Chapter 19: Into the City
The first day was a lesson in humility. We'd gone in bold, maybe a little cocky. We came out
bloodied. My shoulder screamed with a deep, throbbing pain where the bone spear had
punched clean through. Sasrir moved with a slight, almost imperceptible stiffness, a
sympathetic echo of my wound. We'd hurt it, sure. Melted a decent chunk off its chest and
given its soul a few good jabs. But it was still in there, deep in that chamber of bones, already
pulling from the endless supply around it to rebuild. We'd barely made a dent.
The second day, we were smarter. Warier. Sasrir's new plan was the way to go. He stayed by
my side, a solid, dark presence. No more risky shadow-merging. Instead, he became an
artillery platform. Spears and daggers of condensed shadow flew from his hands, streaking
across the chamber to hammer into the Tyrant's form. Each hit made the monster flinch, a
stuttering spasm of soul-deep pain that gave me the openings I needed.
I was more conservative with the Crucifix. No more grand, Essence-draining pillars of light. I
used precise, surgical beams. I focused on the same spot, the weak point we'd created on the
first day. A blast here, a searing cut there. Chipping away. Eroding. It was slow, tedious work.
The Tyrant learned, too. It started using the scattered bones as shields, intercepting my shots
before they could hit home. It was a grim, exhausting game of cat and mouse, fought in a
tomb.
We left that day tired, but not broken. We'd taken no new injuries. We'd worn it down a little
more. The cavity in its chest was deeper. The bone around the edges was blackened and
brittle. Progress.
The third day was a grind. A war of attrition. We fell into a grim rhythm. Sasrir's endless
volley of shadowy artillery. My focused beams of light. Dodge the retaliatory spears. Duck
the sweeping limbs. The Tyrant's movements were slower now, more sluggish. Its psychic
roars held more fury, but less force. We were winning. Slowly, expensively, but winning.
We retreated before we were truly exhausted. Before we made a mistake. We left it there, in
its crumbling bone cathedral, weaker than it had ever been.
Back at our makeshift camp, under the indifferent gaze of the Saintess's statue, we tended to
our wounds. The feeling was finally returning to my arm, though a strange numbness
lingered. Sasrir handed me a strip of dried meat.
"Three more attempts," he stated, his voice calm. His assessment was clinical. "Perhaps four.
Its soul is fraying. My attacks are having a cumulative effect."
But then what?
The question hung in the air between us, heavier than any bone spear. Killing the Lord of the
Dead was just the key. It unlocked the door. It didn't tell us what was on the other side.The Dark City waited. A place of survivors, of factions, of humans twisted by decades of
nightmare. Of Gunlaug, the tyrant of Bright Castle. Of secrets we'd only read about.
We were getting stronger. We were learning how to fight this world. But were we learning
how to live in it? My Pathway was stagnant without people to observe. His asceticism was a
riddle without a teacher. In the days we had spent fighting the Shard Lord, we had come up
with a possible theory for how to progress Sasrir. He had properly grasped the method of a
Listener, and should have done the same for a Shadow Ascetic, but not for a Secret Suppliant.
In our own theories, we believed the Acting Method should be similar to a Seer's: being
respectful towards higher entities, engaging with higher entities, and pleasing higher entities.
The problem was, there was no creature capable of safely answering our summoning's. They
were either all dead or mad, and inviting the latter was asking for trouble. However, Sasrir
came up with a possible roundabout-using the Shadow Summoning and combining it with the
Ritualistic Magic to beseech a creature from the Underworld or Shadow Domain to come up.
Our attention was preoccupied right now, but we decided to give it a try after killing the Bone
Lord. And that happened not too long after.
The final assault began not with a roar, but with a shared, silent glance. We knew the drill by
now. Sasrir took his position, a pillar of swirling darkness amidst the bone-strewn floor. I
raised the Crucifix, its familiar weight a comfort. The golden light of the Light Supplicant
bloomed around us, a defiant sun in the oppressive dark.
Sasrir's hands moved in a blur. He wasn't throwing single daggers anymore. He launched
volleys. Dozens of sharp, dark needles streaked across the chamber. They peppered the Bone
Tyrant's form, each one a tiny shock to its system. The massive creature shuddered under the
relentless soul-deep assault, its movements growing slower, more clumsy.
This was our signal. I focused, pouring my will into the Crucifix. A beam of searing,
concentrated sunlight lanced out. I didn't aim for a new spot. I aimed for the deep, blackened
cavity we had burned into its chest over the past two days. The light struck true, sizzling
against the brittle, charred bone.
The Tyrant recoiled with a psychic shriek of pure rage. It retaliated on instinct, summoning a
storm of bone shards. They flew toward me, a blizzard of sharpened death. But I was ready. I
ducked and weaved, the movements now practiced. Most of the shards clattered harmlessly
against the coral pillars behind me.
Sasrir didn't let up. While the Tyrant was focused on me, he changed tactics. The needle-
volleys ceased. From the shadows at his feet, a larger, more substantial weapon began to
form. It was a spear, long and wicked, woven from solidified darkness and pure malice. He
hefted it, waiting for his moment.
The monster, frustrated, tried a new approach. It slammed a massive, bone-fused fist into the
ground. The impact shook the entire chamber. From the point of impact, a wave of sharpened
ribs erupted from the floor, racing toward Sasrir. He simply dissolved into shadow, letting the
attack pass through him harmlessly, before solidifying again, spear still in hand.Its attention was split, its energy flagging. This was our chance. I sent another precise beam
of light into the cavity. This time, a large chunk of blackened bone cracked and fell away,
revealing a faint, pulsing glow deep within. We were close. So close.
The Tyrant seemed to sense its impending doom. It began to gather the bones around it,
pulling them in to form a thick, protective cage over its exposed core. It was trying to heal, to
seal itself shut again. We couldn't let that happen. All our work would be for nothing.
"Now, Sasrir!" I yelled, my voice echoing in the vast space.
He didn't need to be told twice. He took two running steps and hurled the shadow spear with
all his strength. It phased through the air, striking the newly formed bone armor, and sank
directly into the glowing core within.
The effect was instantaneous. The Bone Tyrant froze. Its psychic presence, a constant
pressure of hatred and fury, suddenly hitched. Then, it let out a sound I'd never heard before
—a deep, grinding, final death rattle that seemed to come from the very bones around us. The
cage of bones it had been building around its core shattered, falling apart uselessly.
The core was exposed again, pulsing erratically. It was now or never. I poured my will and
Essence into the Unshadowed Crucifix. I didn't just ask for light; I demanded it.
A single, brilliant pillar of pure sunlight descended from the ceiling of the cavern. It wasn't a
beam from me. It was an orbital strike, called down from the heavens. It slammed directly
into the exposed, glowing core.
There was no scream this time. Just a silent, intense flash of light that filled the entire
chamber. When it faded, the core was gone. Vaporized. The massive bone body that was the
Lord of the Dead lost all cohesion. It collapsed into a lifeless, ordinary pile of bones, no
different from the millions of others in the catacombs.
Silence fell. The only sound was our ragged breathing. Then, the cold, familiar voice of the
Spell echoed in my mind, clear and triumphant.
[You have defeated a Fallen Tyrant: Lord of the Dead.]
[You have received a Memory: Starlight Shard.]
It was over. We'd actually done it. I sank to my knees, exhaustion finally washing over me.
Across the chamber, Sasrir stood amidst the settling dust, a faint, satisfied smirk on his face.
We had our prize.
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The five-day grind to kill the monster had left us running on empty. Our food supply was
shot, most of it funneled into me to keep my blood levels up. I wasn't a glutton from the Tail-
Devourer Pathway, though. My stomach had its limits, and I'd spent more than one afternoon
regretting my last meal. My recovery wasn't exactly a straight line.Sasrir, ever the provider, had managed to snag another two of those hammer-headed dogs.
Now, we were roasting them over a small fire we'd built right on the stone neck of the
Priestess's statue. It felt a little disrespectful, but hey, a guy's gotta eat.
As Sasrir idly turned the skewers, the smell of cooking meat filling the air, I focused on the
real prize. I summoned the Runes for the Starlight Shard, the Memory we'd bled for.
Memory Name: Starlight Shard
Memory Rank: Awakened.
Memory Type: Armour.
Memory Description: [Those who witnessed this cloak claimed the ends extended infinitely
onwards, like a comet trail blazing the way forward. For what is a leader, if not a trailblazer?]
Memory Tier: III.
Memory Enchantments: [Grace of Stars], [Night's Concealment], [Zealous Ordainment].
[Grace of Stars Description: This cloak glimmers with the light of the stars, which also
imbues it with their blessings. All attributes, including recovery, are boosted and the effect
grows stronger at night.]
[Night's Concealment Description: At night, can cast a concealment of the stars that makes
you appear hazy and indiscernible, also allowing you to hide from creatures with lesser
intellect.]
[Zealous Ordainment Description: All allies who witness the cloak receive a portion of the
blessing of the stars, and gain both strength and courage.]
Curious, I willed it into existence. The cloak appeared around my shoulders, but it was more
than that. It came with a snug, sleeveless layer that covered my chest and back, like a sturdy
gambeson. The main cloak itself flowed down to the back of my knees. The material was
incredibly soft and warm, like heated cotton, a stark contrast to the cold, damp Labyrinth.
But the real magic was in the look. Just like in the novel, it shone with a soft, internal light,
glittering with what looked like real, captured starlight. It was honestly mesmerizing.
The effect, though, was what really blew me away. It was night, and the fake stars were out in
full force. I could feel the Grace of Stars kicking in immediately. It was a surge of well-being,
a noticeable improvement to… everything. My senses felt sharper, my mind clearer, and my
body felt just plain better. I'd estimate a twenty to thirty percent boost, easy.
The wound on my shoulder, which had been a dull, throbbing ache, started to itch and burn
with a healthy, healing sensation. The Crucifix's own healing properties seemed to be getting
a major assist from the cloak's stellar energy. Sasrir had said I'd be lucky to use the arm
properly in twelve days. Staring at the glittering fabric, I had a feeling I'd be back in action in
just a week. This thing was a game-changer.
"You look… comfortable," Sasrir remarked, his voice a dry monotone that didn't hide his
amusement. I was practically snuggled into the Starlight Shard, the soft warmth and gentle
starlight a stark contrast to our usual grim surroundings."Don't start," I said, though I couldn't help a smug grin. "It's called quality. You should try it
sometime. Might loosen you up a bit."
He glanced down at his own form-fitting shadow-cloth. "My attire is functional. It doesn't
scream 'please shoot the glowing target'."
"Hey, at least I have style," I shot back, gesturing at the shimmering fabric. "You look like
you're about to audition for a low-budget ninja movie. All you need is a headband."
"And you look like a celestial disco ball who tripped and landed in a fabric store," he retorted
without missing a beat. "Is the infinite trailing hem so you have something to trip over when
you're running for your life?"
"It's called a dramatic silhouette! It signifies leadership! What does your… whatever-this-is
signify? 'I brood in corners'?"
"It signifies that I am not a walking lighthouse for every Nightmare Creature within a five-
mile radius. My 'style', as you call it, is predicated on not dying."
"Fine, but my cloak is softer."
"A compelling argument. When the Corrupted Terror asks for fashion advice before it
devours us, I will be sure to mention the superior thread count."
We devolved into a back-and-forth of increasingly petty jabs about material, practicality, and
aesthetic value until the fire died down and exhaustion finally overtook us. We fell asleep
bickering, the familiar rhythm of it almost comforting. Of course, his every point was moot
since the Starlight Shard also provided Concealment, but we didn't bother with facts and
logic.
The next morning, as the hazy sun rose, we packed up our meagre camp. We scaled down the
Priestess's statue for the last time, a much easier descent with Sasrir's shadowy assistance.
When my boots hit the solid coral ground, I turned and looked back up at the colossal, serene
stone body.
I placed a hand over my heart, striking a deliberately dramatic pose. "Farewell, noble
Saintess! Guardian of this forsaken shore! We shall never forget the sanctuary you provided,
the lofty perch from which we planned our glorious campaign! Your stone presence has been
a comfort in these dark times!"
Sasrir was already ten paces away, not even looking back. "Are you done?" he called over his
shoulder, his tone utterly flat. "The stone is not going to answer you. It is, and I cannot stress
this enough, a rock."
"Have you no sentiment? No poetry in your soul?" I complained, jogging to catch up with
him. "We lived there for over a week! That's, like, a serious tenant-landlord relationship in
nightmare time!""It was a convenient vantage point," he stated, his eyes already scanning the path ahead
toward the Dark City. "Nothing more. Now, can we please go? The tyrant of Bright Castle is
waiting, and I doubt he will be impressed by your heartfelt eulogy for a pile of minerals."
I sighed, casting one last, longing look at the statue. "Fine, fine. But she understood me."
"I very much doubt that," Sasrir muttered, and led the way into the winding coral corridors,
leaving the silent Saintess behind.
The trek wasn't a far one, since the Saintess marked the outskirts of the City, but we had to
progress far slower. In the Labyrinth, the most common foe was the Carapace Scavenger,
only an Awakened creature, while the City itself was rife with Fallen abominations waiting
behind every corner. Starting from the outside meant we would have to run, fight and hide
our way in.
The moment we left the relative openness near the statue, the Dark City closed in on us. The
air grew thicker, heavier. It was no longer just the smell of salt and coral. Now, it was dust,
rot, and a cold, metallic tang that stuck in the back of the throat.
The first thing that struck me was the silence. It wasn't the empty silence of the Labyrinth.
This was a watchful silence. A held breath. We moved down what might have been a main
thoroughfare, now a canyon of crumbling, pitch-black stone. Buildings leaned precariously
over the street, their windows like empty, dead eyes.
We didn't get fifty feet before Sasrir froze, his hand snapping up. He pointed a sharp gesture
to a side alley. I ducked into the shadows without question. A moment later, a hulking shape
shambled into view. It was a Fallen Beast, bigger than any Scavenger we'd faced. Its flesh
was bloated and grey, and it dragged a leg made of fused, broken bones.
This was the new normal. The monsters here weren't just Dormant or Awakened. They were
Fallen. Stronger, smarter, and infinitely more dangerous. We waited, pressed against the cold
stone, until the creature's shuffling footsteps faded.
Our progress became a tense, stop-start crawl. We'd move quickly from one piece of cover to
the next—a collapsed wall, the skeleton of a rusted vehicle, the doorway of a hollowed-out
shop. At every corner, we'd stop. Sasrir would listen, his head tilted, filtering the city's
whispers. I'd peer around, my Spectator's eyes scanning for movement in the deep shadows.
The city itself was a corpse. Everywhere was ruin. Houses had been torn apart from the
inside out. Streets were buckled, as if something massive had burrowed beneath them. We
passed a plaza where a great fountain now held only dust and shattered statues. This wasn't
just a city that had fallen. It had been slaughtered.
And then there was the Corruption. It was harder to see than in the Labyrinth, but you could
feel it. A greasy film on the stone. A faint, violet sheen in the darkest corners. A sense of
something fundamentally wrong seeping up from the ground. This place wasn't just dead. It
was infected.We couldn't avoid every fight. A pack of sleek, six-legged predators with needle-filled maws
cornered us in a dead-end street. There was no running. Sasrir's shadows became a whirlwind
of defensive spikes and lashing whips, holding them back. I focused the Crucifix's light, not
to kill, but to blind and disorient. We fought in frantic, brutal silence, not daring to make a
sound that might draw something worse. We won, but we were left panting, new scratches
stinging on our arms.
Another time, a creature that was little more than a floating, diseased cloud drifted across our
path. It emitted a low hum that made my teeth ache and my thoughts slow. We didn't even try
to fight it. We just ran, scrambling through broken buildings until the horrible sound faded.
We learned to read the signs. Piles of fresh bones meant a recent hunt. Strange,
phosphorescent fungi growing on walls indicated a high concentration of Corruption. The
faint sound of scraping stone often meant something was moving just out of sight.
The Azure Blade's Wishing Star was useless here. My desire was just to survive the next five
minutes. The enchantment glowed constantly, a dull, confused light. The entire city was a
threat. It had no single direction to point.
Hours bled together. The hazy sun above the coral ceiling did little to light the deep streets.
We were always in shadow. The Starlight Shard's gentle glow was a comfort, but also a risk. I
kept the cloak pulled tight, hoping its Night's Concealment would help us blend into the
gloom.
We were insects scuttling through the ruins of a giant's home. Every sound was a potential
death sentence. Every shadow could hide a predator we had no hope of fighting. This was the
Dark City. Not a place to conquer, at least not for us, but a place to endure. And we had only
seen its outskirts, a singular path forward. The real heart of the nightmare, the Crimson Spire,
still lay ahead of us.
We found a building that was less of a ruin and more of a compact stone box, with only one
narrow entrance. It felt defensible. Or at least, as defensible as anything got in this graveyard.
Once Sasrir had confirmed it was empty, we slipped inside and blocked the doorway with a
collapsed piece of the ceiling.
The silence inside was a relief, but it was short-lived. The constant, low-level dread of the
city just outside the walls was a pressure you couldn't escape. I slumped against the cold
stone, the Starlight Shard's warmth a small comfort. Sasrir took up a position by the blocked
entrance, a silent sentry.
"The Cathedral," I murmured, more to myself than to Sasrir. "It's supposed to be near the
centre. A massive structure, taller than the others. Black stone, with spires that look like
grasping fingers."
Sasrir gave a slow nod, his eyes closed as he listened to the city's nocturnal sounds. "A fitting
landmark for this place."
"That's where the Black Knight is," I continued, the memory sharpening. "A Fallen Devil.
And it's guarding Weaver's Mask." I patted a small, cold lump in my pocket—the ornatebronze key we'd retrieved from the Tyrant's remains. The key to claiming the Mask.
Theoretically.
The problem was the gap between theory and reality. The Black Knight wasn't some mindless
beast. In the story, it took a coordinated assault from some of the strongest Sleepers on the
Shore to bring it down. Nephis, Caster, Effie, Sunny...
"We would need Gemma," I said, the words tasting like ash. "We would also need Seishan.
But it's just us."
Sasrir opened his eyes. "You have the Crucifix. It is strong against shadow and death."
"It is," I conceded. "But the Knight is a Fallen Devil. We just spent five days killing the Bone
Lord, which was one Tier higher but also far stupider, and that was with a perfect counter and
a hit-and-run strategy. This Devil is faster, smarter. And determined in guarding its prize. We
can't wear it down over a week. It'd be a straight fight. In its own territory, bolstered by True
Darkness."
I let out a long, weary breath. "I'm not saying it's impossible. But with just the two of us? It's
a suicide mission. We'd need… we'd need an army. Or at least a few heavy hitters."
The dream of just waltzing in and claiming the Divine Memory was crumbling. We had the
key, but the door was guarded by a monster we had no business challenging. Not yet. Maybe
not ever, without the allies the story had provided Sunny.
"So, we adapt," Sasrir stated, his voice cutting through my doubt. "The Mask is not our only
objective. When the time is right, we reassess. The Mask isn't going anywhere for the next
two years, and even if we don't have it by the time Sunny shows up, he can't get it either
without the key."
He was right, of course. But sitting there in the dark, the weight of the key in my pocket felt
less like a treasure and more like a taunt. We were so close to one of the greatest tools in this
world, and yet it might as well have been on the moon. The Dark City was already teaching
us its first, hardest lesson: knowing where the treasure was buried didn't mean you were
strong enough to dig it up.
The deep, unnatural silence of the city pressed in on our little stone shelter. The adrenaline
from the day's close calls had finally faded, leaving behind a bone-deep weariness that was
more mental than physical. The Starlight Shard was a cosy blanket, but it couldn't keep out
the chill of the place.
Sasrir remained by the blocked entrance, a statue of shadow. He didn't need sleep, not like I
did. His watchfulness was a constant, low hum in the back of my mind.
"Well," I muttered, shifting to find a slightly less uncomfortable position against the wall.
"Day one in the big city. Definitely lived up to the hype."
"It was… eventful," his mental voice replied, dry as dust. "A marked improvement over the
scenic views of the Labyrinth."I let out a weak chuckle that died quickly in the stagnant air. "Tomorrow, the Castle." The
words hung there, heavy with implication. Bright Castle. Gunlaug's domain. The heart of the
power structure here, such as it was. We'd have to be smarter than today. More careful. We
couldn't just skulk through the streets forever.
"We'll figure it out when we get there," I said, more to convince myself than him. "Scope the
place out. See what we're dealing with."
"A sound strategy. Assuming what we are 'dealing with' does not decide to deal with us first."
"Always the optimist," I sighed, closing my eyes. The image of the hulking Fallen beasts and
the eerie, corrupted streets flashed behind my eyelids. It had been a day filled with the kind of
adventure you don't put on a postcard. The deathly kind.
But we were still here. We'd survived the first day. And we would survive many more to
come.
Sleep came fitfully, haunted by dreams of silent, watching streets and the feeling of being
hunted. But it came. Tomorrow was another day in the nightmare. We'd deal with it then.Chapter 20: Strange Encounters of the Human Kind
The air in the narrow alley was a cacophony of screams, clashing steel, and bestial roars.
Sasrir was the eye of the hurricane, a vortex of calculated violence. His two curved swords,
wreathed in shifting darkness, moved with a fluid, brutal precision that was terrifying to
behold. He wove between four desperate attackers, his movements a lethal dance that was as
much about positioning as it was about killing.
A man with a blood-rusted cleaver lunged, only for Sasrir to sidestep and use his momentum
to parry a thrust from a second assailant. The third, a woman with twin daggers, found her
attack blocked by the flat of his other blade, the impact numbing her arm. The fourth hung
back, his face pale as he tried to coordinate the three Echoes that gave the gang their fleeting
confidence. Two of their comrades already lay dead on the cobblestones, their blood a slick,
dark stain.
The Echoes were the real problem. A hulking beast of jagged, animated stone slammed a fist
where Sasrir's head had been a second before, cratering the wall. A flickering, insubstantial
spectre wielding a ghostly blade darted in from his blind spot, forcing him into a desperate
contortion to avoid a disembowelling strike. The third, a pulsating mound of acidic ooze, spat
a glob of corrosive venom that sizzled against the ground near his feet, filling the air with a
toxic smell. The humans, seeing their spiritual allies press the advantage, surged forward with
renewed, panicked vigour.
I didn't enter the fray directly. My role was different. From the mouth of the alley, I watched
with the dispassionate clarity of a Spectator. The stone Echo was powerful but slow, a
battering ram. The blade-spectre was fast but fragile, an assassin. The ooze was a tactical
hazard, area denial. Sasrir was managing them, but he was being contained, hemmed in by
the combination of physical and spiritual pressure. It was time to break the flow.
I raised the Unshadowed Crucifix, feeling the familiar, comforting thrum of power within it. I
didn't need a grand gesture; a focused application of will was enough. "One problem at a
time," I muttered, sighting down the length of my arm. A beam of pure, searing sunlight,
thicker than my thigh, lanced across the alley. It struck the flickering blade-spectre directly in
its ethereal core.
The effect was instantaneous and devastating. The creature emitted a silent, high-frequency
shriek that was felt more than heard, a psychic spike of agony. Its form contorted, the ghostly
blade dissolving first, before the entire spectre unravelled into a shower of fading, harmless
motes of light. The psychic backlash from its destruction made the dagger-wielding woman
stumble, a line of blood trickling from her nose.
[You have slain an Awakened Monster: Spirit of Avarice]
The sudden loss of their fastest Echo sent a visible wave of disorientation through the
attackers. Their coordinated assault, fragile to begin with, shattered. The man with the cleaver
hesitated for a fatal half-second, his eyes darting to where his Echo had vanished. That wasthe opening Sasrir had been waiting for. He didn't roar or shout; his violence was silent and
efficient.
He dropped low, under a wild swing from the cleaver-wielder, and his leading sword swept
out in a horizontal arc. It wasn't aimed at the man's body, but at his ankles. The shadow-
forged steel cut through bone and tendon with a sickening crunch. The man screamed,
collapsing in a heap, his cries adding to the din. Sasrir was already moving, using the falling
body as a momentary shield against the stone Echo's next lumbering blow.
The woman with the daggers, enraged and terrified, screamed a curse and lunged at his
exposed back. She never saw the reverse grip, the blade pointing backward like a scorpion's
tail. Sasrir didn't even fully turn; he simply thrust backward, the curved sword sinking deep
into her stomach. Her scream cut off into a choked gurgle as she folded over the blade, her
eyes wide with shock. He kicked her body free, yanking his sword back in a spray of blood.
Two opponents remained, plus the two Echoes. But the fight had gone out of them. The man
who had been hanging back, the one directing the Echoes, looked from his two dead friends
to the cold, implacable killer before him. The panic on his face was absolute. He met the eyes
of his last remaining companion, and a silent understanding passed between them: survival
was all that mattered.
They turned and ran, scrambling over rubble and ignoring the moans of their ankle-less
comrade. The stone Echo remained to hold us back, but the acidic ooze was recalled.
"Leaving so soon?" Sasrir's voice was a flat, cold statement, devoid of mockery but full of
menace. He didn't chase them. Instead, a dagger of solidified shadow coalesced in his palm.
He took a single, practiced step forward and hurled it. It wasn't a throw of rage, but of
precision. The shadowy blade streaked across the alley and buried itself to the hilt in the back
of the slower man's thigh.
The runner screamed, his leg buckling beneath him. He crashed to the ground, clutching the
dark, smoking dagger protruding from his muscle. His companion, the Echo master, didn't
even break stride. He vanished around a far corner, the sound of his frantic, fleeing footsteps
echoing briefly before being swallowed by the city's oppressive silence. The stone Echo gave
a roar and charged at him, but a beam from me melted through its torso, and Sasrir crushed
its head with a shadow hammer.
An abrupt, ringing silence fell over the alley. The transition from chaotic violence to utter
stillness was disorienting. The only sounds were the wet, ragged gasps of the man with the
severed ankles and the pained, terrified moans of the one Sasrir had pinned to the ground
with his shadow dagger. The air was thick with the stench of blood, voided bowels, and
ozone.
I walked forward, my steps deliberate and unhurried. The Starlight Shard's gentle glow
seemed obscenely cheerful in the scene of carnage. Sasrir stood immobile, his chest rising
and falling steadily, his dark eyes scanning the rooftops for any further threat. He had already
moved on; the fight was over, the survivors were a logistical problem, not a combat one. At
the same time, he causally brought his sword down on the man with no feet, finishing him off
through the back of the head.I stopped a few feet from the moaning man. He was trying to crawl, his fingers scrabbling at
the blood-slick cobblestones, leaving smeared red trails. The shadow dagger pulsed faintly,
holding him fast. I crouched down, the fabric of my cloak pooling around me. He flinched
away, squeezing his eyes shut as if I were a monster from his deepest nightmares.
I reached out, not to touch him, but to gently tilt his chin up with a single finger. He trembled
violently at the contact. I wiped a speck of someone else's blood from my cheek with my
other hand, then gave him a wide, warm, and utterly terrifying smile.
"Hi there," I said, my voice light and conversational, a stark contrast to the scene around us.
"Rough day, huh? My name's Adam. It's a real pleasure to meet you."
*******************************************
The hazy sun of the Dream Realm did little to warm the chilling silence of the Dark City's
central districts the next morning. We packed up our meager camp in the stone hut, the
memory of the previous day's close calls a fresh reminder to stay sharp. The Starlight Shard
felt like a second skin now, its gentle warmth and the subtle boost to my attributes a constant
comfort against the pervasive gloom.
"The monster traffic has lessened," Sasrir observed, his voice a low hum in the quiet street.
He was right. The frantic, predatory energy of the outer ruins had given way to a more
watchful, controlled stillness. "We are approaching a territory that is actively patrolled and
cleared."
"Or we're just lucky," I replied, stepping over a pile of rubble that had once been a wall. "But
I'll take it. I've had my fill of six-legged needle-mouths for a lifetime."
We moved with a cautious but steady pace, the ruins around us gradually showing signs of
recent activity. Not the mindless destruction of monsters, but the deliberate passage of
people. A path had been cleared through a particularly dense collapse. A few hundred yards
later, we found the first corpse.
It was a man in rugged, practical leathers, not unlike the ones we'd seen on the Hunters in the
Academy bulletins. He was sprawled on his back, a gaping wound in his chest. His eyes were
wide and vacant, staring at the bruised sky. A few feet away, the corpse of a Fallen beast—a
twisted thing with too many legs—lay dissolving into black ichor.
"Pathfinders," Sasrir stated, nudging the dead creature with his boot. "They scout ahead, clear
routes. This one met something he couldn't handle."
"Or someone," I added, my Spectator's gaze noting the clean, precise nature of the killing
blow. It looked more like a weapon than a claw. We found two more bodies over the next
hour, each telling a similar story of violent ends. The message was clear: the real danger here
wasn't just the environment, but the other inhabitants.
We fell into an easy, grim banter as we walked, a way to keep the oppressive atmosphere at
bay. "You know," I said, "for a divine incarnation of shadow and sacrifice, you're a
surprisingly picky eater.""I have taste buds, not a garbage disposal," his mental voice retorted dryly. "That last
Scavenger demon tasted of rot and despair. I prefer my meals with a hint of terror, not
existential dread."
I chuckled. "Noted. I'll try to find something more gourmet next time. Maybe a Fallen beast
marinated in its own fear?"
"See that you do."
Our banter was cut short as we approached a wider, crossroad-like intersection. Sasrir, who
had been walking slightly ahead, froze. "Presences. Up ahead. Human. Six of them."
Without another word, his form dissolved into a patch of living darkness that flowed to my
legs, becoming one with my shadow. I adjusted the Starlight Shard, making sure its glow was
subdued, and rounded the corner.
There they were. Six figures, standing in a loose group as if they'd just finished a
conversation. Three of them wore a distinct, matching leather uniform, marked with a symbol
I didn't recognize—a spiralled pattern of lines. They stood with a casual authority. The other
three were rougher, dressed in scavenged gear, their eyes constantly scanning the
surroundings. They had the look of thieves and cutthroats.
One of the uniformed men, a fellow with a disarmingly warm smile and friendly eyes,
stepped forward. "Well, hello there! A new face! Don't see many solo travellers this deep in
the city. Name's Kael." He spread his hands in a peaceful gesture. "You look a little lost,
friend. Are you..one of the new arrivals?"
My Telepathist powers, always passively active, flared to life. The surface of his thoughts
was a placid lake of friendly concern. Welcome, stranger. You look tired. You look alone. But
beneath that, like piranhas circling in the deep, were other thoughts. Soft clothes. No visible
wounds. Fattened calf. Perfect. Lure him in. Is he alone? Check the shadows.
"I am," I said, keeping my voice neutral. "Showed up in that godforsaken labyrinth of death
over there, spent the last few weeks fighting my way over-well, more like running and
hiding. Of course, this city is also a hellhole."
Kael's smile widened, before he winced in "sympathy" and shook his head. "A hellhole
indeed! And a particularly confounding one at that. We call this place the Dark City, and the
region itself is the Forgotten Shore. Not many people successfully reach the City
alive...you're one of the lucky ones."
Then, his voice changed. "It's not safe to wander alone. We're headed back to the Bright
Castle. Safety in numbers, you know? Gunlaug's protection extends to all who contribute."
The words were inviting, but the subtext my power picked up was a predatory glee. Take the
bait. Come with us. Easy to corner in the side alleys. That cloak looks valuable.
Another thought, sharper, from one of the rough-looking ones: Let's just jump him now. He's
alone.I took a subtle step back, my hand drifting slightly closer to where the Azure Blade was
sheathed. "Gunlaug? Who's that?"
"Ah well, it's the name of the boss here. He's...strong, but also heavy-handed. Actually, I
won't kid you, he's a bloody-fisted tyrant, but he keeps the peace and keeps them away, so
there's not much people can do about him."
"If he's so bad, why don't others just get rid of him?" I asked with an innocent blink. "Surely
you can just gang up on him even if he's strong, right?"
Despite his malicious ulterior motives, Kael gave an honest laugh at that, and even the people
behind him cracked a smile. "Sorry kid, I don't mean to insult you. It's just, well how do I put
this-Gunlaug has a Transcendent Memory on his person, a golden armour that can also shift
into weapons. I don't know how educated you are on the Spell, but a Fourth Rank armour and
weapon? Yeah, he can singlehandedly kill every survivor in the Forgotten Shore. Numbers
only mean so much, especially against sheer overwhelming power like that."
"Anyways," his focus came back to me. "I didn't hear an answer?"
"Sorry," I said, keeping a straight face. "I don't mean to be rude, but I'd feel more comfortable
going on my own. This part of the City seems safer anyways."
Kael's friendly mask slipped for a fraction of a second, his eyes hardening. The piranhas in
his mind surged to the surface. "Now, that's not very smart, friend." His tone lost its warmth.
"The city has a tax for passage. Call it a toll for the paths we've cleared. That nice cloak of
yours will do. And that trinket in your hand." He nodded toward the Crucifix I was subtly
clutching.
The other five began to fan out, slowly, cutting off my retreat. The trap was sprung.
"Sorry," I said, with a tight smile. "I'm a bit behind on my taxes, already owe enough in the
Waking World as is. I don't suppose you'd give a new face like myself a freebie?"
The answer was six blades being summoned into existence.
I turned and ran. Not in blind panic, but with a specific direction in mind: back toward the
narrow, defensible alley we had passed moments before. I heard their shouts and the
pounding of their boots as they gave chase, their friendly façade gone, replaced by the snarls
of hunters.
I burst into the alley, skidding to a halt in the centre. They poured in after me, six against one,
confident in their victory. Kael was at the front, his smile now a vicious grin. "Nowhere to
run now, fresh meat. Now give us what you have, and we'll let you walk out of here with no
flesh missing—"
He never finished his sentence.
The shadow I cast on the wall next to him detached itself. Sasrir flowed into existence with
the silence of a nightmare, his form solidifying between Kael and the man behind him. Hishands were already moving. A curved sword appeared in each, and in one fluid motion, he
drew the left blade across Kael's throat and plunged the right into the heart of the second
uniformed man.
It was so fast, so utterly unexpected, that there was no sound. Just a wet gurgle from Kael and
a soft sigh from the other as they collapsed. The remaining four skidded to a halt, their faces
a perfect canvas of shock and terror.
The third uniformed man fumbled for the sword at his hip. Sasrir didn't give him the chance.
He took a step forward, and as he did, the sword in his right hand dissolved into shadow and
reformed into a heavy, spiked maul. He swung it in a short, brutal arc, catching the man
squarely in the temple with a crack that echoed sickeningly in the confined space. The man
dropped like a sack of stones.
Thirty seconds. That was all it had taken. The friendly greeting, the chase, the ambush. From
a seemingly helpless victim to three corpses on the ground. The remaining three thugs, the
hired muscle, stared at the carnage, then at Sasrir, who stood calmly amidst the bodies, his
dark eyes already fixed on them. Their courage, which had been based on overwhelming
numbers, evaporated. The fight was just beginning, but for them, it was already over.
**********************
The man on the ground, whose name we learned was Jarek, whimpered as Sasrir calmly
stepped over his dead companion to begin methodically searching the bodies. The sound of
Sasrir's quiet efficiency—the rustle of fabric, the clink of discovered coins or trinkets—was a
grim counterpoint to Jarek's ragged breathing. The initial, cheerful façade of Kael and his
crew was now a distant memory, replaced by the cold reality of blood-soaked cobblestones.
I kept my crouch, my friendly smile never wavering, though it likely looked more like a
predator baring its teeth to Jarek. "Now, Jarek," I began, my voice still deceptively light.
"That was a very unpleasant welcome party. Let's try again, shall we? But this time, you're
going to do the talking. Start with Gunlaug. Tell me everything you know. His mood, his
routines, the strength of his guards, the layout of Bright Castle. Don't leave anything out."
Jarek's eyes darted from my face to Sasrir's looming figure and back again. Terror was a
potent truth serum. "He-he's the king!" he stammered, spittle flying from his lips. "The Lord
of Bright Castle! No one challenges him! He has an army! They have Memories, powerful
ones! He sits on a throne and judges everyone who enters!"
It was all grandiose, fear-filled generalities. "Specifics, Jarek," I chided gently. "How many
guards at the main gate? What are their shifts? Where does he sleep?"
"I don't know! I swear!" he cried, clutching his bleeding leg. "I'm not one of them! I just... I
ran errands! I got in because my friend, Kael..." he gestured feebly at the corpse with the slit
throat, "...he was a Hunter. He vouched for me! I just live in the outer barracks! I've never
even been to the inner keep!"
This was disappointing. We'd caught a small fish, not a key to the castle. "The survivors on
the Outskirts, then. The ones not under Gunlaug's thumb. Where are they? How do theysurvive?"
Jarek shook his head, confused by the line of questioning. "The Outskirts? That's a death
sentence! The Corrupted roam freely there! Only the mad or the desperate live there!"
"Fine. Rumors, then. The Seven Statues. The Lord Shards. What have you heard?" I pressed,
watching his face closely. This was the real test. If he knew anything concrete about the
Shards, it would mean the information was more widespread than I'd thought.
Jarek's brow furrowed in genuine confusion, mixed with his overwhelming fear. "The... the
statues? The old heroes? They're just landmarks! Cursed places! No one goes near them
except the crazy Pathfinders, and half of them don't come back! Lord Shards? I... I don't
know what that is! Is it a type of Memory? A new rank?"
His ignorance was a relief. The true significance of the Shards was still a well-kept secret,
known only to the very top tiers like Gunlaug and maybe the most established Legacy
cohorts. This fool was just a grunt.
It was then that a spark of defiance, born of sheer desperation, flickered in his eyes. "You're
dead," he hissed, his voice gaining a shred of venom. "You hear me? Dead! Kael was one of
Gemma's scouts! He's Gunlaug's champion! When he finds out you killed him, he'll tear you
apart with his bare hands! Your only chance is to let me go! I can tell him it was a monster
attack! I can smooth it over!"
I almost felt sorry for him. He was trying to play his only remaining card, but he had no idea
how worthless it was. "Gemma?" I repeated, feigning thoughtfulness. "Big man? Power of
regeneration? Don't worry about him. We'll have a chat soon enough."
My dismissal of his threat seemed to confuse him more than frighten him. But then I asked
the question that truly broke his understanding of the situation. "What about Seishan? And
Effie? Where do they usually operate? Are they working together yet?"
Jarek's jaw went slack. The terror in his eyes was suddenly mixed with pure, unadulterated
bewilderment. "How... how do you know those names?" he whispered. "You're new! You just
got here! Effie's a wild woman and Seishan never leaves the Castle! Who are you?"
I just smiled wider. "I'm a guy who asks questions. And you're a guy who's not answering
them. Seishan. Effie. Tell me what you've heard. Now."
He babbled, the coherence of his story breaking down under the cognitive dissonance.
"Seishan, she leads the Handmaidens, the girls. She keeps them safe, stops them being raped.
Apparently she's some sort of Legacy, but I don't know the Clan. Her Aspect...it fucked with
her skin, but that's all I know."
"And for the Beast Woman... she lives somewhere in the City, no one can track her down.
She fights with her fists and teeth, like an animal! No one works with them! They're freaks!
Dangerous freaks! Especially Effie, Gunlaug put a marker on her, anyone who teams with her
gets the axe."His information was, again, a mixture of exaggerated rumour and half-truths, but it confirmed
their presence and their general territories. That was enough for now.
Sasrir finished his grisly task, returning to my side with a small, cloth-wrapped bundle. He
had retrieved a few coins, a serviceable-looking dagger from one of the thugs, and most
importantly, Kael's leather jacket, which bore the spiral insignia. It might grant us passage, or
at least a second glance instead of an immediate attack. The worst thing about fighting fellow
Awakened was the fact everything of value was stored in the Soul Sea and vanished upon
death.
He had told us all he knows, which is little more than street gossip and the fears of a small
man.
I nodded slightly, still looking at Jarek. The man was sobbing quietly now, broken by the
interrogation and the sheer surreal horror of his situation. He had expected to rob a helpless
newcomer and had instead stumbled into something far beyond his comprehension.
"Thank you for your cooperation, Jarek," I said, standing up. The friendly smile finally left
my face, replaced by an expression of cold neutrality. My Flaw, Justice, assessed the situation
dispassionately. He was a would-be robber and murderer. Leaving him alive was a risk. He
could report our descriptions, our capabilities. He was a liability, and definitely deserving of
death.
But he was also pathetic, broken, and knew nothing of real value. Killing him now would be
efficient, but it served no greater strategic purpose beyond immediate convenience. It was…
excessive.
"Let him go," I said to Sasrir.
Jarek's head snapped up, disbelief warring with a flicker of hope in his eyes.
Sasrir didn't question the order. He simply gestured, and the shadow dagger pinning Jarek's
leg to the ground dissolved into smoke. Jarek cried out in a fresh wave of pain as the wound
was freed.
"Run," I told him, my voice flat. "Go back to your barracks. Tell whatever story you want.
But if you ever see me again, you won't get a second chance."
He didn't need to be told twice. Scrambling to his feet, clutching his bleeding leg, he hobbled
away as fast as he could, not looking back. He vanished around the corner, leaving us alone
in the alley with the dead.
I let out a long breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. "Well, that was informative."
Barely," Sasrir countered, handing me the bundle of loot. "We know the strong are where we
expected them to be, and the weak are afraid. We learned nothing of substance about the
Castle's defences.""Maybe not," I said, pulling on Kael's leather jacket over my Starlight Shard. The insignia
felt like a cheap disguise, but it was better than nothing. "But we confirmed that Effie is here
and active. And we know that no one is expecting us. To them, we're just another piece of the
nightmare. That's an advantage."
"And besides, we're not actually planning on raiding the Castle, remember? We're here to
fight in, to take it down from the inside."
"By killing four of the Lord's men?" Sasrir raised an eyebrow. "Why did you let that scumbag
go anyways? Who knows how much innocent blood he has one his hands?"
I just shrugged and didn't answer. I looked down the alleyway where Jarek had fled. The city
seemed to swallow him whole. We had taken our first step into the human politics of the
Forgotten Shore. It was, I reflected, just as treacherous and bloody as fighting monsters.
No wonder Nephis wanted to burn it to the ground