◇_ _
Mira sat on a folded blanket near what had once been the center of the labor camp. Her shoulder was bandaged. Her lips were dry. But her eyes… they refused to blink. She stared at the earth as if it still breathed.
The golden-eyed girl had gone with the masked leader. No farewell, no explanation. Just a nod to the others, then vanished into the forest's burn-black edge.
Now, only four of them remained with Mira. Four strangers. Four cloaked boys sifting through the aftermath of a massacre.
They moved with quiet caution, scanning the surroundings as if expecting something to rise from the ash.
> "The fire was just the final note," one of them murmured, crouching beside a crushed helmet. "The real damage… that was done by something with intent."
Another, older and broader, ran a finger along a gouge in the soil. "No spells. No formations. This was raw power. Like the air itself tore."
A third boy paced slowly near Mira, his eyes flicking to her now and then. He didn't speak—not until the fourth nudged him lightly with an elbow.
"You'll scare her like that," he muttered.
Mira didn't look up. But she heard them.
Their voices. Soft. Measured. Not unkind—but unsure. She felt like a question they hadn't figured out how to ask yet.
The third boy knelt beside her, close but not too close. He pushed back his hood just enough to show sincerity.
"We're trying to piece together what happened," he said gently. "Anything you can tell us… it might help."
For a moment, Mira didn't respond.
Then:
"I don't know what I saw," she said, her voice a rasp. "One moment he was Lothar. The next… he wasn't."
She trembled—not from cold, but memory.
"He didn't scream. He didn't speak. He just… moved. Like something wearing his skin forgot what a person was supposed to be."
"Was it rage?" the fourth boy asked, carefully. "Madness?"
Mira shook her head.
"No. It was worse. It was… deliberate."
The boys exchanged glances.
"That fits," said the quiet one. "The wounds we found weren't sloppy. They were final."
"Some of the mercs tried to run. They were cut down anyway. That wasn't rage. That was judgment."
Mira's breathing quickened.
"He saved me," she whispered. "Even when… whatever it was took over. I think part of him was still there."
A pause.
Then, with hesitation:
"Right before I blacked out, I saw something… a shape in the air. A page. No, a book. It hovered. Words floated on it. Symbols. I couldn't read them, but they felt—important."
Now all four boys were paying close attention.
"Where did you see it?" the tall one asked.
"Just above me," she said. "For a second. Then everything went dark."
One of them cursed softly.
"A system manifestation."
"Late activation," the silver-haired boy added. "Triggered by exposure."
"To the entity?" another asked.
"To him," the quiet one corrected. "To mana."
They turned back to Mira.
"You didn't do anything wrong," said the one nearest her. "But whatever touched him… it changed more than just him. And the system noticed."
Mira's gaze dropped to the blackened earth.
"Then I'm marked too, aren't I?"
No one had an answer.
They simply looked at one another—and for the first time, something colder than grief moved through the group.
Curiosity.
◇_ _
Above – Assassin's Perch
High above the trees, draped in the skeletal remains of the forest canopy, the assassin crouched like a wraith. Smoke curled lazily beneath him, twisting through the branches like it feared to rise too high.
He was still. The kind of stillness born of long training and longer hunts.
Below, flickers of movement traced the forest floor—embers caught in the wind, leaves twitching under unseen weight. Somewhere in the distance, something growled and then went quiet.
The assassin's gloved fingers moved with silent precision. He withdrew a small scroll from a pouch, the paper lined with shimmering red glyphs. A quick flick unrolled it. The ink pulsed faintly in the dying light, alive with latent magic. He spoke no louder than a breath.
"Status report. Subject nearing collapse. Conscious control slipping. Host destabilizing. Two hours left, max."
The scroll dissolved in a flicker of crimson sparks—message sent through the arcane network.
He didn't relax.
Instead, he slipped a hand beneath his cloak and withdrew another scroll—this one older. Heavier. The seal was thick and dark, engraved with a warding rune in a language no guild should still remember in this recluse kingdom.
He stared at it for a moment, then tucked it back with care.
"If he breaks clean," he murmured, "this might hold what's left. For a time."
His fingers found the curved blade at his hip next. He didn't draw it—just rested his palm on it, letting its chill bleed into his hand. It calmed the pulse behind his eyes.
This wasn't about the mission anymore. Or prestige.
"That blood…" he whispered, voice low, reverent. "It's a doorway. A fragment of something higher. Something ancient."
He leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing.
"Drain it while the vessel still flickers, and you might siphon power without paying the full price."
He'd seen what happened to those who touched the source directly. Burned from the inside. Minds shattered. Souls pulled from flesh.
But if you didn't touch it—
If you took it carefully. Bit by bit. Drop by drop.
"You could build something new," he said, almost to himself. "No more bowing to nobles. No more pretending before the old executives. The Crimson Guild, the Emblem guild, even the Silent protectors guild—they'd all learn to kneel."
He smiled, a flicker of teeth beneath the scarf that masked his face.
"I'll be the one to write the new doctrine. With blood and blade."
Another breeze rattled the branches. He didn't flinch. His attention stayed locked on a single trail of scorched footprints, leading deeper into the woods. He followed it with his eyes, knowing who had made them.
The boy. Or what was left of him.
"Go on, beast," he murmured. "Run. Burn yourself hollow. Lose just enough… and I'll be waiting. I'll carve the fire out of your bones and wear your blood like armor."
His hand moved back to the rare sealing scroll, tracing the runes with quiet calculation.
"This paper alone is worth more than a fortress. One chance. One seal."
Then he vanished again, swallowed by the surrounding shadows .
The predator with no banner, waiting for his prey to bleed just enough to break.
◇_ _
◇_ _
Ash clung to Lothar's skin like a second layer of decay, mixing with sweat, dirt, and blood. Each step through the forest felt like dragging a mountain behind him. The trees had long since stopped whispering—now, they only watched.
Scorched roots twisted beneath his feet. Withered trunks loomed, their bark curled like burned paper. He stumbled through them, eyes unfocused, breath a jagged rasp of fire. His limbs no longer moved in rhythm. They jerked and trembled—marionette strings pulled by a fading will.
The blood boiled beneath his skin. Still. Still. Still.
Then, silence.
He collapsed beside a dead tree, one limb splintered and half-submerged in ash. Its bark was stained with old soot and a darker smear—something fresher. Fingers clawed feebly at the dirt, trembling, unsure if they even belonged to him anymore.
His head lolled. The world tilted.
And from the pit of his mind, the voice returned.
Not angry. Not triumphant.
Amused.
"You held on longer than expected," Vauldrix murmured, as if observing the ending of a long, predictable play.
The presence was no longer a firestorm. It was a whisper wrapped in silk, coiling gently in the hollowed-out chamber that once held Lothar's strength.
"That fire inside you. All grief and grit. Noble. But exhausting."
Lothar wheezed, throat raw, lungs shredded by effort. Words wouldn't come. They didn't need to. The entity read him like a wound.
"Rest," Vauldrix said, almost kindly. "I'll keep your seat warm."
A final flicker of heat flared down Lothar's spine—residual, like dying coals—and vanished.
Then came the emptiness.
No more rage. No more pain. No more push to stand, to fight.
Lothar's body crumpled fully, curling into the dirt, arms limp at his sides. His breath caught and stuttered, a faint whistle through cracked lips.
Above him, the trees bowed in silence.
Even the assassin, poised like a dagger in the high branches, froze.
The forest held its breath.
And waited.