Darkwell was a very unique city.
It rose from the Black Swamp like a forest of stone and metal, forming a sprawling network of colossal towers that jutted out from the surface of the swamp. Each tower was wide enough to hold an entire city block, and there were thousands of them, woven together into something that resembled a massive vertical castle. The towers were connected by bridges and platforms at varying heights, forming layered walkways that pulsed faintly with the glow of magitech
From a distance, it looked like a vast, rippling fortress floating atop the swamp.
Each tower swayed slightly, following the motion of the swamp below, rising and falling in rhythm with the stormy waves of the swamplands. From afar, the city resembled a living cluster of enormous hexagonal spires breathing in slow, steady rhythm with the Dark Swamp.
The reason Darkwell was designed like this was simple…
It was survival.
Every few months, this part of the Dark Swamps experienced a natural phenomenon known as the Swamp Storm. During a Swamp Storm, the entire terrain shifted, the ground heaved and folded as the waters below surged upward like an ocean tide. The phenomenon was unpredictable and destructive, capable of swallowing entire towns overnight, especially if they weren't prepared.
To withstand its momentum, the architects of Darkwell had built the city as a flexible fortress. Each tower could detach, shift, and re-anchor itself when the swamplands moved, allowing the entire city to ride out the storm like a ship navigating violent waves. Even if one of the outer towers collapsed, then they could just replace it over the next year.
This, of course, required an absurd number of powerful mages, but it was still considered a success.
* * *
BOOM!
A blinding crack of lightning tore across the sky, splitting the darkness with a flash. The entire city shook. Wind slammed into the towers in violent, spiraling waves, howling through every bridge, shattered window, and every rooftop. Rain followed in black waves, forcing its way into every nook and cranny, soaking the ground, and staining the city.
Darkwell was already in chaos.
A deathly chill had begun to rise from the swamp below, seeping upwards through the city streets and metal framework. It spread slowly, filling the city with a creeping dread that pressed against the mind. For two days straight, the city had been under constant attack from all sides.
The Duskdwellers came in endless waves. Some rose from below, swimming through the swamps and climbing up the pillars, while others fell from the sky and landed on the rooftops, only to crawl down and slip into any opening they could find. What was worse, some manifested directly within the city, appearing out of nowhere and creating outbreaks that were nearly impossible to predict.
Their thin, straggly bodies carried almost no weight, yet their claws carved through stone as if it were clay. They moved like dusty ghosts, flickering in and out of sight with each attack. Every time one was killed, two more seemed to take its place.
The lower districts were the most chaotic…
Citizens flooded in and out of city blocks. Some were panicking, some were fighting, and others were desperately trying to form something that resembled a defense.
They were losing ground by the hour.
The air was thick with heat and rain, filled with the smell of blood, rot, and burning runes that were overheating from the mechanisms that maintained the city's stability.
The Swamp Storm had hit at the same time as the Duskdwellers attacked.
Black rain poured down like a curtain, raising the swamp until the lower areas were half submerged. Thick waves crashed against the feet of the towers, shaking them from their bases and sending tremors all the way to their peaks. The towers of Darkwell tilted and swayed, their foundations groaning under the unpredictable weight of magic and man.
Protective runes carved into the walls of every tower vibrated violently, their light dimming in and out as if struggling to stay alive. They guarded against the Black Rain and withering aura, but even these legendary creations had a limit. The stabilizing artifact-anchors under the swamp pulsed unevenly, cracks forming like veins across their submerged surfaces.
As time passed, things only grew worse…
The storm slammed into the city head-on, sending shockwaves through the towers. The air was filled with the roar of wind and cracking stone. Some of the smaller towers collapsed completely, crashing into the swamp with entire blocks of people still inside.
Darkwell shook as if it were screaming.
Everywhere, people were shouting, praying, and dying.
It was a chaotic mess.
Above, near the highest parts of the city, the major forces had gathered. The United Army, the Mercenary Alliance, and the Hellion Empire… as well as all the forces that formed them, had converged in Darkwell.
For some, this was the last stand.
For others, it was a mere challenge.
* * *
The figure moved through the flooded corridors of the lower city at a calm, steady pace. They had only arrived in Darkwell about an hour ago, but they were already busy.
The water here was knee-deep, dark, and heavy with the smell of the rotting swamp that rose from below. Each step echoed loudly along the stone, mixing with the distant sounds of wind and rain.
From time to time, a faint shimmer passed across the figure's eyes, a subtle flicker of gold, like threads of light weaving themselves into shifting patterns. Every few seconds, the images changed, revealing glimpses of possible dangers. A collapsing beam, an unstable wall, the dim outline of a Duskdweller clinging to the ceiling, just out of sight...
The figure avoided everything effortlessly, gliding through the lower city without slowing down.
He moved with an almost unnatural calm.
Outside, the city was drowning in chaos, but here, within the lower levels of the city, time felt slower. The sound of splashing water bounced off the walls, and the screams of the citizens were a distant echo, leaving a dulled air. Overhead, runic lights flickered wildly and blinked out, adding to the majority, just like all the others that had stopped working. The hallways tilted with each sway of the tower, not unlike the lower deck of a ship during a storm, only dropping loose dust and broken stones.
The figure stepped over a broken wall and suddenly paused… He looked to the side, where the claustrophobic hall opened into a large window, facing the inner city.
Beyond the opening, black rain fell sideways. Explosions of magic light flashed through the distant maze of towering towers. Lightning split the sky, illuminating the churning swamp below, before darkness swallowed it back.
A quiet sigh escaped the figure's lips.
Then he moved on.
He wasn't here to fight, no, he was 'searching'.
A collapsed walkway, survivors crushed beneath slabs of stone, a soldier bleeding out beside a shattered pillar, a child crying beside his mother's motionless body, a woman being dragged into the shadows, and a forgotten prison. In each case, the figure stepped in without hesitation. He didn't speak, nor did he comfort… His actions were precise, almost surgical and pre-planned, pulling survivors free, reinforcing unstable walls, and redrawing damaged runes that flickered weakly in the dark, rain-soaked halls.
Wherever he passed, fresh lines of golden light lingered on the stone, faint but steady, lingering with spiritual energy unique to the heroes.
These places would hold for now.
Everything would resolve itself with time, but time was what they lacked.
He continued forward, silent like a ghost.
Step by step…
Buying time.
* * *
The temporary command post had been established in the central sector of Darkwell, on one of the highest towers, where the city's stabilizing runes still held firm, and the foundation was unmoving, even within the storm.
From here, one could see the entire city.
-
Observation Hall.
The rain never stopped.
Sheets of water pounded against the massive windows of the observation chamber, streaking down the magically reinforced glass in quick, flickering waves. From within, one could look out beyond the glass, at the distant towers, and see them flickering in and out of sight, as lightning flashed across the horizon and illuminated the city.
Inside, the chamber roared with voices.
This vast hall had been converted into the United Army's mobile command.
Messengers sprinted between stations, while transmission arrays pulsed in special cycles. Spiritual energy unique to 'Information Specialists' flared and dimmed, then brightened again, before outputting information. Voices overlapped, mixing with orders, warnings, and desperate requests, each one swallowed by the next in an unending choir. The United Army struggled to maintain order, but here, within these walls, the chaos outside almost looked tame. This room represented the hope for those still stuck in the western region.
Kareth Tibon, the commander of the United Army, stood before the largest table, surrounded by maps, rune charts, and magic projections depicting the city's current state, including its surroundings. His gloves were wet from the constant humidity that had been building up within the room, but his voice was steady and unshakable.
He finished giving out his commands.
His officers saluted quickly, then scattered.
When the final set of orders was sent out, Kareth exhaled and stepped back from the table. He rubbed his temples, then turned towards the back corridor that led into one of the secured chambers located behind the command center.
Without another word, he pushed open the door and left.
-
Following the hall, he reached the end and opened the door, stepping inside.
The noise from the observation chamber was cut off.
This room was dimly lit, and the walls were lined with flickering runes that pulsed with a faint green energy. Two Tibon Family guards stood at the side, silent and emotionless.
Between them sat an unconscious boy.
This was…
Pen Tibon.
His eyes were empty, unfocused, and his expression was blank, almost like a doll. The light of spiritual seals crawled across his neck and wrists, restraining his unconscious body.
Kareth's gaze scanned over him.
"So this is him," he muttered. "Looks like Ashshel gave birth to a good son at the end."
His nose wrinkled, then he sneered.
"It's too bad that even after everything that happened that day, 'they' still came back."
Just then, he turned his head.
The guards stepped aside as a woman in a long, dark coat stood up from a nearby desk. Her movements were smooth and deliberate, each motion trained and controlled, almost mechanical. The mask she wore was made of white bone, shaped like a butterfly with deeply carved silver runes spreading across its wings. Her voice, when she spoke, was calm and sharp, with a seductive undertone.
"Myra," Kareth greeted with empty eyes. "Did it go well?"
She bowed her head. "Patriarch." The scent leaked from her body was a strange mix of herbs and decay, the kind of lingering smell that clung to those who practiced corpse alchemy. It wasn't exactly unpleasant, but it carried weight.
She turned towards the boy. "This is Pen Tibon. He is… what remains of that branch."
Kareth crossed his arms. "I already read the report, you don't need to test me. You pinned his soul and sealed his mind. Was that necessary?"
Myra nodded once. "Yes. His will was suppressed as well. The Tibon Family recovered him after we discovered he had slipped into the Black Tower."
Kareth's eyes narrowed slightly. "Another one? They just can't keep their hands to themselves. What did they do after you recovered him?"
Myra paused for a moment, then said, "We had to use a hidden piece to pull him out. Apparently, he and his sister were taken in by one of the top Tower Pillars. We should expect them shortly. I've already prepared, but it doesn't look like they gained much support."
Kareth lowered his eyes.
A face flashed past his mind.
He didn't particularly care about the Black Tower.
"And the girls?" he asked.
"Lethra and Lithra have yet to be retrieved," Myra replied. "There are about three days left before the 'timer' runs out."
Kareth frowned. "Why? Is it that difficult? Don't tell me some hidden master took an interest in them."
Myra shook her head.
"A strange Army of Ants appeared at the border between the Black Forest and the Grey Plains," she said calmly. "They took the girls during a mission while they were far from any of our active teams. We suspect they were targeted long before we even noticed, perhaps even going back months."
Kareth narrowed his eyes.
"Ants…?" He mumbled.
He thought to himself, 'It can't be 'him', right?'
Myra silently shook her head.
She continued, her voice turning cold.
"The retrieval unit tried to recover them, but… they were overrun. Those creatures have grown far beyond our initial prediction. This Ant Army isn't like the other insects from the Second Calamity. Their strength has multiplied several times already, and we believe their innate traits allow them to evolve far faster than anything else in the region."
Myra looked back towards the rain-streaked window.
"The problem is… They're not showing any signs of the same corruption that the other insects do. Many of us don't believe they're part of the Second Calamity at all. We suspect there may be an outside force. They counter every method we use, adapt with impossible speeds, and…" she exhaled, "they're extremely vengeful. At the moment, we can barely hold them back."
Kareth's expression darkened. "And your solution?"
Myra didn't answer immediately. She looked at the boy instead.
Pen lay motionless, his eyes hollow, and he was barely more than a shell. The dim green runes across the walls reflected faintly on his skin, giving him a sickly glow.
Myra continued, "We don't currently have one. Lithra was meant to be sent to the 'young master' as this century's 'tithe', but now we'll have to find a replacement…"
She went quiet.
Kareth understood what she was thinking.
"Then I'll leave it to you," he said. "Handle it yourself, I have my own matters to attend to..."
Myra nodded.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. They simply stood there, gazing at the unconscious boy.
Kareth's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes. It was a brief, thin flash of disgust, an emotion that was quickly buried. "Keep him contained," he said. "If he's of use, we'll know very soon."
Without waiting for a reply, he turned and left the room.
Myra remained still, watching his back disappear down the dark corridor.
Outside, the storm roared.
* * *
Under the hammering rain and crackling lightning, a long line of black-clothed figures climbed the tower city with a purpose. They moved like a dark current, slipping through shattered corridors, hopping across broken bridges, and scaling the rain-stained stairs without so much as a pause.
These were the mages of the Black Tower.
Their robes were whipped sideways by the storm, snapping like torn flags, yet not a single one of them slowed down. Every step carried them higher and higher, towards the upper levels.
Towards the United Army's command post…
And toward Kareth Tibon.
-
In the front walked Hitrit, the 'Third Pillar of the Black Tower', the 'Cursed Alchemist', and the 'Holder of the Cursed Bloodline'. Rain slid off the faint barrier around him, hissing softly as it met the heat radiating off the stone below. His expression was cold, unchanging, like a statue carved from the very black stone his home was formed from...
Behind him, Pot hurried forward, her hair completely soaked. She clutched her cloak tightly, pulling it closed to avoid the wind and rain. Her steps were shaky, and her eyes flickered with worry every time the tower swayed beneath the storm.
She struggled to keep up, but she refused to fall behind.
Trailing them were a dozen Tower Teachers, with hundreds of Tower Mages in tow. They were an entire branch of the Black Tower, marching with a single purpose.
They weren't here to talk.
Lightning flashed, casting harsh shadows along the ground.
Pot's chest tightened.
Her heart felt as if it were being squeezed.
For some reason, she had a bad feeling.
The storm howled louder as they ascended. Wind tore at their clothes, rain pelted their skin like needles, and tower after tower groaned beneath the weight of the Swamp Storm, but the Black Tower mages pressed onward without hesitation.
They were a black spear aimed straight at the heart of Darkwell.
Nothing would stop them.
Not the storm, not the Dusk Dwellers, not even the collapsing towers!
No, not even Kareth!
They had come for blood.