The path to ascension, fraught with madness and inevitable despair, marked the singular avenue for humanity to usurp the strength of gods.
What irony, what callous jest, that in striving for salvation, they merely perfected their own destruction.
The heartland of the Shadow Realm sprawled beneath a perpetually starlit void. Lifeless hills, sculpted from fine black dust, stretched into an endless distance, a tableau of absolute stillness undisturbed by verdant life. Above, an unceasing storm of luminous, silver essence swirled and shimmered, rivers of ghostly brilliance illuminating the abyssal expanse. Here, among the ancient, immeasurably deep shadows, dwelled Cursed, Sacred, Divine, and Unholy souls. Beings born in eons of annihilation, eternally transforming. At its very core, it appeared fate itself was woven.
At the epicenter of this chilling expanse, where the ethereal currents of soul essence converged, the world tore. Space shrieked and folded, revealing a gate to utter void. It was not a door, but a gaping wound in reality, incomprehensibly vast, terrifyingly loud. The edges of chaos shimmered, pulling at the silver-lit dust like a hungry maw. Above this nascent abyss, countless threads of pale light pulsated, stretching and contracting in an intricate, beautiful dance. These were the strings, the very weave of the Nightmare Spell, laid bare, trembling in response to the impossibility presented before them.
A towering figure, shrouded in a dark mantle, stood at the precipice of this abyssal rift. Her features, concealed beneath a mask of fearsome demonic visage — its fangs bared, its crown of three twisting horns — radiated a great, unsettling authority. This was Weaver, the Demon of Fate. Her masked gaze fixed on The Demon of Chance, who regarded him from across the desolate landscape.
Weaver's voice, devoid of all emotion, resonated through the abyss.
["Well, still full of determination, I see, Outer-God. No matter how many times you fail, you'll keep at it, won't you? For the sake of all you hold dear."]
The Demon of Chance remained impassive, his gaze fixed on Weaver's unyielding form across the immense, chaotic expanse. He offered no response, the vast chasm of absence before them swallowing trivialities.
The voice of the Demon of Fate, a soft, insidious rasp, drifted through the chaos.
["Truly admirable, yet so callous! All the while its grip on this world grows each time you die. The odds are not in your favor, epigone. Not when it's zero against infinity. Your regressions are useless. All that work and effort to twist the strings of fate, and it means nothing."]
Weaver's hand gestured toward the swirling threads of fate above the gaping maw of the void gate.
["But, with what little power you have left, you might still "save" something else… I'm already aware of your answer. So, how about we give it another try?"]
His masked face, frozen in a ferocious snarl, tilted.
["Demon of Possibility? Oh, challenger of the Final Nightmare—"]
["Of course, Demon of Fate."]
Weaver's gaze did not waver.
["And now, you seek to enter the Final Nightmare once more? To challenge the Forgotten One, the very source of all corruption, in its final, most formidable form? I do not understand. What do you seek it so fervently, Outer-God? There is little left for even one as you to gain."]
["…If I cannot kill the Forgotten God, I will at least wound it. From that wound, I will tear a piece of its power. I have... another idea for how to end this."]
A soft, almost imperceptible chuckle escaped Weaver. It was a sound that hinted at a sudden, unsettling realization.
The Demon of Fate inclined her masked head, his voice settling into a low, chilling murmur as her gaze swept over the Outer-God.
["Ah, I see, Demon of Possibility. You finally know what you can save now, don't you? A truly charming ambition for one so utterly outmatched. Indeed. You are frightening, Demon of Possibility. You… your very existence is an anomaly I cannot comprehend, a thread that refuses to be understood. Your own manifestation of such defiance… it truly unnerves me to my core…"]
—
"…Again?"
The words were forced past Sunny's clenched teeth. The priestess's room remained cloaked in its accustomed darkness. Under ordinary circumstances, Sunny might have discerned the geometric patterns etched into the carved walls. However, an overwhelming pain precluded such simple observations.
He lay supine, gazing upward. Approximately two weeks had elapsed since he had slipped into the Dark City like a stray cur. He had forsaken the cohort, a decision whose wisdom now haunted him.
Sunny swallowed. The laceration across his abdomen seared with an intensity that went beyond mere description. It felt as though molten lava churned within his chest.
The Forsaken Knight had been completely obscured by True Darkness. Sunny had not even registered its presence until the Devil had nearly cleaved him in two! Were it not for Blood Weave, he would have perished then and there. Death, he acknowledged, should have claimed him. He knew this with absolute certainty.
And he may have silently thanked Blood Weave.
Sunny attempted to shift upon the mattress, precipitating a blinding, white-hot agony that detonated within his body. His limbs trembled, and his vision blurred, refusing to coalesce into focus. His body simply refused any motion.
'Curses.'
He collapsed back onto the bed with a muffled thud. His breaths slowly evened, and after an indeterminate period, he allowed his broken body to relax.
The Knight had not abandoned the cathedral. Thus, despite Sunny's loathing for the vile thing, its existence offered a peculiar boon. It remained below, patrolling its domain with tireless devotion, safeguarding the sanctum and whatever secrets it concealed.
Now, it guarded him as well. A bodyguard who had attempted to murder its charge; the irony was almost humorous.
Sunny emitted a thin huff of laughter, a sound that exacerbated his wound rather than alleviated it. He cursed beneath his breath.
The room he occupied possessed a desolate beauty — engraved stone walls, furnished with pale, salvaged pieces. Devoid of windows, no external light could penetrate its gloom. Fortunately, Sunny possessed night vision, and darkness alone reigned supreme within these confines.
Darkness suited him. At times, he even felt a strange security within its embrace. This sensation of safety, coupled with his fatigue and injuries, compelled him to close his eyes. He had intended only to rest them, if but for a moment.
—
Upon reopening them, however, he found himself drenched in sweat, his heart thundering with such violence that he believed it might burst from his chest. Sunny stared at the ceiling, an instinctive certainty blooming within him: something was amiss.
The realization preceded any coherent thought. Slowly, he began to retrace the preceding moments.
He had been awake.
In… pain? Ah, yes. The dark knight from the depths below had nearly eviscerated him. He had escaped, crawling on hands and knees, one hand clamped over his abdomen to prevent his intestines from spilling forth. A day or so later, he had ascended, being no fool to risk slumber out in the Dark City. He had discovered this room, climbed onto the bed, and relaxed.
And then—
There had been something! No distinct images or voices would materialize, no tangible form to grasp, and yet…
A distinct sensation lingered. The overwhelming impression of something vast, imminently close. As if an immense being had lowered itself, touching him in the darkness.
His fingers twitched against the blanket. A heavy unease permeated him, its origin strikingly evident.
'I… I-I dreamed?!'
Such an occurrence was, of course, an anomaly. Awakened humans — Sleepers — did not dream within the Dream Realm. Here, slumber was a void, a clean incision between the moment of unconsciousness and the return to waking. Dreaming implied interference; something was profoundly wrong, and he had been, or would be, affected.
Sunny's breath grew ragged. This mirrored his entanglement with Nephis and Cassie at the Soul Devouring Tree. It was happening again!
He attempted to sit upright, instantaneously regretting the action. Agony flared through his abdomen like a blade twisting within the wound. His muscles failed him, and the room spun uncontrollably. He felt only the sensation of falling backward onto the bed. For a terrifying second, he feared he would vomit.
"…Fantastic."
He lay there, his chest rising and falling unevenly, staring into the oppressive dark. The sole distinction now was perfect recollection.
He could recall it with absolute clarity: two weeks and three days had passed since his arrival in the Dark City. During that time, something strange had touched his mind — or perhaps his senses, or even his very existence.
But what was it? And why did it evoke the memory of [Enthralled]?
Enthralled… Enthralled… Enthralled.
Sunny opened his eyes, then closed them again, resolving to focus on the minutiae. From his memories of the Soul Devouring Tree, only Cassie and the Puppeteer's Shroud had allowed an escape from its suffocating influence. Was this sensation a similar snare? Was he ensnared within a mind-hex?
No.
This was the answer he came to. There was nothing present to hex him. The Tree was distant, rooted in the Ashen Barrow. Neither its tendrils nor its intoxicating fruit could reach this locale.
And yet… something was wrong. If not an external influence, then…
What was he missing?
His fingers slowly curled against the blanket. He approached an answer with each passing moment. He retraced the dream-sensation: vast and proximate, leaning down into the darkness as if scrutinizing him. Or perhaps, the inverse: he gazing at it, rather than it at him.
Perhaps he was the one peering into the abyss. It was not invasive, nor even threatening. It felt, instead, like a summons.
A step closer…
Sunny's eyes slowly widened. Attributes. What had Cassie spoken of, then? It was… five? Yes! It was "five."
His pulse began to beat erratically. He understood that [Enthralled] was gone — they all felt its claws recede upon leaving its proximity. He had looked at his Attributes, verifying the count: four.
Four.
So why did five still resonate with such import? The number echoed within his skull like a silver bell newly struck.
Five.
Slowly, Sunny summoned his runes. Even previous to his arrival in the Dark City, this sensation had lingered: a faint perturbation in his awareness that he would detect amidst battle. Something out there, distant and expectant. He had dismissed it as paranoia and exhaustion, a natural consequence of confronting horrors no Sleeper had any business contending with.
But when he crossed into the Dark City… it had intensified.
No.
It had roared.
The pressure in his lungs had drastically thickened, coiling within his chest like a python suffocating its prey, gnawing incessantly. It had screamed without voice, writhing within his very being as if smothering him. And tonight, once more, it had compelled him to dream.
A step closer…
Sunny's eyes widened further. Five… five…
The precise moment he had departed the Soul Devouring Tree, he had felt it. A flicker. A glimpse of something extra within his runes. A supplementary line amongst the Attributes.
He had seen it.
And then he had forgotten it, the rune utterly consumed by a pervasive fog. His lips parted slightly; the word poised upon his tongue.
'Regre…'
The syllable proved useless to him.
'Just what was it?!'
His heart now hammered relentlessly. The runes shimmered faintly, mirroring his escalating agitation.
A step closer…
Cassie's memory surfaced with sudden, stark clarity. He could recall it perfectly now.
"You have to remember, Sunny… it's five!" Her words resonated with an unnerving lucidity, as if she had uttered them moments ago.
His gaze descended fully onto the list before him. And there it lay—
Attributes: [Fated], [Mark of Divinity], [Child of Shadows], [Blood Weave], [Regressor].
Ah.
The world seemed to tilt.
…It was still five.
The fifth Attribute neither flickered nor blurred. It was not a figment of his fading sanity. It sat there, solid and irrefutable, unequivocally true.
[Regressor].
Sunny stared at it, and a cold sensation coursed down his spine.
Regressor.
He had arrived at his answer. The meaning struck him like a physical blow.
Memory—Time—Return.
The fog that had clung to his thoughts since his very First Nightmare shattered violently. The perpetual pressure within his skull eased its grip, then vanished entirely.
Fragments of memory aligned: a sense of déjà vu that had haunted him since awakening from his first nightmare. The instinctive knowledge that something or someone possessed significance. More than that, the subtle familiarity with horrors he should have been encountering for the first time.
But it was not the first time. It was the second.
Sunny drew a deep breath. The pain in his abdomen paled in comparison to the realization now dawning upon him. Something within him had at last remembered. The reason he felt drawn to the ruined cathedral. The reason the Dark City felt like an inevitable conclusion.
And the reason he knew, something awaited him below.
Sunny's fingers trembled. Cassie had spoken of something within him that neither of them could discern. And yet, it had been there all along. [Regressor].
A bitter laugh threatened to escape his throat.
Of course… of course…
The Attribute did not elucidate everything. It bore no description, merely displaying '???' even now. His mind remained frustratingly devoid of concrete memories. No clear scenes of another timeline flooded back to him, no recollections of the future.
But the certainty was absolute, for the fog had lifted. Though an absurd concept, it was one he already accepted. He had traversed this path before — and given the Attribute's very existence, he had failed.
And in the next moment—
The entirety of the room trembled. Sunny froze, then swiftly clutched the bed.
'Damnation—!'
Another tremor followed, far more potent than the initial one. It emanated from beneath the cathedral.
From below.
His gaze snapped toward the floor, as if he could penetrate layers of stone into the abyss beneath — where a certain black door awaited. The tremors intensified, rolling through the Dark City like distant thunder. Loose pebbles danced across the floor as the entire room groaned in protest.
Sunny's heartbeat synchronized with the violent shaking. Something knew. After all, the trembling —though initially subtle — had commenced the precise moment he began to comprehend the truth of his fifth Attribute.
With the shaking, a peculiar sensation rippled through his body. Familiar, yet alien. As if two strings of the same instrument had been struck simultaneously.
Two threads of the same fate.
[Regressor].
The fifth Attribute now resonated almost as if singing to him.
And deep below, in the suffocating gloom of the hidden chamber, a corpse lay.
And it writhed… it writhed with delight.
Deep beneath the ruined cathedral, veiled from the nameless goddess's scrutiny, lay a concealed passage. Here, the air hung heavy and stagnant. The pale, spectral flames of the torches cast their cold light upon a black steel door and the small room beyond, sealing the space from the world above.
At the chamber's heart, the corpse reposed, chained within its delineated circle. For a protracted period — indeed, for over a millennium since its entombment — nothing occurred.
Then, after so very long, the corpse twitched.
The movement was faint, as though the onyx body itself had not generated it. Iron chains rattled against the stone from the agitation, their echoes dull and lifeless. Dust cascaded from the ancient links, yet the corpse remained utterly dead.
Nevertheless… it began to stir.
One twitch followed another. The body commenced writhing in short, uneven spasms, propelled by a will not its own. Whatever lingered here had long since abandoned the vessel it inhabited. But it appeared something else had usurped its place.
The mask remained motionless. Its ferocious features, frozen in an eternal snarl, stared into nothingness. Black lacquered wood absorbed the pale torchlight, betraying neither crack nor flaw. Three twisted horns cast elongated shadows across the stone. Though unseen by human eye, those shadows extended outward.
And within the hollow chasms of its eyes, something stirred.
A call flowed outward, weaving itself through the unseen tapestry of fate. It bore neither sound nor word, only longing. A yearning for a presence the world had ostensibly forgotten, yet remembered with perfect clarity.
Lost from Light.
Once, it had been inseparable from the mask. And now, so many years in the past, it went unheard.
The corpse convulsed violently. The chains shrieked as they were pulled taut. From deep within the circle, a faint radiance seeped upward, accumulating around the mask like an encroaching tide.
Its divinity completely overflowed…
It was a raw wave, surging forth from an unknown source contained within the mask, from the [Key] that still resided there, untouched by time, patiently awaiting. The torches themselves trembled, their ghostly flames almost intensifying, as if agitated.
Inside the mask's empty gaze, a golden light ignited.
It was the pristine flame of divinity. The chamber quaked as the overflow surged higher and higher, filling the hidden depths beneath the cathedral with a presence that could no longer be contained.
If the one it sought could not hear the call…
Then the call would become a summons.
A soundless roar tore through the chamber, utterly incomprehensible, racing along the cathedral floor. Fate itself rippled, disturbed by a powerful hand that had forcefully sent something back to the beginning.
[Hail Weaver.
Demon of Fate.
Firstborn of the -unknown-.]
And though no one would hear it, somewhere beyond the grave, the Demon of Fate laughed.
…And this laugh aloud… a terrible one…
—
Somewhere on the periphery of the Dark City, four Sleepers stood among cooling cadavers. Two possessed slender figures.
One bore silver hair that shimmered even in the endless void of the sky; her grey eyes remained perfectly calm. A long sword rested in her grip, its blade still darkened with the black ichor of abominations. Her white cape fluttered behind her in the restless wind.
Beside her stood a blonde young woman with pale blue eyes — vacant and unfocused, yet somehow more discerning than any ordinary sight. Her hand rested lightly upon the hilt of an estoc, her posture serene.
A young man with brown hair and a gentle, handsome face adjusted his clasp on his jade Jian. His verdant eyes held a trace of friendly humor, yet his posture evinced discipline and refinement. Everything about him articulated nobility and rigorous training.
And then there was Athena.
Tall and athletic, possessed of a wild beauty. Hazel eyes gleamed with vitality, her brown hair confined in a simple braid. Lean muscle rippled beneath dewy olive skin with her every movement.
Nephis. Cassie. Caster. Effie.
They had recently repelled an assault on the settlement, tracking it back to its source, only to discover nothing.
Ten Awakened abominations, accompanied by two Fallen Beasts.
All of them breathed heavily.
"Well! That's a job well done, I'll say." Effie stretched her arms above her head, audibly cracking her neck. To an external observer, she might have appeared untouched — merely another hunt, another day.
Nephis understood better. Effie's shoulders were rigid, her breathing slightly dysregulated. She was exhausted. The Fallen creatures were responsible; their sudden appearance after the Awakened were engaged could have rendered the skirmish disastrous without proper coordination.
Nephis permitted herself a brief glance at Caster. She remained wary of him, perpetually so. It manifested neither in her expression nor her posture — she stood upright and composed, the very embodiment of calm. Internally, however, she never relaxed in his proximity.
His Aspect had indeed simplified the battle, that was undeniable. He had moved with blurring speed, exploiting multiple openings that Nephis and Effie created. While the abominations focused on the more overt threats, Caster struck from impossible angles, swift and lethal.
And Cassie, while not directly engaging in combat, was far from useless. Her warning — a sudden, sharp gasp — had alerted them to the two Fallen approaching from behind.
Nephis's gaze shifted to her runes.
Soul Fragments: [486/2000].
She was progressing rapidly. With the cohort hunting relentlessly, and other members of the settlement joining their efforts, the coming months would only accelerate this growth.
But her thoughts dwelled not on the fragments.
Caster approached calmly. "Lady Nephis, are you all right? The sudden onslaught was an unwelcome surprise."
She turned, replying in an even tone, "I'm fine. We performed admirably in repelling them."
He nodded, then glanced toward Effie — who already surveyed the corpses with unconcealed enthusiasm, or perhaps gluttony — and then to Cassie, who stood quietly, her head slightly tilted. Caster had detected a shift in her personality, and honestly, overall happiness. Ever since Sunny had departed, she had behaved differently.
The bastard. Caster had assisted in concealing Harper's body — for appearances' sake — only for Sunny to vanish shortly thereafter. An inconvenience, though not a major one, yet significant. Nephis had expressly forbidden anyone from searching for him unless she issued the command. From this alone, Caster had drawn conclusions. Something must have transpired between them.
Had it not, Sunless would still be here. And useful. Caster could offer little praise for the boy's combat prowess — though surviving the Dark Sea alongside Nephis suggested at least competence. He had, at minimum, been a capable scout.
But two weeks alone? In the Dark City? Improbable. Caster's jaw tightened subtly, though he maintained his composure. He was displeased.
For now, the most logical assumption was straightforward: Sunless was dead.
He turned away, gazing toward the distant, dead plains where Nightmare Creatures wandered like dark specks against a ruined horizon.
It seemed Effie had already commenced her work. Cassie turned slightly toward her, listening to the wet sounds of tearing flesh. Effie utilized a tool when necessary, but more often than not, her hands sufficed to pry apart armored hides.
One by one, they moved toward the twelve corpses to extract shards and salvage meat. All save Cassie, of course.
Nephis noticed it immediately. Cassie stood motionless, an uncertain expression marring her features. A faint crease disrupted her otherwise serene demeanor. Was it a vision? Had she witnessed something?
Nephis said nothing. She knelt by a Fallen corpse, her white dreamblade carving cleanly through chitin. With steady precision, she retrieved the Soul Shard and absorbed it. Warmth flooded her core.
Her heart, however, felt anything but steady. She would not articulate it. Regret lingered within her — not for speaking the truth, but for the schism it had created. The truth had been inevitable, always necessary. Had he discovered it independently, the damage would have been immeasurably greater.
Within her, resentment flickered, sharp and fleeting. He had refused to understand her, refused to acknowledge that her path was the sole viable one in this broken world. And frustration weighed more heavily than the preceding two emotions.
Why had she not compelled the conversation? Though Sunny had departed, she could have effortlessly pursued him. Why had she not forced him to remain? Why had she not ensured he understood?
His choice had been foolish, after all. Fate bound them together. They would meet again. Of this, she possessed absolute certainty.
And beneath the clash of regret, resentment, and frustration…
Something a little quieter persisted.
Acceptance.
Acceptance of what she would inevitably become. Acceptance of his decision and the distance she herself had carved between them. But still… two weeks. Only two weeks had passed, and she already missed him. Deeply so.
Had he been present, they would have identified the attack long before it reached them. Cassie's senses were extraordinary — but Sunny's scouting was utterly unique. He slipped through the shadows of nightmare creatures, striking them from behind. He could perceive what they all would overlook.
More than that—
She had trusted him. In battle, they moved as a single organism. Their instincts harmonized; though two bodies, they seemed to share one mind. Nephis doubted she could ever fight in such a manner with Caster. Skilled though he was, he was not Sunny.
She hoped—
No.
She knew he was alive. Cassie likely knew it too. Effie appeared unconcerned. And Caster had expressed polite worry, even volunteering to search for him, though she was certain that concern was partly performative.
She had denied it, however. Sunny had left, and that was his decision.
Still…
The separation felt profoundly wrong. Another shard dissolved into her soul.
And in the subsequent moment—
Cassie's eyes widened beyond all previous measure. "GRAB ONTO SOMETHING!" She shouted at the top of her lungs.
There was no time for hesitation. Nephis and Caster plunged their swords into the ground instantaneously. Effie reacted swiftly, sweeping Cassie into one powerful arm while planting her feet with immense force.
The world shook the very next second. The Dark City trembled as if struck by an invisible hammer. All around them, stone groaned in agony, and dust cascaded from crumbling edges. The ground bucked violently beneath them. Maintaining one's footing required intense focus — even for a Sleeper.
Caster's expression grew more concentrated. "Cassia! Is it a Nightmare Creature?!"
Effie barked over the roaring tremors, "Cassie?!"
"No!" Cassie shouted back.
The shaking intensified. Nephis's mind raced.
'What could cause something of this magnitude?!'
No one in the settlement had ever mentioned quakes of this nature. Was it the landscape itself? Or something vast stirring beneath it?
"Head back!" Nephis commanded.
"Gladly!" Effie replied, startlingly nonchalant despite the chaos. "Let's not meet whatever is causing this!"
The moment the tremors sufficiently subsided for movement, they ran. Effie was the first to initiate a full sprint, carrying Cassie effortlessly. Nephis and Caster followed closely, maintaining pace — though Caster notably refrained from utilizing his Aspect.
The ground continued to rumble beneath their feet. In Effie's grasp, Cassie suddenly began to tremble.
Effie leaned her head down a fraction. "What is it?"
Cassie's voice was distant. Yet, due to Effie's proximity to the young girl, she heard it clearly. Her voice trembled with… fear.
"Disasters… Disasters… Disasters… all falls to ruin…"
Effie frowned.
And then Cassie whispered something else, so soft it was nearly lost amidst the quaking Forgotten Shores.
"Sunny…?"
—
The gates of the Bright Castle loomed ahead, its white stone ascending against the black, starless sky of the Forgotten Shores. Gunlang walked at the vanguard. Gold sheathed his body like liquid sunlight, the Transcendent Echo clinging to him in shifting plates of radiant gold. Around him marched his hunters: Gemma at his side, ten other seasoned Sleepers behind them, all bearing the indelible marks of battle.
In their recent hunt, fifteen Awakened beasts and four monsters had been slain. A clean hunt indeed. They had tracked them through a shattered plaza, cutting them down one by one. With Gemma's scouting and Gunlang's overwhelming force, the abominations had stood no chance.
They were now within the Dark City, approaching the castle's gates. Tessai should have adequately held the fort; they had not been absent for an extended period of time. Furthermore, if any incident had occurred, Harus would be present to manage it.
Gunlang stepped forward as the guards recognized them. He raised a hand. "Ah, my people!" His voice carried effortlessly over the stones and wind. He clenched his fist, golden armor tightening with the motion. "The hunt was pleasant. Your lord returns unscathed."
A few guards straightened instinctively, and one even smiled. Beside him, Gemma attracted a few glances and cracked his neck with an audible sound. "Just another job well done," he muttered.
And perhaps… the dead gods had heard him. For in the next moment—
The world shook.
Initially, it was subtle. A mere tremor beneath their boots. Then the Bright Castle lurched violently. Its white stone began to groan, and the gates rattled within their frames.
No—
Not merely the castle.
The Dark City itself trembled. No, that was still inaccurate. It was vaster than that. The shaking rolled outward, monstrous in its scale, like the roar of something immense stirring beneath the very bones of the land.
The entirety of the Forgotten Shores was… shaking?
Gunlang did not fall. Through sheer will, his golden echo reacted, extending downward into sharp, spiked protrusions that pierced the stone beneath his feet, anchoring him firmly. The liquid metal rippled but held steadfast. With a fully saturated soul core, a tremor alone could not dislodge him.
Gemma, however, was less fortunate. The scout staggered, cursed, and promptly face-planted into a nearby wall as the ground buckled beneath him. The shaking intensified. Gunlang offered him a swift glance. Truly, it was terrible; he could not fault the man for losing balance.
"Hold fast!" Gunlang commanded, his voice potent enough to pierce the rumble. "Grab hold of something! Do not scatter!"
The hunters scrambled, bracing themselves against the castle walls, spearing weapons into stone cracks, anchoring themselves by any means possible. Yet, even as he issued orders, Gunlang's mind raced.
'What is this phenomenon?'
The Dark Sea? No, they were too far inland. And yet… the tremor instilled a palpable sense of dread. It was too profound, so deep, in fact, that the Bright Castle seemed to tilt for a moment.
And too unified in its assault.
It was not a localized collapse. Indeed, he had hoped it might be a massive beast charging through the ruins. At least such an entity, with Gunlang's hunters and his own transcendent echo, could be slain.
But no. The entirety of the Forgotten Shores? That alone indicated this: whatever it was, it utterly surpassed Gunlang's capabilities to handle it alone.
And suddenly, Gunlang's eyes narrowed. He perceived it then.
His Echo…
The golden armor, typically obedient and majestic, began to ripple erratically. Its surface shimmered unevenly, spikes flexing and retracting without his direction. The gold pulsed against his skin like something terribly disturbed.
It did not detach, for which he thanked the heavens. But it did react. Why?
Gunlang slowly turned his head toward the heart of the Dark City. His expression hardened, for only one explanation could coalesce in his mind.
Some massive calamity had awakened.
—
At the top of the Crimson Spire, where jagged coral pierced the starless sky, something began to awaken. For an extensive period, the Nameless Sun had suffered in solitary anguish, yearning for all that was lost, longing for warmth. Only when even that longing withered — when the ache itself finally died — was the Crimson Terror of the Forgotten Shore born.
High above the dead land, one eye opened. And it perceived something it had never before experienced.
Desire.
The crimson coral encrusting the spire trembled. Then it began to move. The initial motion was subtle; the second, furious. The coral shifted in great waves, spreading, twisting, writhing in agony. Growth surged outward in violent pulses, tendrils burrowing into ancient ruin.
An overwhelming wave of divinity swept across the Forgotten Shore.
Unleashed.
Unbound.
The Crimson Terror felt it. And it turned, turning toward the Dark City.
And it began to move.
—
Far below, in the catacombs beneath the Dark City, something else reacted. In a cavern choked with dust and putrefaction, a massive skeleton sat slumped upon a throne of broken stone. Its ribcage was vast enough to encompass a house within it — many houses, considering it comprised multiple ribcages. A solitary key hung from it, swaying gently in the stillness.
The wave of divinity reached it. The empty sockets flared with crimson light. Slowly, the colossal skull tilted upward.
It felt it.
Intoxicated by the scent of that overwhelming light, the old tyrant stirred with hunger. Through the tunnels and mines, bones rattled. Skeletons long buried clawed their way free from the soil. Dozens — hundreds — an army of a Fallen-Tyrant rose once more. They marched through the darkness in a silent tide, all commanded by their ruler.
The Dark City. The Source of this crushing wave of divinity.
The massive skeleton also began to move. It shifted, fingers digging into the earth. It began to crawl through the very foundations of the Forgotten Shore, dragging its enormous frame through the soil.
The Lord of the Dead was on the move.
But even these were not the most dreadful threats.
—
In the North, deep within a crimson labyrinth, something vast turned in its sleep. Coral walls trembled as a Disaster writhed, feathers scraping against the ground.
In the West, beneath a horizon stained by eternal dusk, a low growl rolled across the plains — a sound so profound it seemed to bend the air. A slumbering calamity shifted, claws carving trenches through a dream.
In the East, coils upon coils tightened in the dark. Seven heads stirred. Seven throats hissed in unison. A hydra's breath slipped through the cracks, venom and black flame simmering as it lifted one crowned head, then another, tasting the divinity in the air.
In the South, something opened its eyes in silence. It emitted neither roar nor tremor like its four kindred calamities. It delivered only an absolute silence that hushed the world around it.
Four horizons.
Four calamities.
The Disaster of the North. The Disaster of the East. The Disaster of the South. The Disaster of the West.
And at the heart of it all—
A pale, black-haired boy finally rose from his bed. Lost from Light's eyes widened. The world had transformed in mere moments.
Before him, the air was no longer empty. The phenomenon was visible to the naked eye.
Woven threads. Countless threads of divinity stretched across the Dark City like a celestial web, trembling violently. With eyes of blood — with the gaze of a daemon — he saw them clearly.
He saw where they converged, he saw where they touched.
And below him still, something ignited. A golden light flared to life beneath the cathedral's foundation. It pulsed with a loud, yearning radiance. Something called to him with great desire.
And to the south — no, beneath — another light flickered into existence. It pulsed from the direction of the Lord of the Dead.
And his intuition, alongside [Fated], screamed aloud. In that direction lay a key.
He knew not how he knew. He had no time to question it. And he needed it with his entire being.
The threads of fate tightened around him, singing in anticipation. Disasters stirred at every edge of the Forgotten Shore. All corrupted horrors converged toward the same center.
Toward the mask.
No, toward him.
Sunless inhaled slowly. He had never experienced a more potent sense of dread. In the very epicenter of a collapsing fate, beneath a sky that held no stars, yet no longer felt distant, he rose and took a single step forward.
And began to make his own move as well.