Kairo moved like a ghost beneath the ashen canopy, his senses sharpening with every heartbeat. The shard embedded in his chest—once a relic, now a slow-burning ward—thrummed against the creeping influence of the Abyssal Nerve Codex. It didn't stop the corruption, but it slowed it, buying him time with every whisper it silenced. Time his enemies didn't know he still had.
Each step he took on the broken mountain trail was like walking across bones. Roots curled from beneath shattered stone, curling like fingers of the dead trying to claw their way free. Wind coiled through the trees in low, mournful howls, brushing past his robes with the chill of unseen watchers. The world here didn't simply remember—it mourned.
The mountain path curled toward the ruins of the Veilwither sect. It was there the treasure hunter had died—a skilled cultivator with soul-inked arms and a blade of breathing steel, whose greed had led him to pry secrets from tombs better left undisturbed. He came searching for a memory buried in ash.
Kairo had killed him.
Not out of rage.
Not even for revenge.
But for trespass.
For trying to take the treasures of his ruined sect. Treasures not of gold or jade, but of meaning—rituals, soul sigils, fragments of silence older than time.
The man's death had not gone unnoticed.
Far above, in the snow-laced citadel of Thirteenth Petal, the Accord convened.
Thirteen chairs carved from moonstone. Thirteen warlocks, oracles, and sword-saints clad in the traditional grey veils of the Accord. A circle of power that governed with silence and judgment, their rule spanning empires and voidships alike. From astral monasteries to blood-stained dynasties, their whispers steered fates.
A wraith-masked courier entered the hall, his robes damp with the icy mist of sky-travel. In his hand, the sigil of the Seventh Bloom—cracked, and stained with blood. He approached the dais, bent one knee, and raised the seal.
"It's confirmed," he said, his voice hollow behind the mask. "The treasure hunter's trace ended at Veilwither sect. He was killed and drained of his IQ."
That word—Drained—hung in the air like the toll of a funeral bell.
Councilor Seran, the Fourth Petal, stood. Her voice, though barely above a whisper, cut through the cold like a whip of soulsteel.
"He was sanctioned. Vetted. Are you saying something ancient stirred beneath Veilwither?"
"No," rasped the courier, lifting his eyes. "I'm saying something new was born."
The chamber fell into a deeper silence. Even the flame-wells dimmed, flickering as if in dread.
Then, the Thirteenth Petal rose.
She had not spoken in over a century. Her veil shimmered like a pool of starlight frozen in mourning, her eyes two pinpricks of void.
"Find whatever killed him," she said.
"But we do not know wha—" the Fifth Petal began.
"You will," the Thirteenth interrupted, voice quiet but terrible. "A shadow does not simply vanish without leaving a stain. If the Abyss breathes again, it is no longer sealed. And if this survivor walks with its blessing—then he is the wound through which corruption bleeds."
The petals shimmered with arcane sigils. Orders whispered into nothingness were already in motion—spy networks awakened, silent assassins roused from cursed rest, and old debts called in from the underworld courts. The Accord was not just a council—it was a machine. Ancient. Inescapable.
Back in the Vale, Kairo felt a sudden weight settle on his shoulders. A warning, not from a voice, but from the stillness in the trees and the way the air pulled sharp against his skin.
The world was watching.
The quiet was too perfect.
He stood at the edge of the altar, breathing in the silence. Black moss grew in the crevices, pulsing with an unnatural rhythm that mirrored the thrum in his chest. He knelt, touching the stone where the treasure hunter had fallen—where blood had mingled with forgotten glyphs carved during the Old War.
"By now, they should have noticed."
His voice was almost lost in the breeze, but the wind carried it like a confession to gods long dead.
He looked toward the mountains, where the sky seemed to shimmer with veiled intent. As if something vast and distant was peeling back the clouds, peering down at him through layers of time.
"Next time, they'll send hunters."
The shard in his chest pulsed once—twice—as if in agreement. It had not only slowed the Codex's corruption—it had marked him. Made him part of something larger. A conduit of forbidden resonance. A paradox. A curse.
And perhaps, a weapon.
He didn't stay long. Not anymore. He'd learned that ghosts didn't like to be watched—and gods didn't enjoy being remembered. The more he lingered, the louder the Codex whispered. And the closer the Accord's knives would draw.
He moved again, silent as the dead, down a slope of obsidian shale that once housed Veilwither's outer library. Now, only charred stone and echoes remained. But Kairo didn't look back.
Looking back was for those who could afford sentiment.
Somewhere above, the Petals stirred.
And one by one, their blades began to turn.