The overseer found Sevrin crouched in the collapsed tunnel, just as they always did—with practiced certainty and absolute contempt.
"You're still breathing," the man said calmly.
He wore white robes unmarred by dust, the sigil of the Seventh Clan stitched in gold at his chest. His face was thin, ageless in the way clan officials often were, preserved by alchemy and stolen years. In his hand rested a control rod—polished, rune-etched, capable of dropping a grown man screaming to the ground with a twitch of the wrist.
Sevrin rose slowly.
The chain beneath his skin pulsed.
"On your knees," the overseer commanded.
Sevrin did not move.
A flicker of irritation crossed the man's face. "Debt-slave, you have been absent from your assigned sector. That is disobedience. Disobedience implies intent. Intent implies—"
"Lust?" Sevrin finished quietly.
The word tasted strange. Hollow.
The overseer's eyes sharpened. "Careful."
Sevrin lifted his hand.
The spectral chain snapped into existence—thin, translucent, trembling like it might shatter at any moment. It shot forward and wrapped clumsily around the overseer's wrist.
The man laughed.
"What is this?" he scoffed. "A trick? Some impurity you picked up in the tunnels?"
Then the chain tightened.
Not around flesh—but around authority.
The overseer's laughter cut off as his knees slammed into the stone. The control rod clattered uselessly to the ground. His breath came in sharp gasps, eyes wide with disbelief.
"I—by decree—I command—"
"You're bound," Sevrin said.
The words came naturally.
The chain glowed faintly.
The overseer froze.
He could still breathe. Still think. But his body would not obey him—not without Sevrin's permission. The power was weak, fragile, straining to maintain its hold, but it was enough.
Sevrin stared at the man who had overseen beatings, disappearances, quiet deaths labeled as administrative necessity.
He felt no pleasure.
No thrill.
Only balance.
"I release you," Sevrin said.
The chain shattered instantly, dissolving into sparks. The backlash sent pain lancing through Sevrin's chest, nearly dropping him to one knee.
The overseer scrambled backward, terror finally breaking through his composure.
"Y-you—" he stammered. "You'll be sent to Chastity for this. The Clans—"
Sevrin turned away.
By the time the overseer found his voice again, Sevrin was already gone—vanishing into the forbidden dark beyond the mines.
The Outskirts of Yuira were not meant for humans.
They stretched beyond the borders of the Seven Great Territories, where the Clans' laws weakened and their control thinned to nothing. The land itself seemed twisted—trees bent at unnatural angles, soil blackened and humming faintly with residual magic.
This was where impurity survived.
Sevrin ran until his lungs burned.
Behind him lay the Seventh Territory, ruled by the Clan Valemorne, keepers of Order and Debt. Their cities were pristine, geometric, drained of color and excess. Every citizen knew their place. Every desire was cataloged, suppressed, punished.
Beyond it lay the other six great territories, each ruled by descendants of the legendary heroes:
The First Territory, governed by Clan Aureth, the Radiant Judges—masters of law and public punishment.
The Second, held by Clan Myr, stewards of faith and the Prison of Chastity itself.
The Third, ruled by Clan Kaelros, who controlled trade, resources, and the quiet starvation of border towns.
The Fourth, under Clan Seraphine, manipulators of memory and history.
The Fifth, claimed by Clan Draveth, militarists who enforced peace through overwhelming force.
The Sixth, watched over by Clan Nyxen, shadowed arbiters who erased threats before they were named.
Seven heroes.
Seven clans.
Seven territories built atop a lie.
And between them all—the Outskirts.
Sevrin slowed as the land grew more hostile. The air thickened. The silence pressed in, broken only by distant growls and the crunch of something moving through underbrush far too heavy to be human.
He felt it then.
The beasts.
Magical creatures once common in the age of the Demon King—now twisted by corruption and abandonment. Some were warped by residual demonic energy. Others by failed clan experiments, dumped here and forgotten.
A pair of glowing eyes opened in the dark.
Then another.
A hulking shape emerged—a malformed wolf-like beast with too many limbs and veins glowing sickly violet beneath its skin. Its mouth split too wide, dripping black ichor as it snarled.
Sevrin backed away slowly.
The chain stirred.
"Do not be reckless," Asmodeus's voice murmured faintly in his mind. "You are fragile, and so is your authority."
The beast lunged.
Sevrin raised his hand—
—and the chain failed to form.
Pain flared through his chest, sharp and punishing.
He ran.
Branches tore at his skin as he fled deeper into the Outskirts, the beast's roar echoing behind him before fading—either losing interest or preyed upon by something worse.
Eventually, Sevrin collapsed against a dead tree, shaking.
This world beyond the Clans was not freedom.
It was survival.
But as he stared up at the corrupted sky, breathing hard, Sevrin understood something vital.
The Clans feared this place not because it was impure—
—but because it was uncontrolled.
Somewhere in Yuira, fragments of Asmodeus still slept. Beasts roamed unchained. Laws weakened. Power lingered unclaimed.
Sevrin clenched his fist.
His first chain had been weak.
But chains, he now knew, were meant to multiply.
And the Outskirts would either kill him—
—or forge him into something the Seven Clans could no longer ignore.