The night air was cold as Noctis slipped from the inn. His cloak hid the sealed armor beneath, the Broodfang Reaper pulsing faintly in his Blood Storage. The city was quiet at this hour—streets emptied, windows shuttered. Perfect for leaving unnoticed.
He crossed Varath's gates without resistance, Binding Stare bending the minds of guards into silence as he passed. Once outside, he turned east, boots crunching against the road. The forest loomed, and beyond it, the dungeon. His Grid pulsed faint with anticipation. The titan awaited.
But fate did not leave quietly.
Behind him, far in the distance, the first horns sounded.
Noctis slowed, helm tilting back toward Varath. Through Perception and Predator's Tremor Sense, he felt it: the ground trembling under hundreds of boots. The clang of armor, the rattle of banners. An army entering the city at dawn.
The Church.
At its center, a heavier vibration. One presence towering above the rest. Pure, sanctified, but tainted with intent. A bishop.
Noctis's lips curled faintly. "So you've come."
Within Varath's walls, the gates yawned open as the Church's procession marched in. White-cloaked soldiers with silver-edged armor carried banners marked with the sunburst crest. Behind them came priests chanting hymns, their voices rising in waves that unsettled the common folk who gathered to watch.
At the column's center rode the bishop. An old man in flowing robes of gold and white, his eyes pale, burning with sanctified light. In one hand he carried a staff crowned with a shard of crystal, glowing faintly. In the other, prayer beads clinked softly.
The moment his boots touched Varath's cobblestones, he stopped. His head turned slightly, nostrils flaring, eyes narrowing.
"Evil," he said, his voice carrying without effort. "It lingers here."
The soldiers stilled. The crowd hushed.
The bishop lifted his staff. Its crystal flared, casting a white glow that spread like mist across the streets.
The glow thickened, tendrils of holy light reaching outward, tracing unseen trails. They slithered down alleys, swept across markets, wrapped around buildings. The faithful saw nothing but the bishop's radiance. The bishop, however, saw lines of blackness etched against his light.
A presence. A shadow.
It was faint, almost absent. But not gone. It clung to stone, soaked into wood, burned into soil. A residue of evil so strong it could not be erased.
The trail led him forward. Past the open square, toward the Adventurers Guild.
He paused before the tall doors. Priests muttered prayers. The soldiers raised shields, wary of an unseen enemy.
The bishop stepped inside.
Adventurers froze under his gaze, whispers silenced. The bishop's staff flared again, light flooding the hall. Against that light, shadows screamed. A residue of Binding Stare still clung to the guild, woven into the minds of adventurers, twisted into the contracts pinned on the board.
The bishop's face hardened. "He was here."
The trail of corruption extended further.
He left the guild. The staff pointed like a compass, guiding him onward. The light swept again, tracing lines of darkness until they converged upon a single structure.
The inn.
The bishop halted before its doors. His soldiers surrounded the building, shields raised, weapons drawn. The air turned heavy, thick with sanctified pressure.
The bishop's voice rang out, calm and absolute. "The taint of the damned rests here."
Inside, the maid stirred in her sleep, body tangled in sheets. She whispered in dreams, lips forming a single word over and over: master.
On the road east, Noctis paused once more. Through the Grid, he felt it: threads of light searching the places he had touched. The bishop had arrived. The Church had traced his shadow back to Varath.
He smiled under his helm. The timing was cruelly perfect. He had only just chosen to leave, and already the Church followed.
But he had no intention of turning back.
His boots pressed forward into the dark, eastward. Toward the dungeon. Toward the titan. The bishop might scour the inn, the guild, even the streets—but by the time they realized the truth, he would be long gone.
Still, his Grid whispered warning. Bishops were not simple priests. Their light could burn through Binding Stare, their hymns could peel back shadow, their presence alone could draw hunters to him.
The game had changed.
Noctis licked his lips, smile sharp beneath the mask. "Then hunt me if you can. I'll be waiting."
The innkeeper trembled at his doorway. Soldiers in white and silver pushed past him, shields raised, spears drawn. The bishop stepped through the threshold last, his staff raised high. The crystal at its crown burned white, light spilling into every corner.
The common room shuddered under the weight of sanctified presence. Adventurers who had been drinking late cowered against the walls, muttering excuses, swearing innocence. The bishop ignored them. His pale eyes fixed upward, to the second floor, where shadows pooled unnaturally thick.
"Upstairs," he ordered. His voice carried like a tolling bell.
The soldiers marched. Boots hammered wood. Doors were thrown open one by one. Tenants shouted in protest, then silenced at the sight of steel. Finally, they reached the chamber where Noctis had stayed.
The door was still ajar.
Inside, the maid lay sprawled in tangled sheets, her skin flushed with lingering heat. Her lips moved faintly even in sleep, murmuring the word master again and again.
The bishop raised his staff. The crystal blazed.
The chamber erupted in white light.
The maid shrieked and bolted upright, eyes wide, clutching the sheets to her chest. Her body convulsed, as if dragged by unseen chains. Dark vapor began to leak from her pores, threads of shadow curling upward like smoke.
The soldiers recoiled. "What—what is this?" one whispered.
The bishop's expression hardened. "Corruption. Not only around her…" His staff dipped, light focusing toward her stomach. "But within."
The crystal's glow narrowed into a spear of brilliance. It struck her belly, and the dark vapor there writhed violently, twisting like a nest of serpents. The maid screamed. Her back arched, fingers clawing at the sheets.
The bishop began to chant. The words were old, heavy, ringing with divine cadence. Each syllable hammered at the corruption, peeling it away layer by layer.
The maid's screams grew sharper, raw with terror. "No! Please—stop! He'll be angry! Master will be—" Her voice broke into sobs as the darkness tore free, ripped screaming from her flesh.
The aura writhed, rising from her body in wriggling coils before the bishop's light shredded it into ash.
At last, silence fell. The maid collapsed back into the bed, chest heaving, drenched in sweat. Her eyes blinked open slowly.
And then widened.
"No…" she whispered. "Oh gods… no…"
Her body shook. Memories surged back like a flood—every moment with Noctis, every order obeyed, every embrace, every drop of blood. Nothing was hidden now. The hypnosis was gone, and what remained was raw, merciless memory.
Her hands clutched at her hair. She sobbed, rocking back and forth. "What have I done… what have I done…"
The soldiers exchanged uneasy glances. Some muttered prayers. Others gripped their weapons tighter, as though the evil might spill back out of her.
The bishop lowered his staff. His gaze was not cruel, but grim. "She was a vessel," he said. "Bound by the Stare. Marked and used. This is proof enough—the evil we seek has passed through these walls."
He gestured. "Take her outside. She will answer more when she regains herself."
Two soldiers carefully pulled the maid from the bed, wrapping a cloak around her shivering body. She did not resist. Her eyes stared hollowly, lips moving, whispering the same word again and again. Master.
The bishop watched as she was carried away. Then he turned his staff once more upon the room.
Light flared. Shadows screamed. The walls themselves seemed to weep blackness as the last traces of Noctis's presence were purged. The scent of iron lingered beneath the incense of sanctity.
"His taint is fresh," the bishop murmured. "He has only just left."
He turned to his soldiers. "Search every alley. Question every guard. This shadow walks still. We will not leave Varath until he is found."
The priests began to chant anew, voices rising like surf. The bishop closed his eyes, feeling the faint threads of evil still stretching outward. Somewhere eastward, the trail continued.
He opened his eyes. Pale light burned in them.
"Run if you wish, creature," he whispered. "The light will find you."
The forest swallowed the road east of Varath. Trees crowded close, their branches a lattice that filtered the starlight into thin silver strands. The night belonged to him. His armor drank the chill air, and the Broodfang Reaper hummed faintly from Storage, eager to be drawn.
Noctis moved without hurry, but without pause. Each step stretched the distance between him and the city. He did not need to look back to know the bishop had arrived—his Grid whispered of sanctified pressure blooming behind him, faint but insistent, like a storm cresting the horizon.
The Church hunted. He smiled beneath his helm. Let them.
The east was wide and black, the earth fertile with prey.
He left the road often, weaving into the forest shadows, unwilling to let the torchlight of caravans or the echo of boots brush against him. By day, he buried himself in thickets, sealed armor masking him from the sun, the ice-etched enchantments within keeping him cool. By night, he walked, hunted, and fed.
The first night, he sensed wolves trailing the treeline. Lesser kin to the Alpha he had devoured. He let them stalk until their patience snapped, then cut them apart when they leapt. Claws raked steel; jaws shattered against his blood-forged gauntlets. His greatsword cleaved three in a single sweep. Their bodies bled into the soil until the Blood Field drank them dry.
The Grid rippled, nodes glowing faintly as the Beast branch expanded. Another layer of endurance, another spike of agility. He hardly noticed anymore—the growth had become constant, each kill weaving new sinew into his strength.
The second night, he found a marsh. Its mist hid reptilian forms: scaled drakes, lesser cousins of the one he had already slain. Their eyes glowed amber in the fog. Noctis waded into them, Broodfang Reaper spinning between scythe and guan dao. He cut, stabbed, and ripped until their bodies clogged the mire. He feasted as they sank, drinking scales, muscle, and marrow into his Grid.
Still, it was not enough.
Always hunger. Always room.
By the third night, the air had changed. The road no longer felt like a frontier trail but the artery of something greater. Traffic signs appeared—milestones carved by masons, wagon ruts etched deep into stone. Caravans had passed here recently. The dungeon was close.
Noctis stopped on a rise overlooking the forest. He closed his eyes. His Grid flared. Tremor Sense pulsed outward, rippling through earth and root. The vibrations returned, a map in motion. Caravans far ahead. A camp of hunters. Beasts slinking between trees. And deeper still—beneath earth, like a distant drumbeat—something vast. Something sleeping.
The titan.
Noctis's eyes opened, golden rings flaring briefly beneath the helm. His lips curved faintly. The bishop, the guild, the armies—none of them mattered. What lay ahead did.
Still, he did not ignore the trail behind him. From the west, faint vibrations pressed against his senses. Heavy. Ordered. Armored boots. The Church marched east.
They would follow his shadow until it frayed. But by the time they reached this place, it would already be marked by blood.
He turned back to the forest and stepped down from the rise.
Later that night, he found shelter in a hollow carved into stone. He dragged three carcasses of horned boars inside, their blood slicking the walls. He feasted deliberately, letting the Grid record every drop.
[Grid Mutation Detected]
— Beast Kin Augmentation:
Tuskrend Surge (minor strength increase, horn impact replication).
— Beast Kin Augmentation:
Hideweave (layered dermal resilience, minor armor against piercing).
The nodes flickered into place. His body burned faintly with new resilience. He tested it by dragging his claw across his palm; sparks flew, but the flesh did not break.
Noctis chuckled softly. "Better."
He closed his eyes, leaning against the stone, letting the Grid process the feast. Yet even in rest, he could feel it—the faint threads of sanctified pressure stretching across the land behind him. The bishop was not far. Not close enough to strike, but not far enough to ignore.
For the first time in many nights, he considered strategy. If the Church cornered him inside the dungeon, even he could be overwhelmed. Too many variables. Too many eyes. His best path was to strike first—devour the titan, seize its strength, and then decide whether to turn and face the hunters or vanish into the world beyond.
He opened his eyes again. The Blood Grid hovered faintly in his vision, branches sprawling, nodes blazing. The next feast would not just add. It would transform.
And eastward, the titan waited.
The cave mouth yawned before him. Jagged stone teeth, mist curling from its depths, faint echoes whispering from within. Noctis stood in the tree line just beyond the road, helm tilted, watching as adventurers moved in and out.
A camp sprawled near the entrance. Tents clustered, fires burned low, and groups of men and women sharpened weapons, argued over loot, or tended wounds. Their laughter was hollow, their eyes sharp. The dungeon consumed lives here nightly. Noctis could smell it on them—their fear, their blood, their desperation.
He waited in the shadows until another group filed inside, torches in hand. Then he turned away from the camp and slipped deeper into the forest.
He needed silence.
He found it in a clearing, where moss carpeted the ground and the trees leaned inward like guardians. There, he sat cross-legged. The sealed armor groaned faintly as he shifted, and the cloak fell loose around him.
He closed his eyes.
The Grid bloomed into being.
At once, golden lines spread across his vision, each thread a memory of blood devoured, each node a doctrine absorbed. The lattice stretched outward into infinity, fractal in its complexity, yet precise in its order. He traced the paths with his mind, following the pulse of unlocked power.
Branches glowing bright:
Soldier's Edge — sword doctrines refined through captains and warriors.
Spearwarden's Path — reach and control, lines of impact.
Bulwark Dominion — shield logic, walls and counters.
Ranger's Ledger — arrows, distance, sequencing.
Tempo Ledger — timing, rhythm, battlefield cadence.
Beast Kin — wolves, drakes, boars, spiders, queen. Fangs, hides, tremor sense.
Predator Magic — elemental spells warped into hunger: Fire Lash, Ice Shard, Shadow Volley, Helix Bore.
Broodmother's Legacy — venom, web, brood instincts, the queen's inheritance.
Each branch pulsed with the light of completed nodes. Some still branched further, offering skills yet to claim. The Grid whispered temptations: minor increases, refinements, evolutions of existing doctrines.
Noctis's gaze shifted to the edges of the lattice. Beyond the bright branches lay darker lines, not yet fully woven. These reached upward, pulling toward a locked gate etched with crimson script.
[Tier IV Evolution Requirement: Unmet]
The gate pulsed, faint but undeniable. It demanded more than essence. It demanded proof.
Noctis focused. Text unspooled in his vision, stark and absolute.
Tier IV Unlock Conditions:
Essence Quota: 10,000 Blood, 100 Soul, 10 Apex.
Predator Trials: Feast upon at least one Titan-class entity.
Integration: Three branches must reach Tier III overlap.
Dominion Proof: Control of one settlement through fear, blood, or will.
He tilted his head slightly beneath the helm. Already, his numbers pressed close. Blood overflowed in the Grid, Soul gathered in steady trickles. Apex was slower, rarer—but not beyond his grasp. The Titan… that was the dungeon's promise.
And dominion? He chuckled softly. Varath would have sufficed, had he chosen to linger. But he had left it intact, preferring not to fight the Church head-on. Another settlement, then. Another city to bend. That requirement could wait.
For now, the Titan.
He let his focus drift back to the lattice, to the glowing branches already in his hand. Minor nodes flickered. He selected some at random, feeding essence into them.
Agility +12
Strength +10
Endurance +15
Perception +8
The Grid absorbed his offering eagerly. His body thrummed in answer, muscles tightening, senses sharpening. Every stat was a step closer to bursting the Tier IV gate wide open.
Still, the gate pulsed in silence, as if mocking him. Not yet. Not enough.
Noctis opened his eyes. The forest looked sharper, the night air tasted cleaner, every sound clearer. He rose slowly, the sealed armor whispering against itself as he stood.
The dungeon waited. And within it, the Titan whose corpse would become his key.
He stepped back into the trees, cloak falling around him. Dawn threatened on the horizon, a gray smear behind the branches. He would wait for nightfall again. His hunger burned, but patience sharpened it into a blade.
When he entered that dungeon, he would not leave until the Titan lay devoured.
The forest clearing was silent. Not even the owls stirred. Noctis sat cross-legged, cloak spread around him, helm tilted forward as if in meditation. But within, his vision burned.
The Blood Grid opened.
Lines of crimson light spidered outward, nodes pulsing, doctrines interwoven. His feast of wolves, spiders, drakes, and soldiers had made the lattice glow brighter than ever. Tonight, he would not hoard essence. Tonight, he would sharpen himself.
His eyes locked first upon the core branch.
Blood Field. It pulsed, swollen, ready. He poured Blood Essence into it.
The node split and re-formed. The Grid shuddered. A wave of crimson radiated outward, painting the forest floor in phantom light.
[Blood Field → Crimson Expanse]Radius doubled. Pull intensified. The next time he called it, an entire square of prey would collapse screaming into his grasp.
He inhaled, pleased.
Next, Ghost Vein II. He had used it often—shadow travel between blood traces—but its reach was short. He willed essence into it. Soul Essence burned away.
The node cracked, then rewove itself into a darker, deeper lattice. His vision filled with paths he had never seen: blood echoes drifting through stone, veins of shadow stretching far.
[Ghost Vein III]Phase-walk unlocked. Range extended. He could now vanish into one shadow and emerge from another, even if stone or steel lay between.
He flexed his hand. The forest shadows rippled as if waiting for command.
Third: Sanguine Recovery II. His wounds already knit fast, but the Grid promised more. He poured blood and faith into the node.
The mutation was brutal. The node split open like an artery, spilling light that coiled into flesh. His veins throbbed. His bones hummed. His entire body burned with regenerative hunger.
[Sanguine Recovery III]Regeneration multiplied. Lost flesh would regrow. Even severed limbs would return, given time and blood.
He exhaled slowly. His body felt heavier, denser, as though mortality itself had been peeled further away.
Now to the doctrines. His gaze shifted to the archer's branch.
Ranger's Ledger: Shadow Volley. He willed essence into it. The node fractured and burst into a bloom of arrows, each splitting, multiplying, overlapping.
[Shadow Volley → Phantom Barrage]Every shot now bred phantoms mid-flight. An entire squad could be shredded by what appeared to be a single arrow.
He could almost taste the fear that would come when prey believed they dodged, only to be struck from impossible angles.
Beside it, the Tempo Ledger pulsed. He poured essence into Cadence Flow. The rhythm bent, twisted, inverted. His mind filled with drumbeats, metronomes collapsing, enemy timing unraveling.
[Cadence Flow → Dominion Rhythm]His presence would no longer just match tempo—it would dictate it. Enemies around him would stumble, falter, swing too soon or too late, their cadence dragged into his own rhythm.
He chuckled quietly. The battlefield would dance to him.
Last: Helix Bore. The spiral-drill projectile for armor piercing. He fed Iron and Blood Essence into the glowing node.
The lattice twisted, spiraling tighter. His vision filled with drill-lines boring through flesh, armor, stone.
[Helix Bore II]Power intensified. The drill strike now spun faster, harder, able to rip even Titan-grade armor given the right angle.
Noctis closed the Grid slowly.
The forest clearing pulsed once with phantom light, then stilled. He rose to his feet, armor whispering as it shifted. Power simmered beneath his skin, new rhythms, new regenerations, new ways to vanish and strike.
The dungeon would not know what walked into it.