Somewhere near the border of the Forbidden Lands... Beneath the twisted roots of a dead forest, hidden by illusion wards and thick mist, lay one of the many secret strongholds of the Sealed Ones. The air was damp and heavy, thick with the scent of scorched incense and old blood. Torches burned with pale green flames along the stone chamber walls, casting eerie shadows that danced like ghosts.
In the heart of the underground sanctum, cloaked figures knelt in silence around a blackstone altar carved with ancient, forbidden runes. At the head stood Flaron Zarvek, the leader of the Sealed Ones—tall, imposing, and cloaked in deep crimson and black. His eyes, glowing faintly with malevolent power, swept across the gathering. He raised his voice, calm yet chilling, each word echoing through the stone chamber like a slow tolling bell. "We gather tonight for a cause long foretold. A path carved in blood and betrayal. The winds of prophecy stir—and thanks to the efforts of one among us… we now draw closer to our destiny." The cultists murmured in anticipation, heads bowed.
Flaron turned slightly, his gaze falling upon a figure stepping forward—Roz. Once a respected adventurer, now draped in the dark armor of the Sealed Ones, the faint glow of gemstone magic still flickering beneath his sleeves. He stood tall, silent, but the weight of what he had done pressed on his face. "Roz," Flaron said, voice sharper now, "has proven his worth. Through deception and precision, he infiltrated the archives of the Guild Federation itself and uncovered the resting place of one of the ancient relics." Gasps echoed from a few cultists. Even among them, relics were whispered of with fear and reverence. "This relic," Flaron continued, "is in the possession of one of the five noble families… the Lanciers." He let the name hang in the air, heavy with venom.
"At midnight, we strike. We move without mercy, without hesitation. That relic will belong to us before the next sunrise. And anyone—anyone—who stands in our way…" He paused, lifting his hand. With a flick of his fingers, a chained prisoner—half-dead and gagged—was dragged forward by one of the masked guards. In a flash of dark energy, Flaron pointed a single finger, and the prisoner's body collapsed into ash. "...will meet the same fate." Silence followed. No one questioned him.
"Roz," Flaron said, "you will lead the strike team. You are now ranked Expert, and your knowledge of the Lancier estate will be vital to our success." Roz gave a curt nod. His eyes were serious—hardened. But deep beneath them, a flicker of doubt lingered. He did not speak. "Alongside you, we send four of our finest—Nyra, the Veilblade… Jorren, the Shadowbind… Thesk, the Quiet Flame, and Raulyn, the Hollow Fang. Each trained in silent elimination and magical suppression." The four cultists stepped forward as their names were called—each one masked, their weapons sheathed in cursed leather. None said a word.
Flaron's cloak shifted slightly as he stepped down from the altar. "I will watch from the shadows. If the need arises… if the royals dare interfere... I will not hold back. I've waited too long to show them what true despair feels like." He clenched his hand, and the torches in the room flared violently, casting warped shadows on the walls. "Now go. Prepare. Sharpen your blades, silence your hearts. Tonight… we bring the world one step closer to the day of reckoning." The cultists stood as one, fists clenched over their chests. Roz glanced at them, then at Flaron, his expression unreadable.
Somewhere beyond the walls of the sanctum, thunder rumbled faintly. The storm was coming. And it would begin… at midnight.
Hidden beneath the thick mists of the highlands, the Lancier family domain stood proud and ancient—a castle of silver-veined stone and enchanted crystal spires that shimmered with protective wards. Magical lanterns floated above its walls like vigilant sentries, casting soft blue light across the courtyards. The estate pulsed faintly with defensive enchantments—ancient and formidable, powered by the royal bloodline itself.
Deep within its lower sanctum, buried behind three layers of enchanted stone and guarded by an inner ring of elite royal guards, lay the chamber of secrets. There, nestled within a protective pedestal of crystal and divine steel, pulsed the ancient relic—its surface etched with cosmic runes that shimmered with light and truth. Outside the estate walls, the fog moved unnaturally.
Five figures cloaked in shadow approached from the treeline. Not a branch snapped, not a footstep echoed. Leading them was Roz, now fully clad in obsidian-toned armor laced with violet gemstone threading. His expression was cold, yet focused. Behind him crept the four assassins: Nyra the Veilblade, with her silent daggers coated in soul venom. Jorren the Shadowbind, a dark mage able to suppress light and noise in a radius around them. Thesk the Quiet Flame, a pyromancer trained in combusting enemy weapons mid-swing. And Raulyn the Hollow Fang, who wore a bestial mask and moved like a wraith.
They whispered no words. No signals. They had done this many times. Overlooking it all from a shadowed cliff was Flaron Zarvek, cloaked in crimson and black. He stood with arms folded, eyes glowing dark red beneath his hood. His weapon—the Scythe of the Dead—stood taller than any man, buried blade-first into the stone beside him. Its blackened edge throbbed with latent power, tendrils of darkness gently twisting around its shaft. The scythe was an Exalted-ranked weapon, a tier just below the revered Magisterial artifacts. It had fed on the souls of hundreds, perhaps more. And in Flaron's hands, it was the instrument of judgment.
"Avoid bloodshed if possible," Flaron spoke quietly, through a magical link only the cultists could hear. His voice was calm but seething with malice. "But if the royals interfere… do not hesitate. The relic is priority. Anyone else is expendable." His eyes narrowed, and he reached out with one gloved hand toward the estate. "Begin."
Roz raised two fingers. Jorren cast his silence bubble. The group vanished into the night like smoke on the wind. The elite royal guards of House Lancier remained ever-vigilant. Mages with silver-trimmed staves patrolled the upper halls, while armored warriors lined the gates and stairwells. Each bore the crest of the noble house—a winged sword surrounded by radiant stars. They believed it was safe. They didn't know what was coming.
Flaron rested a hand on the scythe's hilt, watching through the eyes of a summoned wraith that now drifted behind Roz. His voice, low and resolute, echoed again to his warriors: "Let them call us mad. Let them brand us heretics. But when the false kings fall… and the Sealed One rises... they'll remember this night as the beginning of their end." The wind howled. And the first barrier shimmered—breached in silence.
The hunt had begun. Within no time, the team was able to silently take out the guards in their way and retrieve the relic. Suddenly, the walls pulsed with crimson light. Alarm runes surged along the ceiling like racing veins.
"We've been found!" Roz growled, clutching the relic—a blackstone prism inscribed with glowing runes. He tucked it into a crystalline lockbox and stood ready, gemstone staff in hand. "Move!" From the shadows nearby, Nyra, the shadowmancer, emerged like mist, her twin blades dripping with inky energy. They sprinted down the corridor, footsteps light and controlled. Ahead, the air shimmered—the wind mage preparing their extraction portal. But their path was suddenly cut off by heavy footsteps and a clang of metal.
From the corridor's far end stepped a Royal Guard, clad in silver armor traced with magnetic glyphs. His eyes were calm, calculating—the look of a seasoned killer. Slung over his shoulder was a greatsword forged of enchanted steel, laced with metal magic. "You're not leaving with that," he said flatly. "Drop the relic and kneel. Last chance." Roz didn't flinch. "We're past that point."
Nyra lunged first, vanishing into the floor's shadows, only to reappear behind the guard with her blades crossing toward his neck. But the guard twisted with inhuman speed, slamming his sword backward. A surge of magnetic force rippled out, flinging her into the wall. Roz chanted quickly, slamming his staff into the floor. "Ruby Fang Burst!" A split-second later, ten jagged blood-red crystalline spikes erupted from the ground beneath the guard, hissing with internal flames.
But the guard raised his weapon overhead. "Metal Wall—Titan Shell." A dome of compressed metallic shards exploded outward from his greatsword, catching the ruby fangs mid-eruption and crushing them with brutal weight. The earth warrior cultist, Tharn, surged forward, slamming the ground with his fists. Twin boulders hurled toward the guard. At the same time, Velya, the wind mage, released sharp gusts that sliced the air like blades.
But the guard moved through them like a tempest. He gripped his sword with both hands and shouted: "Weapon Art—Iron Divide!" A wave of silver force blasted out in a brutal arc, cleaving the air. It shattered the boulders, cut through the wind magic, and struck Tharn and Roz, sending both crashing into the walls in smoking heaps. Blood trickled from Roz's mouth, his armor cracked.
"He's—he's a monster…" Roz whispered, pushing himself up with a trembling hand. Nyra launched again, using the shadows at his feet—but the guard activated a magnetic field that froze the shadows in place. She was caught mid-phase and thrown back once more. "You fight well," the guard said coldly. "But you're not ready for me." He raised his blade, now glowing with metallic resonance—ready to end Roz for good.