Chapter 1 Part 1: Shadows in Gearhold
Elias wiped the grime from his brow, the sting of sweat mixing with oily filth on his skin. His fingers ached from hours of wrestling pipes and cursed valves, but real trouble was always more than mechanical. In Gearhold — a city where steam ruled and shadows whispered secrets — danger was never far.
"Oi, kid! You got a minute?" A voice cut through the noise—gravelly, low, and smelling of burnt tobacco. Jax, Elias's one-eyed partner in crime and the only person who tolerated his foul mouth without punching him, leaned against a rusty pipe. Jax was missing half his teeth but somehow had the charm of a used-car salesman. Elias didn't know why he kept him around—maybe because Jax owed him a favor, or maybe because he was the only one who could keep Elias's reckless streak from getting him killed too often.
"What's up, Jax?" Elias asked, carefully pocketing a tiny cog he'd scavenged from the wreckage.
"You ever heard of a demon with no body?" Jax asked, flicking a smoke ring into the thick factory air.
Elias snorted. "What, like some ghost story? Save it for the drunkards down at the Rusted Gear."
Jax leaned in, eyes sharp. "No joke, Elias. There's been whispers. A demon that hides in shadows, possesses nothing but pure will. They say he used to be a cult leader before the hunters got wise. Now he's after someone—someone important."
Elias raised an eyebrow, cracking a grin. "Sounds like a hell of a pain in the ass. But I've got bigger problems, like not getting flattened by a steam press or eaten by one of those freak demon-possessed brutes."
The factory's siren wailed again—a warning that made Elias's heart jump. "That's my cue. Time to run before I get my head twisted off."
He darted between machinery, the hiss of steam and clang of metal echoing like a symphony of doom. In Gearhold, you learned fast: either you outpaced death, or it caught you by the throat.
Behind the factory, in the twisting alleys slick with rain and oil, a low growl rumbled. Elias froze. A shadow flickered at the edge of his vision—a hulking figure with eyes burning like coals. A demon host, no doubt, twisted by whatever dark magic coursed through this godforsaken city.
Elias pulled his custom revolver, the barrel etched with strange runes—his "soulgear," a gift from a demon hunter who saved his life once, and a curse that tied him to the deadly game of possession and power.
The demon wasn't much—low-rank, barely a nuisance to a true hunter—but in Gearhold's back alleys, even the weak were deadly enough to ruin your day. It was lanky, with skin like cracked leather stretched too tight over bones that looked like they'd been pulled from a graveyard auction. Its fingers ended in jagged claws that scraped against the brick, sending shards of mortar tumbling.
Elias squinted through the steam drifting from the vents overhead. He knew the signs: it was desperate, probably sent to test him or slow him down.
"C'mon then," Elias muttered, cocking his revolver and flashing a crooked grin. "You wanna dance, freak? I'm the worst partner you'll ever have."
The demon hissed, lunging with unnatural speed. Elias barely dodged the swipe of its claws, feeling the scrape of sharp nails graze his jacket. The creature's breath smelled like burnt sulfur and old meat.
Elias rolled backward, sliding on the slick cobblestones. "You've got claws? Big whoop. I've got bullets... and a hell of a temper."
He fired. The bullet streaked through the haze and slammed into the demon's shoulder, sparks flying as dark magic flared around the impact. The creature snarled, stumbling but not broken.
Using the moment, Elias sprinted forward, swinging his revolver's heavy handle like a club. The crack echoed through the alley as the demon's jaw snapped back with a sickening crunch.
But the demon fought dirty. It grappled Elias, nails digging into his forearm as it tried to drag him into the shadows. Elias grunted, muscles straining. He slammed an elbow into the demon's ribs, feeling the crunch of breaking bones.
"Try harder," Elias spat, twisting free and kicking the creature into a stack of crates.
Wood splintered, crates tumbling as the demon shook off the attack and rose, eyes blazing with fury. "You're tougher than I expected, human," it growled in a voice like grinding stone.
"Yeah, well, I'm also a little crazy," Elias shot back, wiping blood from his lip. "And I don't die easy."
He flipped the revolver's chamber, loading a special bullet infused with a shard of his soulgear—a flicker of demon energy that burned with pure light.
The demon snarled and charged, but Elias was ready. The moment it raised its claws, Elias fired.
The bullet exploded on impact, a burst of searing light ripping through the demon's chest. It screamed, staggering back as smoke curled from its flesh. The magical wound burned deep, forcing it to retreat, claws scrabbling uselessly on the ground.
Elias didn't hesitate. He rushed forward and smashed the revolver's butt into the demon's temple again. The creature collapsed, twitching like a broken puppet.
Panting, Elias leaned over it, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Not exactly the fearsome nightmare I was expecting. More like a bug with bad manners."
The demon's eyes flickered with fading magic. "You... can't stop the others. They're coming."
Elias chuckled darkly. "Yeah, yeah. The 'others.' Heard that one before. But if they want a piece of me, they better bring more than rotten jokes and claws."
He kicked the demon's head one last time, ensuring it stayed down. Then, wiping sweat from his brow, Elias glanced around.
The alley was quiet again, save for the distant rumble of steam engines and the ever-present hum of the city's heartbeat.
But Elias knew better than to relax. This fight was only the opening act.
He reached into his coat pocket, fingers brushing the worn leather amulet that hung around his neck—a reminder of the past he tried to forget, and the powers that haunted him. Powers tied to the very demons he hunted.
The city whispered secrets and lies, but Elias had learned one thing for sure: in Gearhold, survival was a brutal game, and every shadow hid a monster.
And he was running out of time.
The demon's body evaporated into oily smoke, leaving behind the stink of brimstone and blood. Elias exhaled through his nose, watching the vapor swirl away into the night. Something about this one felt wrong—too weak to be sent alone, but too bold to be random. Someone had sent it. A test. Or a warning.
He holstered his revolver and moved back into the deeper parts of the city. Gearhold was a rust-covered dream turned nightmare, all brass towers and clockwork bridges. Steam hissed from every grate, gas lamps flickered in unnatural rhythms, and the sky was a permanent gray. The air tasted like coal, and the streets had bones beneath them.
Elias ducked into an abandoned workshop, a place he'd rigged up as a hideout after his last apartment exploded — long story, demon cultists, some fire, a goat. You know, Tuesday.
The metal door groaned shut behind him. He dropped his coat, revealing a scarred shirt and arms covered in faded symbols—wards, seals, protection glyphs. Some worked. Some were just there to freak people out.
He tossed a broken gear onto his workbench and reached for a rag.
That's when the voice returned.
> "He was weak. Barely worth the breath it took to kill him."
Elias froze, eyes narrowing. "Not now. Not you again."
> "You should be thanking me. If I weren't here, you'd be drooling in a gutter with your guts on the outside."
A faint, cold wind swept through the workshop. The light flickered as the voice echoed from every shadow—deep, ancient, inhuman. This wasn't a ghost or memory. This was Vael'zir: a bodiless demon Elias had spared years ago... and had regretted ever since.
"I don't need your help," Elias snapped, tossing the rag aside. "Last time I let you whisper in my ear, I nearly roasted an orphanage."
> "And yet, you didn't. You pulled back. You chose mercy."
Elias scoffed. "Yeah. That's me. Mr. Compassion."
> "You let me live. A mistake you still don't understand."
Vael'zir had once possessed a cult leader who'd tried to open a rift in the heart of Gearhold. Elias had stopped him—barely—and found something strange inside the demon's soul: will, yes, but not malice. He didn't spare him out of mercy. He spared him out of curiosity.
And ever since, Vael'zir had followed him, whispering, watching. Waiting.
Elias stared into the oil lamp, voice quieter now. "Why me?"
> "Because you're broken. And because, like me... you don't belong anywhere."
There it was again—that damn honesty. Elias hated it.
"Touching," Elias muttered. "But if you ever try to hijack my body again, I'll shove you into a toaster and throw you in the damn river."
> "Fair."
There was something like... laughter. Dry, hollow. The sound of bones settling into ancient earth.
A knock came at the door—three short raps, then one long. A signal.
Elias tensed. Not many knew he lived here. He grabbed his gun and opened the door a crack.
"'Bout time you let me in," said Jax, slipping inside with his usual smell of smoke and beer. "You look like shit."
Elias leaned back. "Aw, I missed you too."
Jax held out a stained envelope. "Job."
Elias raised an eyebrow. "I didn't sign up for a gig."
"You didn't. Someone sent it special. Courier said it was 'soul-marked' or whatever those magic bastards call it."
Elias took the envelope. Sure enough, it glowed faintly—like someone had embedded it with blood-ink and whisper-charms. Definitely not official.
He opened it.
---
> TO ELIAS DRAEVEN, BEARER OF THE BROKEN MARK
There is something stirring beneath Gearhold.
A tree with roots deeper than the city's bones.
A demon of rank. A threat you cannot face alone.
Come to the rust chapel beneath the Old Coilworks.
Midnight.
Bring fire.
—X
---
"Well that's comforting," Elias muttered.
Jax leaned over. "What the hell's a 'rust chapel'?"
"Old hideout," Elias said, stuffing the note in his coat. "Place where cultists used to gather before the city bulldozed it into a pipe maze."
Jax raised a brow. "And you're going?"
"Hell yeah, I'm going." Elias strapped his soulgear back on, checking the barrel and loading three special rounds. "If something's stirring beneath the city, I wanna be the guy who punches it in the face before it crawls out and ruins my week."
Jax laughed. "You ever think about retirement?"
"All the time," Elias said, stepping out into the cold. "But demons just love ruining my pension."
---
An hour later, Elias descended into the underbelly of Gearhold. The pipes were older here, rusted and half-forgotten. It smelled of rot and wet metal, and the ground pulsed with strange energy.
Vael'zir was quiet. Always was when things got serious.
The rust chapel was a cathedral of corroded metal. Massive gears hung like broken chandeliers, and stained glass windows depicted saints of machinery, their faces twisted by age and corrosion.
And something was there—waiting.
Not a person. Not a thing.
A presence.
Elias drew his weapon. "Alright, you oily bastard. I'm here. Let's see who bleeds first."
Something stirred behind the altar. A twisted shape, humanoid but bent like a snapped marionette. Not the S-rank demon the note had warned of—but a Herald. A corrupted host, possessed by the whispers of higher things.
Its eyes were black, and its mouth full of teeth that didn't belong to any human.
"You carry the soulgear," it rasped. "We are curious... how you still breathe."
"I eat well. Exercise. Avoid demonic possession when I can," Elias said, stepping forward.
The Herald lunged.
The fight was chaos.
Steel shrieked as the Herald clawed at the floor, the tiles curling under its grip. Elias dodged, rolled, fired. His first shot blasted off part of its shoulder, sending bits of flesh and metal flying.
The thing screamed—a shriek that echoed like a thousand gears snapping.
Elias ducked low, slid under the creature, and fired up. Another shot exploded inside its ribcage, but the Herald didn't die easy. It twisted inhumanly, wrapped a claw around Elias's leg, and flung him into a rusted pillar.
Pain lanced up his spine.
> "Now would be a great time to help," Elias snarled inside his mind.
> "Very well," Vael'zir whispered. "But only a taste."
A surge of heat flooded Elias's veins. Not fire—something deeper. Ancient. Demonic.
His revolver glowed red. The next shot screamed like a banshee and tore straight through the Herald's head.
The creature stumbled.
And Elias did not hesitate.
He leapt, smashed its face with the revolver butt, and fired one last time into its open chest.
The Herald collapsed, steam rising from the wound.
Elias stood over the body, panting. "Yeah. That's what I thought."
But even as he wiped the blood from his cheek, he felt it—roots, stirring deeper below.
This wasn't the real threat.
This was the invitation.
The rust chapel was dead silent, save for the sound of Elias's boots scraping over broken tiles. The Herald's corpse lay twisted like a snapped clock spring, its demonic ichor sizzling on the stone. And yet… the air still felt wrong.
Elias crouched beside the body, muttering, "You better not get up again. I'm fresh outta bullets and patience."
The Herald didn't move. Good.
> "You felt that," Vael'zir whispered. "The deeper thing. The old thing."
"Yeah," Elias murmured, glancing down the corridor behind the altar—a collapsed tunnel slick with mold and whispering wind. "Something's down there."
He straightened, joints popping. His side ached from where he hit the pillar. Nothing broken, just bruised. Or at least, that's what he told himself.
Jax would have yelled at him to rest. Then again, Jax also thought showering was "an optional lifestyle choice."
Elias lit a cigarette and stared into the shadows. "You think it's real?"
> "It's ancient. And it remembers you."
Elias exhaled a long stream of smoke. "Fan-fucking-tastic."
He moved deeper into the tunnel. The stone turned slick and green, the pipes above weeping oily tears. The whisper grew louder—not in his ears, but in his bones. The further he walked, the more he felt watched… and not in a 'you're-being-hunted' way. In a curious way. Like a god poking at an ant, wondering what makes it twitch.
Soon, he reached it.
A root. Not just a root—the root.
It pulsed with dark veins and glowing cracks, stretching across the corridor like the artery of some buried titan. The walls around it were fused with flesh-like bark, throbbing softly.
Elias stared at it, gun still drawn.
> "This is no lowborn demon's doing," Vael'zir said, voice unusually grim. "This is the work of a seeded one."
"Meaning?"
> "One who's planted part of their soul in this world. It grows like a weed. Slowly. Quietly. Until one day, it blooms and devours."
Elias scowled. "You waited until now to tell me demons can plant trees?"
> "We are nature, Elias. Twisted as it is. What is a demon but a parasite that thinks it's a god?"
"Lovely. So what, this thing's gonna bloom into a city-killer?"
> "If left alone, yes. The roots will twist minds. Rot stone. Raise the dead. And at its heart, something worse will awaken."
Elias looked at the root.
"Guess I better dig it the fuck up."
He reached into his coat, pulled a grenade—well, homemade demon bomb. Wards etched into the casing. Gift from Yesi the dwarf mage. May she rest in whatever tavern serves celestial ale.
He primed it and whispered, "No offense, Mother Nature."
He lobbed it at the root and turned to run.
The explosion was muffled but deep. It didn't just shake the tunnel—it screamed through it. The bark sizzled, the air curdled, and a wave of something wrong slammed into Elias like a freight train of sin.
He flew backward, smashed into the wall, and blacked out for a second.
When he came to, the root was still there—but now it was bleeding.
And whispering.
> "Eliaaaaassss…"
He blinked. That wasn't Vael'zir's voice.
That was new.
"Oh, hell," he muttered, staggering to his feet.
The root pulsed again—and opened. Not like a flower, no. Like a wound.
A face emerged from the bark—shifting, malformed, covered in bark and bone. It had no eyes, but it smiled.
> "You'll make fine soil, bearer of the soulgear…"
Elias raised his revolver. "Yeah? I'm fresh out of fertilizer jokes, but I got bullets. Wanna try your luck?"
But then something strange happened.
The face laughed—not the cruel laughter of a demon. But soft. Pitying.
> "You wear his fragments, yet you do not know what you carry…"
Elias froze. "His?"
> "Vael'zir," the barkface whispered. "The betrayer. The hungry. You carry his soul. His sins. His seed."
Elias looked at his revolver—now glowing faintly red.
> "You are his vessel."
The world tilted. Elias shook his head, trying to laugh it off. "Nice try, tree-face. Vael'zir's a leech in my head. Not my dad."
> "You are half-right," the voice said, retreating slowly. "But the seed is already growing…"
And then it sank back into the root like melting wax.
The tunnel went dark.
Elias stood alone in silence.
> "You gonna explain that shit?" he growled.
But Vael'zir said nothing.
Which was worse than any answer.
---
He emerged back into Gearhold just before dawn. The upper levels were starting to buzz with life—drunks stumbling home, airships groaning awake, city bells marking another miserable day.
Elias walked through the market square, coat stained with ichor, eyes hollow.
Jax saw him first. "You look like you saw a ghost and made out with it."
Elias didn't answer.
"Job's done?" Jax asked, cautiously.
Elias just said, "The job wasn't what I thought."
"Wanna explain?"
"Nope."
"Should I worry?"
Elias lit another cigarette. "Probably."
---
That night, as Elias sat alone in his workshop, sharpening his knife in the low lamplight, he looked into the blade and saw not his face—but Vael'zir's. Just for a second. Staring back at him.
Smiling.
The root still pulsed in his memory.
And the words echoed:
> You carry his soul… You are his vessel…
"Fuck me," Elias muttered.
And then laughed.
Because of course this was his life.
Because of course everything was going to shit.
Because what else could he do?
He laughed, alone, in the dark.
And somewhere far below, a tree kept growing.
---
End of Chapter 1.