The power of the mask was no longer just an external force. It had become a part of him—a constant whisper in the back of his mind, urging him to delve deeper into the abyss. The more he used it, the more it consumed him. Asher Blackwood could feel his body changing, his mind bending under its weight. And with every passing moment, he feared that soon, it would be too late to turn back.
The silence in the alley stretched unnaturally, the kind of stillness that didn't belong to the living. The moon above bled pale light down onto cracked concrete and slick puddles, yet even the moonlight seemed afraid to touch Asher now.
He walked with tension in his frame, each step deliberate, yet edged with hesitation. His breath came out in visible streams, misting in the cold air like smoke from a dying fire. He could still feel the aftermath of the rooftop battle clawing at his bones—burned muscles, slow limbs, the echo of adrenaline that refused to let him rest.
They're watching again. He didn't know who, but he knew the feeling. The shadows weren't done with him yet.
The mask clung to his face like a second skin—cold, heavy, too familiar. Its weight had long stopped being just physical. It had started to speak to him in ways that were not words, not thoughts, but impulses. Urges. Hungers.
And then he heard it—soft, almost lazy footsteps, like someone dragging their heels deliberately through the dark.
He stopped.
The hair on his arms rose.
A figure emerged slowly from the curve of the alley. At first it looked human, but as it stepped into the light, the illusion peeled back. Limbs too long, skin that seemed to drip shadow like tar. A grin carved across its featureless face. Not with lips. But with void.
"You're changing," it said, voice sliding across Asher's mind like oil. "More like him every day. The one who wore the mask before you."
Asher's sword slid free from its sheath with a hiss of steel, instinct driving his movements. He stepped back, feet set, muscles tense.
"Who are you talking about?"
The creature gave no answer. Its grin only widened. Then it moved.
Fast.
Asher blocked the first strike with barely a breath to spare, the impact rattling through his bones. Shadows lashed out from the thing's arms like blades, and he twisted, barely avoiding a slash to his throat.
The mask pulsed.
Everything slowed.
Asher could see it all—angles, momentum, weak spots. The mask fed him data like an extension of instinct. He moved with precision, cutting across the creature's side. It dissolved into smoke—but reformed in a heartbeat, untouched.
"You fight like him too," it snarled. "But you're still soft."
"Who the hell is he?" Asher shouted, sweat flying from his brow as he parried again. The creature ducked low and kicked at his legs. He jumped, countered, and slashed—but missed.
"You'll know soon," it hissed, vanishing into the shadows.
And then came the voice—not from the creature. From inside the mask.
"You cannot run from it, Asher. The Mask will take everything from you, if you let it."
It wasn't a hallucination. It was a memory. A voice preserved within the artifact itself. A warning.
Asher faltered. The moment cost him. The creature struck again, claws grazing his shoulder. He gritted his teeth, stumbling backward.
"Why are you doing this to me?" he muttered aloud. The whisper of the mask did not answer. Not directly. But it didn't need to.
It was hungry.
The shadows drew close again. Asher's blade trembled in his hand.
I have to choose.
In a burst of desperation, he ripped the mask from his face and hurled it at the pavement. It struck with a crack that echoed down the alley like thunder.
Everything stopped.
The creature blinked.
The mask lay still for a breath, then began to tremble.
A low hum filled the air.
The cracks in the mask pulsed with a sickly crimson glow, and pain—real, physical agony—stabbed through Asher's skull. He fell to one knee, clutching his temples. It felt like something was trying to tear itself out of his mind, to crawl back into the shattered mask.
"You cannot escape me," the voice growled.
The creature stepped forward. "You're weak without it. You're already mine."
"No," Asher breathed. His hand, almost against his will, reached for the mask.
Don't do it, part of him screamed.
But it was too late.
With a gasp, he slammed it back onto his face.
The world exploded in white light.
Every nerve in his body screamed. His blood boiled. The whisper became a roar. He saw fragments of a life not his own—ruins, fire, a man in a golden mask kneeling in chains, laughing.
And then—clarity.
Stillness.
The power coiled around his limbs, no longer wild and alien. It was his now. Or he was its. The distinction blurred.
His eyes flared red. Not glowing. Burning.
He raised his hand.
The creature laughed—until Asher crushed it with a pulse of raw force. Shadows tore like paper, scattering in a thousand directions.
But something else came with them.
A second presence, stepping out of the darkness, towering and regal in a way that made the creature seem like a puppet.
The air grew heavy. The mask pulsed.
This was it.
Not the beginning of a curse—
—but the key to something far, far worse.
[End of Chapter 21]
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Asher unlocks a new layer of power through the mask, but in doing so awakens a presence darker than anything he's faced before. Who was the previous bearer—and why do these entities speak of Asher becoming "like him"? The answers lie in truths too heavy for a single soul to carry…
Preview for Next Chapter:
Chapter 22: The Architect of AshAsher begins to unravel the history of the mask's first wearer, discovering an ancient pact forged in blood and betrayal. But what happens when the one who created the mask is not only alive—but waiting for his return?