The flight to Amity Park was a testament to his improving growht. The streak of electric blue and silver that cut through the night sky was steady, its path unwavering. The panicked, erratic energy of his previous escape was replaced by a focused, determined thrust. Kael was progressing towards his goal.
He phased silently through the familiar walls of the Veyne mansion, the air cold and still. The basement lab was exactly as he'd left. Repaired and workable portal with maintained equipment. His eyes went immediately to the cabinet where his parents had stored the gear purchased from the Fentons. He opened the cabinet.
First, the Fenton Thermos. He grabbed the familiar red-and-white cylinder. This was his primary objective. Next, a handheld Ecto-Scanner and a compact Ecto-Dejector Blaster, a basic sidearm for emergencies. He also found a folded Ghost Net and a pair of Specter Deflectors—wristbands that could generate a small, weak energy shield. They were crude compared to the tech in his plans, but they were a start. He packed it all into a sturdy duffel bag. He was no longer just a ghost; he was an armed operative.
The return trip to Elmerton was heavier, both literally and figuratively. The weight of the gear was reminder of the weight of the responsibility he was going to carry.
The next day, his research in the Elmerton library took on a new side. With the Thermos in his bag, the question was no longer just academic: Why were they here? He combed through brittle, old town ledgers and forgotten local history books. The answer wasn't in a single dramatic story, but in a pattern woven through decades.
He found it in a yellowed newspaper clipping from 1947, detailing the "unexplained and tragic" sinking of a coal barge in the river, with all hands lost. He found it in a geologist's survey noting a curious, localized "energy fluctuation" in the bedrock beneath the cemetery. He found it in the diary of a settler's wife from 1890, who wrote of "cold spots and mournful cries" from the old burial ground the town was built around.
The logical conclusion was grim. The cemetery wasn't just old; it was a sinkhole for tragic energy. The river accident, combined with the natural geological oddity, had created a weak spot—a place where the veil between worlds was thin. It wasn't a stable portal like the Fentons', but a leaky wound in reality. It didn't draw powerful ghosts with purpose; it passively accumulated the residual emotional energy of sorrow and sudden death, allowing the weakest, most mindless specters—Echoes of those lost tragedies—to combine and linger. They weren't invaders; they were stains, drawn to the energy of their own making.
That evening over dinner, he carefully steered the conversation.
"Aunt Claire, the local history here is fascinating," he began, cutting into his roast chicken. "I was reading about that barge that sank in the river decades ago. Such a tragedy."
His aunt, ever the academic, nodded thoughtfully. "Oh, yes. The River Accident. A terrible event. It's one of those stories that becomes local legend. Some of the older folks in town still talk about seeing strange lights out there on foggy nights, or hearing voices near the old dock. Just rumors, of course, the kind of stories that spring up around any old tragedy."
Kael stored every word away, another data point confirming his theory. "It's interesting what people believe," he said neutrally. "My parents' research... some of it touched on how intense emotional events might leave an imprint on a location. They thought it could be a form of energy we don't yet understand."
Aunt Claire gave him a soft, sad smile. "They were brilliant, visionary people. It's good that you're keeping their curiosity alive, Kael. Just... be sure to also focus on the present. Not everything from the past needs to be dug up." Her advice was kindly meant, but it only solidified his resolve. Some things from the past needed to be contained.
Later that night, standing at the iron gate of the Old Elmerton Cemetery, Kael felt different. The duffel bag was over his shoulder, the weight of the Thermos a comforting pressure against his back. The cold dread was still there, but it was now secondary to a calculated sense of readiness.
He transformed. The rings of light were sharper, the silver ripples within his electric blue aura less chaotic. He looked at the Specter Deflectors on his wrists, a faint hum joining the crackle of his energy. He took a steady breath and stepped through the gate.
He didn't have to wait long. The same three Fodder Shades—or others just like them—swirled up from the ground, their pinprick red eyes fixing on him with mindless hunger. But this time, Kael didn't wait for them to charge.
He raised the Ecto-Scanner. He modified it and made some adjustments. It beeped, its screen displaying: ENTITY: FODDER SHADE. ECTO-RANK: E-3. THREAT LEVEL: LOW.
"Let's do this," he whispered.
The first ghost lunged. Kael didn't flinch. He sidestepped with a graceful step honed in the dojo, the movement economical and precise. As the specter passed, he didn't waste energy on a punch. He simply raised the Fenton Thermos, thumbed the activation switch, and a beam of bright blue light erupted from it. The ghost's shriek was cut short as it was vacuumed into the container with a satisfying foomp.
The second came from his blind spot. His Temporal Perception flared—a soft ping at the base of his skull. He dropped into a low crouch, the ghost's claws passing harmlessly over his head. Before it could reorient, he was already turning, the Thermos already aimed. Foomp. Two contained.
The third, perhaps sensing the fate of its brethren, hesitated. It was a moment of primal fear, not intellect. Kael used it. He didn't bother with the Thermos. He needed to test his control. He raised his hand, focused his will not on a wild blast, but on a single, precise point. A bolt of Blue-Fire, no larger than a coin, shot from his fingertips. It struck the ghost's core with a sizzle. The creature wailed, stunned and destabilized. Then Kael finished it. Foomp.
Silence.
The entire fight had taken less than fifteen seconds. His breathing was even. His aura was stable. He had used a fraction of the energy he'd wasted two weeks ago.
He stood alone among the headstones, the Thermos warm in his hand, humming with contained energy. A fierce, quiet triumph surged through him. This was his first true victory. It was small, against the lowest possible threat, but it was clean, efficient, and total. He had applied strategy, technology, and controlled power. He had won.
Back in his room, he placed the humming Thermos on his desk. He had no lab here to experiment on the captured shades, no way to safely extract and study them. For now, they would remain contained, prisoners of his first successful campaign. But they were more than that; they were his first real assets, his first samples.
He looked out his window towards the dark shape of the cemetery. The thorn was still there, the leak in the world still weeping its tragic energy. But tonight, he had proven he could stem the flow. He had taken his first step from being prey to becoming a warden.
The war was far from over, but the first battle was finally his.