The city never really slept, but in this part of town—where the buildings stood abandoned and every step echoed with memories—night felt heavier. Elias stood in the entrance of the ruined train station, the cold wind tugging at his coat as he scanned the dark interior. The presence he'd felt earlier hadn't faded. If anything, it had thickened, like fog that clung to the skin and slipped into the lungs.
The blade at his side vibrated softly, not in sound, but in sensation—a low, persistent buzz in his fingers. The weapon, forged in another world, still recognized when magic was near. And right now, it was screaming.
The interior of the station was worse than he remembered. Roof panels collapsed, vines creeping in from shattered windows. Trash littered the floor, but it was the chalk markings that caught his attention. A wide ritual circle, drawn sloppily, like someone half-remembered an ancient rite. Symbols were scattered with no real order. Useless. But dangerous.
"Who tried to open a gate here?" Elias muttered to himself.
He stepped closer. As his foot crossed the edge of the circle, the air shifted. A deep pulse—like a heartbeat—vibrated through the ground. Elias froze.
And then he heard it.
Whispers.
Faint at first. Not in English. Not in any human tongue. But he knew the cadence—he'd heard it in the Temple of Mirrors, where the dead whispered truths they were never meant to speak.
He gritted his teeth. "Come out."
The room responded in kind. The fluorescent light above flickered violently before shattering, and from the dark edges of the room, something stepped forward.
At first, it looked human. A young man, maybe early twenties. Hood up, pale skin, blank eyes.
But the mouth was wrong.
It split too wide, stretched too far.
And the voice—when it spoke—wasn't his.
"You were supposed to stay dead, Elias."
The name hit harder than expected. Whoever—or whatever—was wearing this man had knowledge. Elias didn't waste time.
His hand whipped the dagger from its sheath, and in one smooth motion, he traced a rune into the air. The symbol shimmered, and the space between them ignited with blue fire.
The creature screamed—not in pain, but in anger. Its flesh writhed, distorting, and for a moment, the illusion broke. The boy's body shimmered and flickered, revealing a shape beneath—a thing without a name, all claws and bone and teeth.
A monster from the other side.
But Elias had killed worse.
He stepped forward.
The flame rune exploded, and Elias dashed through the smoke, slashing low. The blade met resistance—flesh not meant to exist in this world—and the creature howled. It struck back, a blur of motion, claws slashing through the air. Elias ducked, rolled, then lunged again. Another hit. Then another.
Blood—not red, but black and thick as tar—splattered the concrete.
The thing faltered, and Elias placed his palm on its chest.
"By the law of flame, return to ash."
The rune carved into his palm ignited.
There was a flash.
And then silence.
The creature collapsed, twitching once before dissolving into a pool of smoke that evaporated like steam.
Elias stood there, chest rising and falling with each breath. His knuckles were white around the blade's hilt. The smell of burnt hair and ozone lingered.
He waited. A minute. Then two. No second wave.
Good.
But questions remained.
That creature hadn't just come through—it knew him. That was the part that didn't sit right.
He knelt beside the smoldering remains. In the center of the ritual circle was a torn scrap of parchment, half-burned but still readable. The script was old. Too old.
He recognized it instantly.
The Language of the First Gate.
He read it aloud, lips barely moving.
> "The vessel must bear the mark. The soul must be fractured. The veil must be thin."
It was a summoning rite.
A half-completed one, no less. Whoever did this didn't understand what they were unleashing.
Or worse—they did.
He pocketed the parchment and turned to leave.
But just before he stepped out, a sound echoed from the far end of the station.
Clapping.
Slow. Mocking.
"Very impressive."
Elias turned.
A man leaned against a column in the shadows. Expensive coat. Hands in pockets. Neatly styled hair, but his eyes were wrong. Unblinking. Artificial calm.
"Who the hell are you?" Elias asked.
The man smiled faintly. "You can call me Arden. I'm… what you'd call a concerned observer."
Elias didn't lower his blade.
Arden stepped forward, casual, confident. "Relax. If I wanted you dead, I'd have let the crawler finish the job."
Elias raised a brow. "So you sent it?"
"No," Arden replied. "But I knew someone would. You've been… making ripples."
Elias's grip tightened.
Arden raised a hand in mock surrender. "I'm not here to fight. I'm here to warn you."
"About?"
"The veil," Arden said. "It's breaking faster now. And you—you're a beacon. A lighthouse for the things that shouldn't exist. The more you use your power, the more they notice."
Elias stared him down. "Why warn me?"
"Because," Arden said, his smile vanishing, "some of us don't want this world to end. And trust me, Elias—it's ending. Piece by piece."
Silence.
Then Arden turned to leave.
"One more thing," he added over his shoulder. "That hero of yours—Adrian? He's not as clueless as he seems."
With that, Arden vanished into the darkness.
Elias stood still, digesting everything.
Someone had summoned a monster.
Arden knew more than he let on.
And Adrian—Adrian might remember something.
Elias sheathed the blade.
If the veil was breaking… then the rules were gone.
Which meant he could finally stop holding back.
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