The walls of Viremoor loomed ahead, their stones pocked with age and neglect. Elias exhaled sharply, his breath fogging in the chill of dawn.
A month of forced marches, sleepless nights and Suren's merciless nagging had left him gaunt. All he wanted now was to collapse into bead and dream of that girl—the one with the curves and eyes he could drown in. But he had made a choice after his previous talk with his Master. He was here in the Eastern Desolate to train, and he would—with full focus.
"Sigh!" He sighed aloud. What men do for power.
He shook his head. This was nothing—nothing compared to what those true geniuses were doing. A shiver crept up his spine, but he pushed it down. No more excuses. He would train harder. He had to, if he ever hoped to catch up to them.
Suren halted, not bothering to look back. "Observe the city. Learn its rhythms."
Elias nodded. He knew he had to go alone. He couldn't always have his master's shadow at his back.
"When will we meet again, Master?"
Suren smiled, pleased that his disciple wasn't asking for any help.
"When the time comes, I'll find you. Now come closer. I have a gift."
Elias stepped forward. Suren reached out and tapped his forehead.
Instantly, Elias felt the strength drain from his limbs, his knees buckled slightly. He stared at his master, stunned, as the man grinned.
He was screwed.
"You… sealed my power?" Elias muttered, disbelief twisting his features. "But I'm only at Body Refinement. How—"
Then it hit him. The seal didn't just suppress his energy but also physical strength. The moment he flexed his fingers and arms, he understood: he was reduced to mortal strength.
"Fuck!" he growled.
Suren chuckled. "Isn't this fun? Now go. Know that I won't come running if you offend the wrong person. You're on your own." He gave a mock wave. "Bye-bye, Disciple. Have a nice journey. Oh, and I'll take those bags. No need to be weighed down. Hahahaha!"
As Elias watched his master vanish with all his money and his sword—leaving him with nothing but the clothes, he muttered under his breath. "Bastard."
"Oh, before I forget," Elias flinched as Suren's voice echoed from nowhere, "your goal is to break that seal before our departure. Could be in a month. A week. A day. Who knows? Have fun."
And he was gone.
"Huh-hah!" Elias took a deep breath, steadying himself. The real journey had just begun.
After calming down, Elias began to think. He knew his master never did anything without a purpose. There had to be a reason—some hidden lesson—behind suppressing his cultivation.
Why? He wondered. Why seal my strength completely? Why make me experience mortal life?
His thoughts drifted to the stages of ascension.
There were four: Mortal Stage, Body Refinement Stage, and Soul Refinement Stage. But something had always bothered him.
Why is the Mortal Stage even considered part of cultivation?
What exactly are we cultivating as mortals?
And how the hell am I supposed to break this seal while stuck at this level?
He sighed. First things first. He needed to find shelter.
Elias looked around, finally taking in his surroundings. People moved about the city, busy with their daily routines—vendors shouting, children laughing, carts rattling over uneven roads.
It all seemed peaceful. Too peaceful.
Elias's stomach growled. He sighed and ignored it for now. Hunger could wait. Right now, he needed a place to sleep—and information. His master hadn't even left him a coin.
The city was quiet in a deceiving sort of way. Not silent. Just… careful? People kept their heads down; eyes alert but rarely meeting his. Something was wrong here.
He kept walking.
Maybe I can try an inn or tavern for work, Elias thought as he wandered the dusty streets. I can read and write, and I'm decent at math. Surely someone will give me a job, right?
He nodded to himself. Once that was sorted, food in his belly and a roof over his head, he could finally think clearly. Only then he could begin to unravel the meaning behind the test his master had thrust upon him.
From dawn until dusk, Elias combed the outer city. He knocked on every door that looked promising—small inns, local taverns, merchant's stalls, even a stable. But again and again, he was turned away.
Many inns were run by tight-knit families who had no room—and no desire—for outsiders. Others gave him wary glances and murmured half-truths about 'not needing help' or 'already full'. A few were honest: We don't hire strangers.
By late afternoon, Elias's legs ached and his throat was dry.
What is wrong with this place? He thought, frustrated. It's like they think letting someone new in will bring death to their door.
He paused in s shaded alleyway, chest heaving with breath. This shouldn't have been so hard. In his mind, getting a job had seemed straightforward. He was strong, literate and disciplined. But the city's mood was tense and guarded.
He didn't know what, but he could feel it. A quiet dread that seeped from every wary glance and hushed whisper.
Eventually, Elias made his way to a small square near the city library. A stone lion stood over a clear fountain, its mouth spilling water into a shallow basin. He crouched beside it, cupped his hands and drank deeply. The water was crisp and clean.
As he wiped his mouth, he spotted an old man sitting beneath a wide tree nearby, tossing crumbs to a flock of birds that had gathered at his feet.
Exhausted, Elias approached and took a seat on the edge of the bench, leaving a respectful distance between them. He leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment, letting his aching limbs rest.
He had spent the entire day searching through the western and southern quarters of the outer city. And though he had found no work, he had picked up whispers.
Something had changed in the city two or three months ago. Homeless people had begun disappearing without a trace. Just a few at first but enough for rumors to stir. Then, weeks ago, the city lord sealed the inner city, barring entry and exit.
Some villagers had family inside, but they hadn't heard from them in days, even weeks. When they questioned the city guards, the only response was, "The inner city will reopen in a month. City lord's orders."
When people protested, the guards cracked down hard. A small riot had ended with blood on the cobblestones. Since then, the people were quiet. Fearful, watching and waiting.
"Sigh…" Elias let out a deep breath and slumped forward, So much for food and shelter. That dream's dead for now. It I even get to dream tonight.
"Young men these days sigh like old," the old man beside him muttered, "Where's your vigor, boy?"
Elias's mouth twitched. What do you mean at this age, old man? Anyone would sigh if they were this frustrated.
"What can I do but sigh, old sir?" Elias shot back. "I've been searching for work since morning and haven't found a single job. Now I'll have to sleep on the streets with an empty stomach. What else am I supposed to do?"
The old man gave him a long, slow glance—head to to—and shook his head. "You're complaining, but I can see it in the way you walk and talk—you're not someone who belongs to these streets."
Elias blinked.
"You were looking for works you want, not the work you can get," the man continued, tossing another handful of crumbs to the birds. "Somewhere in that head of yours, you think certain jobs are beneath you. You'd rather go hungry than pick up trash or shovel shit. Even though you know you could solve your problem."
Elias stared at him, stunned. The words hit harder than expected—not because they were harsh, but because they were true.
He though back. There had been jobs. A cleaning post near the market, another helping a blacksmith cart ore. But he'd turned away from both without asking thinking that they would hinder him from his test.
He hadn't realized at that time but now he did. He wanted comfort. Familiarity. A job in tavern where he could flirt with serving girls, eat on the side, avoid hard labor.
He wasn't noble by birth, but he had been rich. He was used to getting what he wanted. Back home, he and his friends would stroll the streets, laughing, never sparing more than a passing glances to peddlers and beggars. He hadn't bullied them, not out of kindness, but because they didn't matter. Dust in the corner of his eyes.
And even after meeting Master Suren, after years of harsh training and talk of humility, he thought he had changed but now he realized. He hadn't truly changed. He'd merely suppressed it. Wrapped pride in silence, not sincerity.
As these thoughts passed through Elias, he gave himself a bitter smile and shook his head. He lowered his gaze. "Thank you, sir," Elias said quietly, bowing his head. "You've cleared my mind."
The old man stroked his beard and nodded. "Good, you've got some hope in you, after all. I run the library here. I could afford you a job—simple work, organizing and sweeping. The pay's not much but the roof doesn't leak."
Elias smiled kindly. For a moment, he almost accepted.
But then he stood, bowed again and said, "Thank you. But I know what I have to do now."
The old man raised an eyebrow but said nothing as Elias turned and walked away.
He moved toward the bustling region of city, feet aching but mind sharper than it had been all day. He would start at the bottom—not because he had to, but because he chose to.
And somewhere in that choice, he would begin to understand his master's test.
He vanished into the crowd, just another stranger in a city, playing the never-ending game of life.
…
After leaving Elias to fend for himself, Suren made his way toward the tallest structure in the outer city—the old bell tower. A relic from Viremoor's more prosperous past, it now stood withered and lonely.
From the top, Suren surveyed the city in brooding silence. The outer district spread out beneath him in tangled streets and crooked roofs. Smokes curled lazily from chimneys and somewhere below dog barked once in a while.
Without a sound, four figure materialized behind him, cloaked in the shifting mist of shadow-step technique. Each dropped to one knee in perfect sync.
"Your orders, my lord?" asked the foremost—Third, a sharp-eyed woman with a pair of short sabers strapped to her back.
Suren didn't turn. "Begin silent reconnaissance. Spread through the outer city. Listen to everything. Search discreetly. The lockdown on the inner city concerns me and I won't risk moving further blind. Although I doubt, we will get any useful information."
He paused, eyes scanning a narrow alley where two children darted with a stolen bread.
"I heard some rumors," he continued, "that the inner district is sealed under the city lord's command. No entry. No exit. I want to know why. Check guard posts, markets and nobles, if necessary, just don't draw too much attention. This isn't our territory, so we must be cautious until we have full picture of city's current undercurrent."
He turned at last to the one standing slightly apart from the rest. "Fourth, you'll follow Elias."
Fourth bowed his head. "And assist if he's in danger?"
Suren's gaze hardened. "No! only if he's breath away from death. Otherwise, you are not to interfere. Watch. That's all. I need to know how far he'll go when no one' holding his hand. It's already year 932—just sixty-eight years before the 'Great War'. The boy needs to be ready for what's coming. If not…"
He paused, voice tightening.
"…he'll drown."
"Yes, Master."
Suren gave a final nod. "Move."
In a whisper of wind, they vanished—each melting into a different corner of the city like threads of smoke. Alone once more, Suren turned his attention back to the streets. He had heard stories—accounts from old comrades and wandering merchants—that Viremoor, though far-flung in the Eastern Desolate, was a thriving trade city.
But what he saw now was decay beneath a painted mask.
Building cracked at the base. Markets half-empty. People moved with hunched shoulders and darting eyes. No open patrols. No laughter in the street.
This isn't prosperity, Suren thought. This is a city holding its breath before a final and eventual sigh.
He descended the bell tower and began making his way south. Midway down the hill, he suddenly stopped. A ripple—brief and sharp—brushed against his senses.
He narrowed his eyes.
It was faint and fleeting but unmistakable: a pulse of essence. And not common essence, either. This reached the threshold of Soul Refinement.
He moved quickly toward the source, darting between alleys and crossing under an old arch. But by the time he arrived, the disturbance was long gone—vanished like a dream. He searched the immediate area with practice speed: no marks, no bodies. Just ordinary clamor of street life returning, as if nothing had happened.
He frowned. Either someone's good at hiding… or their control over essence is exceptional. Interesting.
Someone had used power nearing Soul Refinement—and yet not a single trace of aura lingered. No distortion in the air. No residue. Nothing.
To wield essence with such precision in a place like this…
Suren's eyes narrowed.
This is getting interesting.
Rather than waste time chasing phantoms, he turned away and headed deeper into the bustling marketplace of southern quarter.
Soon, a structure caught his eye. A tavern—majestic in appearance, gleaming with polished wood and burnished brass fittings. It stood out sharply from the dilapidation around it. If anything, it looked like it belonged in the inner city, not out here among crumbling shops and broken cobbles.
Above the doorway, etched in a silver across dark oak, hung a sign—its chains creaking softly, like a hanged man's rope swaying in the wind:
Silver Tankard Tavern
Suren read the name silently, filing it away.
He pushed open the heavy doors and stepped inside.
Warm lights spilled over polished tables, smell of roasted meat and honey-wine drifting in the air. Music played softly in the corner—an old lute tune, slow and teasing.
"Pour me the ale, old Harkan, pour me the ale.
Don't make me shout, or I'll lift up the veil.
Where are you hiding, with tankard and grin?
Don't drink it alone—let the patrons begin!"
Patrons laughed and chatted in low voices, most keeping to their drinks. Suren approached the bar, his presence quiet but solid. The barkeep, a solid broad-shouldered man with greying whiskers and polished tankard in hand, eyed him with the wariness of someone who'd seen too many strangers.
"What'll it be?" the man asked.
"A dark ale. Something local," Suren said as he settled at the counter.
The barkeep gave him a long, unreadable look. His eyes narrowed slightly, the way a man measures whether a stranger is simply ignorant… or testing boundaries.
He sighed—a quiet, tired sound—and replied in a low voice, "We don't serve ale anymore. In fact, the word itself is best not spoken around here."
Suren's brow twitched, but he said nothing. The barkeep's gaze briefly shifted toward the corner where the singer still strummed his lute and hummed lines. The old singer was a friend of the tavern's owner—and even the boss had trouble silencing his rambling tunes.
"You can order something else," the barkeep said, more curtly now. He pointed upward at a wooden board nailed to the beam above the bar.
"There's the menu."
Suren followed the gesture. The menu was etched into the wood in neat, fading letters—simple fare. A few soups, breads and handful of strong spirits with unfamiliar names. But no ale. Not even wine.
After a moment, he gave a short nod. "Alright then. A Raksi and some beef soup."
The barkeep inclined his head and turned away, his shoulder relaxing slightly as he poured the clear potent drink.
As the barkeeper was pouring drinks, Suren scanned the room. In a corner near the fire, a group of four men and one woman sat gathered around a low table, half-drunk mugs scattered among them. They were older—travelers, from the look of it. They laughed easily but not loudly. The kind of people who'd survived more than they boasted.
After getting his food, Suren moved toward them with a casual purpose. As he neared, the woman glanced up first. She looked him over once—boots, sword, shoulders—then smirked.
"Well, well," she said, voice husky with drinks. "You don't look someone who get lost, stranger. You sure you're in the sight tavern? Are your kind okay with mingling with low-life like us."
"I'm exactly where I mean to be," Suren said with a faint smile. "And what do you mean by my kind and low-life? We all bleed the same—red blood in every vein. We're not so different."
For a moment, the group stared at him in silence. Then the wiry man barked a laugh, followed by the others.
"Hah! Spirits above," one of them muttered, wiping his eyes, "I haven't heard that line in years."
The woman—Sera—shook her head, chuckling. "How the hell did you survive this long with thoughts like that?"
Suren shrugged, unbothered. "Isn't that what most people believe? That if we help one another, someone will help us in turn?"
That earned another round of laughter—this one not cruel, but sharp around the edges. Hardened.
"You've either been raised in a temple or never gone hungry," said the balding man, grinning. "But you've got balls saying it out loud in a place like this."
Suren shook his head with a grin. "I know the world is cruel. But what good does it do to sit around sulking, drowning in fear? My motto's simple—think good and maybe good will follow. And if it doesn't… well, that's what your sword 's for—to carve a little luck your way."
He raised his mug and took a long gulp, eyes twinkling with a stubborn optimism. Everyone raised their eyebrow but said nothing.
"First time in Viremoor?" asked the wiry man with long fingers.
"Yeah," Suren said between bites. "Been wandering a few months now. Picked up a bit of coin escorting a merchant's cart out of Lirien pass. Thought I'd find more work here… but this place feels strange."
The woman smirked "You're not wrong. Things ain't what they used to be."
Suren took a sip from the mug, trying not to grimace at the bitterness. "Everyone's real guarded. I stopped by some inns but there were barely any patrons while some others wouldn't even open the door."
"They're scared," said the balding man. "You hear things when you've been on the road, but here? People are going missing."
"Missing?" Suren blinked. "Like… run off?"
"Like taken," the woman corrected. "Started with beggars, but now it's travelers. Even folks with names."
"That's…" Suren hesitated. "Is the city under martial law or something? I noticed guards don't talk much."
"Locked gates. Inner city sealed," the wiry man said, lowering his voice. "Word is it all started two months back, after the city lord led an expedition to hunt a Tier-3 beast near the southern ridge. Ever since… things have gone downhill. Folk, say he came back different. Cold. Strange. Some even whisper he's behind the disappearances."
"Shh!" another man snapped, eyes darting to the nearby tables. "You want your head rolling on the floor? Don't speak that name so lightly."
Suren looked down at his mug, feigning unease. "That's… that's heavy."
"You'll learn," said the balding man kindly, clapping his shoulder. "Just stay alert. Watch where the shadows gather. And maybe keep your sword close when you sleep."
Suren gave a sheepish nod. "Thanks. I've got a lot to learn, I guess."
He laughed along with the others, raising his mug as if he had not a care in the world. But behind that humble grin, his thoughts churned. He had gathered more than enough to confirm something was deeply wrong in Viremoor. Maybe situation was worse than just the severance of Blood Oath.
Then, his eyes flickered toward the back of the tavern—something cold brushed against his senses. A slow, suffocating pressure.
Death.
The aura was faint but unmistakable, seeping up through the floorboards like a forgotten rot buried too shallow.
Something—or someone—was stirring beneath the tavern.
Suren stood abruptly, stretching with a groan. "Huh—hah! All that talk of vanishing folk nearly made me piss myself," he said with a grin. "I'll be right back. Need to freshen up before I lose control in front of decent company."
The table erupted with laughter, the tension dissolving in drink and shared amusement. A few raised their mugs in mock salute.
Suren offered a final grin, turned casually and made his way toward the back. The warmth of the tavern faded behind him—the clatter of mugs, the low hum of conversation—all swallowed by the narrowing hallway.
The deeper he went, the colder the air became. The scent of old wood and dust clung to the stones.
He passed a cramped storage room—shelves lined with dried herbs, rusted pans and cracked bottles. A few more steps brought him to the end of the corridor, where a stack of barrels sat tucked into the corner, oddly arranged.
The pressure was stronger here. The quiet, suffocating weight of death had settled like a stain.
Suren knelt, with a few careful movements, he shifted the barrels aside. His fingers traced the floor, uneven… and there, a seam.
He pressed lightly.
A low groan echoed through the hallway as the hidden mechanism gave way. The stone platform shifted aside, revealing a narrow staircase spiraling down into darkness.
Suren descended without hesitation, each step slow and measured. He trusted his skill, but caution had its place. The air thickened with each step.
At the bottom, he entered a small stone chamber lit only by the flickering breath of a dying oil lamp. Broken crated and splintered furniture lay scattered along the walls, as though a struggle had occurred here.
But at the center of the room, two bodies lay still.
Suren stepped closer.
The first was an older man, sprawled face-down in a dried pool of blood. His body bore deep bruises, cuts and ragged slashes. He hadn't fallen in battle—he'd been butchered.
Suren recognized the face, even bloodied. A portrait of the portrait of the man hung in the main hall upstairs. Harkan—tavern's owner.
A pitiful death, drowned under his own breath, forgotten beneath his own tavern.
Suren thought and moved his gaze toward another body. And it was this body that made Suren pause.
A young man, perhaps eighteen—no older than twenty. Barely more than a boy. His frame was thin, his limbs bruised and broken. Wounds, both fresh and old, marred every inch of skin. The signs of torture were clear.
And yet…
Suren narrowed his gaze. A faint swirl of energy clung to the boy—not from within from out. Essence of death pooled faintly in the chamber… and it was being drawn into him.
Absorbed.
But the boy is death! Suren thought.
The boy was neither breathing nor was there any pulse. And still, the aura of death clung to him like moths to an open flame.
Suren crouched beside the body, reaching out with trained senses. NO cultivation, no trained physique. Just a corpse. A mortal corpse drawing in death essence like it belonged to him.
His eyes sharpened.
"This shouldn't be possible," he muttered, "You have nothing and still… your body is absorbing death essence like mortals drinking water?"
He was intrigued. This mission had been routine—a simple stop for surveillance and observation… well he had to annihilate the clan if Blood Oath was really severed but this changed everything. A body like this if trained properly… could become a weapon. Or a miracle. Is it really just coincidence that more geniuses are appearing and strange things are stirring the closer we get to the Great War or…
Suren shook his head, brushing the thought aside. Now wasn't the time to chase riddles.
He had a more pressing problem in front of him.
The death aura here was too thin. If left in this state, the boy would crumble. The body would rot before the essence could do its work.
Suren stood.
He didn't know who the boy was but something had already taken interest in him. And Suren wasn't about to leave such a boy who clung to life even after dying to rot in a cellar.
With one smooth motion, he hoisted the boy into his back.
"I suppose a proper graveyard might serve you better."
He gave one last glance to the old man's corpse.
"Viremoor," he muttered, "your waters run deeper than I though."
A low chuckle escaped his lips. "Hahaha… interesting. Very interesting."
And with that, Suren vanished into the dark.
…
Meryn moved silently through the darkened streets, his footsteps light as breath, his cloak drawn tight around him. If he'd wanted, he could've slipped in from any number of unguarded paths without being seen. But with disappearances mounting each day, he needed answers.
So instead, he approached one of the guarded checkpoints that led into the inner city.
As he neared the winding path that connected the two halves of Viremoor, he notices something off—the air was heavier, the energy thicker. A faint shimmer laced the archway ahead, pulsing like a heartbeat.
His eyes narrowed.
A barrier? Why is the inner city sealed with barrier?
He knew the protocol. That barrier was only meant to be activated during imminent catastrophe—when the city faced total destruction. To see it raised now, without warning, with people vanishing daily…
Something's very wrong
Meryn pressed his palm to the surface. The barrier was only partially powered—strong enough to halt mortals, but barely a flicker against someone like him. With precise essence control, he manipulated a weak point and slipped through as the weave briefly parted. Destroying the ward would've been easy, but it would draw attention—and he wasn't ready to be seen.
The moment he passed inside, he melted into the shadows and suppressed his presence to a whisper.
Moving deeper, his sharp eyes caught movement at the old barracks. A figure stood watch.
Soul Refinement Stage?
There was no mistaking the pressure. Subdued but unmistakable. As he scanned the perimeter, his senses picked up several more auras like it. One to the east. Two to the north. Another toward the central plaza.
His mind raced. Six Soul Refinement cultivators… in Viremoor?
Impossible. The city barely had enough resources to maintain mid-tier guards, let alone host a small battalion of elite cultivators.
No! Something is strange. Why is their essence chaotic. Oh! They must have just ascended. Meryn nodded to himself.
But even stranger was the aura they carried.
Their energy felt… wrong. Not twisted in technique or Essence deviation but something deeper. As if fundamentally broken in their existence.
Still cloaked in silence, Meryn drifted closer, settling just within the range of his senses behind a stack of crates. A cluster of guards stood near the checkpoint, speaking in hushed tones.
One of them muttered, voice tinged with uncertainty. "Are we really doing this? Is this, okay? The city lord wiped out both the Rosil Enterprise and the Vernol family. What's stopping him from turning on us?"
Another snapped, "Shut it! You should be glad he chose us. Would you rather die weak, rotting in some alley? He gave us strength—and maybe one day, we'll reach Essence Refinement too."
The first voice trembled. "But he didn't just kill cultivators. He wiped out everyone. Children. Servants. Even the pets. Who does that?"
Another muttered under his breath, bitter and low, "They say being born weak isn't your fault—but dying weak is. Easy to say when you're born in power. The rest of us are just pawns."
He exhaled sharply, then whispered, "Heaven above, earth below... may I live long enough to see my daughter grow."
Meryn pulled back, heart tight, expression cold.
Now he understood.
The barrier wasn't raised to defend the city—it was to keep the truth contained. Meryn's gaze shifted to the towering mansion at the city's center, rising like a black spear into the sky.
What is that old dog playing at? he wondered. Does he think he can sever the emperor's leash? Or has he found some treasure powerful enough to defy him outright?
His tongue ran across his teeth, tension bubbling into intrigue.
Maybe it's time I pay him a visit.
Originally, Meryn had come to gather information from Rosil—but that path was closed now. He had two choices: leave, and risk ignorance, or press on and find out what the city lord was planning. Either path carried danger.
If he left now and the city lord launched a sudden strike, their entire hideout could be compromised. But approaching the mansion meant risking his life. He weighed the danger for a moment.
Then chuckled.
"What's life without a little risk?"
And with that, he turned toward the heart of the inner city—toward the storm he knew was waiting.
…
The city lord's mansion loomed ahead, its jagged towers stabbing into the moonlit sky like broken spears. Unlike the lifeless stretches of Viremoor, this place glowed—lamplight flickering in every window, causing a serene, almost inviting warmth.
But Meryn wasn't fooled.
He crouched by the outer wall, eyes narrowing as he scanned the front hold. Cultivators stood at rigid attention, stationed with mechanical precision. None of them emanated strength above mid-tier Essence Refinement. Thats a relief
He knocked his own temple lightly. "Get a grip, Meryn," he whispered. "That bastard slaughtered Rosil's entire bloodline. You slip up here, you won't even get the chance to know you're dead."
He adjusted his cloak and suppressed his presence to the barest flicker. Even among these weaker guards, he moved with utmost caution—threading through blind spots, clinging to the shadows.
He landed silently in the garden. The once-majestic hedges were overgrown, wild vines choking the statues. He shook his head and moved without lingering for more than necessary.
Inside the mansion, not a soul moved. No guards, no servants, no flicker of presence. The halls stood polished and silent. It was the kind of silence that screamed.
Meryn's instincts begged him to leave.
But his curiosity, his need to know, kept him root.
He stepped further in.
Then came the sound.
Wuwuwu…
He flinched, hand on his dagger. Somewhere deeper in the mansion, someone—or something was crying.
Or laughing.
He paused, listening again. Crying. Then laughter. Then a whisper. A lullaby. A scream.
He couldn't tell where one ended and the next began.
His leg tensed, every muscle screaming to retreat, but his mind latched onto a single thought. If I learn the truth of what's happening here, I'll understand what's wrong with this whole cursed city.
He followed the sound, each step slow and deliberate.
Eventually, he came upon a vast oak door carved with various beasts, some glowing faintly, others scorched out. The sound was loudest here—voices weaving into a grotesque lullaby. His fingers brushed the door handle.
But he hesitated. If I open it…
He backed away.
A cracked window down the hall caught his eye—its glass fractured like spiderweb. He climbed the wall silently, peering through the jagged slit.
And then he saw.
The city lord knelt on the blood-slick marble floor of the grand dining chamber. His robe was soaked; his mouth wet with crimson. Torn limbs were strewn across the table—arms, legs, tiny fingers. A toddler's severed head lay in a crystal bowl.
The man cradled a small arm against his chest like a beloved heirloom, sobbing.
"I killed them... I killed the children... old and young... with these hands..."
"These hands that swore to protect Aetherwyn..."
He laughed then—sharp and broken.
Then he cried. "Wuwuwu!"
Meryn's breath caught.
Then the city lord turned suddenly, staring directly at the broken window.
Meryn didn't wait. He dropped silently and bolted. Through the corridor, over blood-polished stone, into the garden thick with vines that seemed to twitch.
As he vaulted the gate and fled.
Across the rooftops, into the alleys, deeper into the veiled night of Viremoor. Only when the mansion was a distant silhouette did he stop—gasping, sweat freezing on his brow.
His hands trembled.
"…"
"Hah-hah-hah!"
They had to leave. Now. Before city lord was upon them.