gaze swept over the room, cold and calculating.
"Maybe I'll take care of this group too. Can't risk exposure—I was a little too violent during my last hunt."
Lamar's blood-colored eyes glinted with malice as he surveyed the fools surrounding him, his sinister expression causing several to flinch and shrink away.
Lamar smiled softly as he recalled the past.
"That girl had it coming," he thought darkly, recalling the memory.
"Looking all pretty and pure—she was practically screaming, 'I'm the perfect material.'"
A twisted smile crept across Lamar's lips as he recalled the fun he'd had with her—a pity he hadn't sacrificed her.
Quickly, he opened the brown book.
Within its pages lay the tales and knowledge of the vest of Obscure: secrets of sacrifices, religious summons, dark demonic contracts, and forbidden magic.
To use it, one always had to offer something in exchange.
The book itself was a mystery, its contents shifting and reshuffling, revealing new knowledge as long as its owner fed it flesh.
But it also carried a curse—a curse whose true nature remained shrouded in darkness…
Though the curse was subtle when neglected, it could become dangerously harmful.
Never let your own blood touch the book of haze.
No one truly knew what would happen if this rule was broken.
Lamar was no fool.
Nearly every ritual in the book required a drop of blood—sometimes his own, sometimes another's.
He suspected that skipping his own offering might serve as a signal, one he dared not risk sending.
But it never once asked him to put his own blood on the book.
With this thought, Lamar carefully checked his surroundings and examined his hands before delving into the ancient tome.
The book itself was bizarre, its passages about the Vest of Obscure scattered randomly, as if the knowledge within was incomplete or intentionally fragmented.
In the past, Lamar had tried feeding it more flesh, hoping to coax out the secrets he craved, but the book never yielded complete answers.
Perhaps that was why it bore such a name.
"Tale from a Haze," he muttered, scoffing at the title.
"What a stupid name."
His voice broke the tense silence, startling everyone in the room.
But before he could read further, a thunderous bang echoed from the front door.
Confusion rippled through the bar. No one ever used the main entrance; everyone came in through the side door connected to Murphy's dilapidated house.
The front door itself was barricaded with reinforced steel—there wasn't even a keyhole.
Before anyone could process what was happening, they witnessed something both bizarre and terrifying.
A hand—yes, unmistakably a hand—dented the thick metal.
The reason they knew it was a hand became clear when the next blow revealed its shape: a young man's hand, tipped with sharp, animal-like claws.
As the hand withdrew, a glowing yellow iris peered through the gap, cold and predatory.
With a calm, almost mocking tone, the intruder spoke.
"Found you."