My eyes widened at the sudden death flag the woman had just dropped, a casual remark that
felt like a nail in a coffin. Before I could utter a single word, a shriek loud enough to crack
stone reverberated through the ruins, freezing everyone in place. Looking up, we saw a
colossal and disturbing beast circling above us, its form a blasphemous sketch against the
crimson sky.
"A massive, winged creature with a pale body and black feathers stained by blood," the
novel's description flitted through my mind in a panicked rush. Its terrifying beak opened,
revealing rows of needle-like fangs and a long, lashing red tongue. This monstrous cross
between a lion and a raven stretched its numerous, mismatched limbs, muscles rolling like
steel cables under its corpse-pale skin.
"Shit," Sasrir cursed beside me, the word perfectly capturing the cold dread washing over our
group. It was a Spire Messenger, a predator we were in no way equipped to fight. As we
stood frozen in terror, the monster crashed down in front of us, sending shards of pavement
flying like shrapnel. Its beady, intelligent eyes scanned us, landing and locking with a
terrifying hunger—straight onto me.
I swallowed audibly, my throat suddenly bone-dry. There was no time for thought, only
instinct. I immediately summoned the Unshadowed Crucifix, its familiar weight and warmth
flaring to life in my palm. Simultaneously, Sasrir stepped directly in front of me, his shadow-
cloaked form widening to shield my body with his own. The terse standoff lasted only a few
heartbeats, the air thick with the beast's foul, metallic scent.
Then, with another ear-splitting shriek, the Spire Messenger pounced. It moved with
impossible speed, a blur of pale flesh and dark feathers aimed directly at our position. Kora
shouted a command that was lost in the roar of its charge, her stone skin bracing for an
impact that would likely shatter her. Roric hefted his maul, a futile gesture against such
overwhelming power.
Sasrir didn't flinch. As the beast's leading claws swept toward us, the shadows around him
erupted. They coalesced into a solid wall of darkness, a shield that met the monstrous charge
with a sound like tearing metal. The force of the blow still threw him back into me, and we
tumbled together in a heap, the Crucifix flying from my grasp. The beast recoiled, shaking its
head as if the shadows had stung it, giving us a precious second to scramble away. This was
no longer a trial; it was a fight for survival against a nightmare made flesh.
I dismissed and then summoned the Crucifix again, thanking Guilythree for allowing such a
thing to be possible, then steadied myself. Sasrir coughed up a globule of blood but didn't
seem to have broken anything vital. "Can we kill it?" I asked in a low voice.
"Are you out of your fucking mind?" was his response before he transformed into a shadow,
wrapped around my thigh and pulled me away all in the blink of an eye. Where we stood, the
mangled claw of the Spire Messenger slammed down into the old stone pavements."The Unshadowed Crucifix can match Nephis for firepower but can't heal us, and using it
would likely get you killed faster against this thing. We need to flee."
I took a breath and locked eyes with Kora across the street, my question going unspoken but
still heard. "Roric, keep that thing distracted! Finn, try and put an arrow in its' eyes! Everyone
else, stay on your feet and nimble-try and drive it off until you can escape!"
The big man took a deep breath as he heard that, but still bravely stepped forward to confront
the twisted abomination.
I took a sharp breath, the air tasting of dust and ozone, and locked eyes with Kora across the
rubble-strewn street. My question went unspoken but was clearly heard: *Do we fight?* Her
jaw tightened, then she gave a single, sharp nod. "Roric, keep that thing distracted! Finn, try
and put an arrow in its eyes!" she roared, her voice cutting through the creature's guttural
hisses. "Everyone else, stay on your feet and nimble—we just need to drive it off until we can
escape!"
The big man, Roric, took a deep, shuddering breath as the command settled on him. He
looked at the twisted abomination, a being of nightmare and muscle, and still bravely stepped
forward to confront it. His Brawler Aspect swelled his frame further, and he let out a defiant
roar, slamming his maul against a chunk of masonry. The Spire Messenger's head swiveled,
its beady eyes focusing on this new, noisy threat.
Finn didn't hesitate, nocking an arrow and letting it fly in one fluid motion. The projectile
streaked through the air, aimed perfectly for the creature's left eye. But with a speed that
defied its size, the beast twitched its head, and the arrow shattered harmlessly against its
hardened beak. It was like trying to pierce solid rock. It let out a contemptuous shriek, a
sound that promised a slow, painful death.
Ignoring the sting of the arrow, the Messenger lunged at Roric, its six forelimbs scything
through the air. Roric met the charge, his maul swinging in a wide, powerful arc. The weapon
connected with a sickening crunch against one of the beast's limbs, but two other claws raked
across his chest. His leather armor tore like paper, and deep gashes welled with blood
instantly. He grunted in pain, stumbling back but managing to keep his feet.
"Again, Finn!" Kora yelled, her own skin hardening to rough granite as she moved to flank
the creature. She knew her strikes would be little more than annoyances, but she had to draw
its attention from the heavily wounded Roric. She slammed a stone fist into the beast's
feathered hip, the impact sounding like a hammer hitting a tree. The creature barely flinched.
Sasrir was a blur of motion, using the distraction to his advantage. He darted in from the
beast's blind spot, his dagger aiming for the tendon at the back of one powerful hind leg. The
blade bit deep, and black blood sprayed from the wound. The Messenger screeched in
genuine pain this time, whipping its head around to snap at the fleeting shadow. But Sasrir
was already gone, melting back into the ruins.
Its head swivelled, and those hungry eyes locked onto me once more. It took a single, earth-
shaking step in my direction, completely ignoring Roric's weakened swings and Kora's
pounding fists. The plan was falling apart. We weren't driving it off; we were just making itangrier. Cursing to myself, I held up the Crucifix and pressed my thumb against the top.
Blood oozed from the skin and dripped down onto the Memory, causing the bronze covering
to peel away and reveal a luminous blob of pure golden light underneath.
Keeping Sasrir's warning in mind, I limited the power to a Priest of Light instead of an
Unshadowed, and just the base of the Sequence 5. "Light of Holiness!"
A beam of true sunlight, not seen in the Forgotten Shore since the Nephilim fell from the
stars, descended and struck the Spire Messenger straight on the crown of the head. A
nauseating sizzling sound was born, and it smelt like rotten chicken had been cooked in
gastric juices. When the light cleared, the Spire Messenger looked like a wax sculpture that
had been held too close a candle for several minutes. However, the wound seemed to look
worse than it was, because the monster let out another scream and then charged right at me.
It was then that Finn let loose another arrow, this one flying true and sticking into the right
eye of the beast. It immediately toppled over in power, shaking its head and making noises
that hurt mine. Panting heavily, I quickly gestured to the others and then began to run: while
the beast was currently rolling around it pain, none of us had the confidence of finishing it off
without suffering injuries, and the Messenger was writhing around too much for Finn to shoot
his way to its brain.
Plus, the thing was still twice the size of a bus, so anyone who got close would be crushed by
its frenetic scrambling.
Behind me, Sasrir materialised from the shadows and pulled me along. I saw Finn and Lyra
following from the corner of my eye, but didn't spot Kora or Roric-perhaps they were on the
other side of the Spire Messenger. After running for around ten minutes, we came to a stop
under a crumbling wall, all taking our breath. I slumped to the floor, face pale as my body
adjusted to the Crucifix's blood tax. Sasrir stood protectively by me, keeping an eye on Lyra
and Finn near us.
After several minutes without anything chasing us, we finally relaxed and heaved a collective
sigh. Once things had calmed down, Lyra turned to me and fixed her gaze of the Crucifix in
my hand. "That thing...it's a Memory right? It dealt some serious harm to the Spire
Messenger, what's its story?"
Thankfully, I already had a story thought up for this and wasn't flustered. "It's an Awakened
Memory of the third Tier I got from my First Nightmare-it specialises in purifying and
burning corrupted, and can support allies, but isn't very effective against Human foes."
The Spire Messenger was a Fallen Demon from what I remembered, so I had to emphasise
that the Crucifix was "only" able to wound it because it was a counter towards monsters and
not because it was actually stronger than Awakened. After all, nothing on the Forgotten Shore
would drop something like this, and your First Nightmare was only meant to have enemies up
to Awakened, though they can range from mere Beasts to a Titan in Class.
Lyra looked at me with scrutinizing eyes but didn't press me any further. Meanwhile, Finn
had been checking out our surroundings for positioning and seemed to recognise where they
were. "Alright, let's head back to the Castle...shit, we left the food behind when we ran.""Our lives were more important," Sasrir shrugged and Lyra gave a grunt in agreement, but
Finn was still annoyed. "Yeah well, now we need to make another trip before we're done.
Sigh, hope Kora and Roric made it out alive..."
Picking myself off the ground, I grunted as my knees popped like an old man's. Sasrir gave
me a mocking side-eye at the sound, and my mouth twitched. "In that case Seniors, please
lead the way."Chapter 25: First Run-End
The four of us moved quickly, sticking to the shadows of the crumbling city. We didn't speak,
saving our breath for the run and listening for any sign of pursuit. The image of the Spire
Messenger was burned into our minds, a fresh nightmare to fuel our pace. Every distant
sound made us flinch, expecting that terrible shriek to fill the air again.
We finally saw the dark bulk of Bright Castle in the distance, a welcome if gloomy sight. The
guards at the gate gave us a once-over, noting our ragged state and lack of supplies, but they
waved us through without comment. We headed straight for the common area our group
used, a dim hall with rough-hewn benches. I slumped onto one, the adrenaline crash making
my hands shake.
An hour crawled by in tense silence. We just sat there, listening to the distant sounds of the
castle. No one said what we were all thinking: that Kora and Roric weren't coming back. The
mood was grim, the failure of the mission and the potential loss of two members hanging
heavy in the air. Finn kept pacing, while Lyra stared blankly at the wall.
Just as hope was fading, a noise at the entrance made us all look up. Kora stumbled in,
supporting a barely-conscious Roric. She was a mess, her stone-skin Aspect gone, revealing a
face bruised and cut. Roric was worse; his left arm was gone just below the shoulder, the
stump crudely cauterized. They were alive, but just barely.
Lyra and Finn were on their feet in an instant, rushing to their sides. "Thank God you made
it!" Finn breathed, helping Kora lower Roric onto a bench. "What happened? Your arm..."
Lyra's voice was tight with concern as she looked at the big man, who was pale and sweating.
I stood up too, putting on my best look of shocked relief.
"We led it on a chase through the old canals," Kora rasped, her voice raw. "Roric bought us a
chance to hide... cost him an arm." She looked at her missing limb, her expression a mix of
pain and grim acceptance. I moved closer, my face a mask of feigned sympathy. "I'm just
glad you're both alive," I said, my tone dripping with false concern. It was a necessary
performance to seem like a team player. I didn't hate or even dislike the two of course, but I
didn't particularly care for them either. If they were dead, I would probably feel worse, but
they were just injured. Though Roric might be out of the job with that injury...
"We need to get them to the healers, now," Lyra said, all business again. Finn and I helped get
Roric to his feet, supporting his immense weight as we moved. Kora leaned on Lyra,
hobbling along. The walk to the infirmary was slow and sombre. We left them in the care of a
tired-looking Handmaiden who knew her business.
An hour later, the four of us who were still whole regrouped. The mood was different now;
the immediate crisis was over, but the mission was still a failure. "We still need that food,"
Finn stated, the pragmatism of survival overriding his worry. "We can't go back empty-
handed." Lyra nodded in agreement, her jaw set."Where to?" Sasrir asked, his voice its usual low monotone. He seemed utterly unaffected by
the morning's events. Finn pulled out a rough map. "Different sector. Further west. Should be
safer." He didn't sound entirely convinced, but we all knew we had no other choice. We had
to recoup our losses.
We set out again, the atmosphere heavy with unspoken thoughts. This time, our journey was
even more cautious. Every shadow seemed to hold a new threat, and we moved like ghosts
through the skeletal remains of the city. The confidence from the start of the first trip was
completely gone, replaced by a weary vigilance.
The new area was less collapsed, the buildings standing more intact. It felt eerily quiet. Lyra
took point, her Farsight constantly scanning the upper floors and side alleys. "Anything?"
Finn whispered. She shook her head slowly. "Nothing moving. It's... too quiet." That was
often a worse sign than seeing monsters.
The new area was less collapsed, the buildings standing more intact. It felt eerily quiet. Lyra
took point, her Farsight constantly scanning the upper floors and side alleys.
We turned a corner and found our obstacle. It wasn't a Spire Messenger, thank God, but it was
disgusting. A massive, pulsating blob of flesh, like a giant meatball, blocked the entire street.
Its surface was studded with dozens of punctured, milky eyes that oozed a thick, clear mucus.
It had no discernible limbs, just a slow, rolling form that squelched as it moved.
"Ugh, a Glutton," Finn groaned, his nose wrinkling in distaste. "Just our luck." The creature
seemed to sense us, its many eyes swivelling in our direction. It began to slowly, inexorably,
roll toward us, leaving a trail of slime in its wake. It wasn't fast, but it was big enough to be a
serious roadblock.
"Are we fighting this thing?" I asked, eyeing the oozing mucus with revulsion. Lyra nodded,
notching an arrow. "We have to. It's blocking the only clear path to the site Finn marked." She
let her arrow fly, and it sank deep into the creature's spongy flesh with a wet thwomp. The
Glutton didn't even seem to notice.
Sasrir and I exchanged a look. This was going to be messy. He darted in, his dagger slashing
a deep gash across its side. Thick, foul-smelling fluid welled up from the cut, but the wound
began to close almost immediately. My own stabs with a sword were even less effective; the
weapon just sank into its body and was hard to pull free.
The fight was less a battle and more a tedious, gruesome chore. We hacked and slashed,
dodging its slow, crushing rolls and the occasional spurt of acidic mucus. It was like trying to
fight a giant, angry pudding. Finn's arrows stuck out of it like pins in a pincushion, and only
Sasrir's degenerative shadow weapons made the flesh roll and convulse with each attack.
After what felt like an eternity of this, the creature finally stopped moving. Its many eyes
clouded over, and it deflated with a long, wet sigh, collapsing into a stinking puddle of goo
and semi-digested matter. We all stood back, panting and covered in flecks of slime. The
smell was unimaginable."Why even bother?" I asked, wiping my face with a relatively clean part of my sleeve. "These
things aren't tough, but they taste absolutely terrible," Finn explained, retrieving his less-
damaged arrows. "Most Hunters avoid them unless they're truly desperate. The meat's
practically useless, and the smell gets into everything. They're one of the few Dormant
species in the Dark City, and they only survive because all the other monsters dislike eating
them as much as we do." He looked mournfully at one arrow that was too coated in gunk to
save.
After giving the dissolving Glutton a wide berth, its stench still clinging to our clothes, we
pressed on. Finn led us to a low, mottled stone building that seemed to have sunk partially
into the ground. An odd, chittering sound emanated from within, a dry rustle that set my teeth
on edge. Lyra held up a hand, her eyes glowing faintly as she peered inside.
"Feathered serpents," she confirmed, her voice a low whisper. "A whole nest of them.
Dozens." Finn let out a low groan, rubbing the back of his neck. "Right. Nasty little things.
Their gaze is a soul attack—look them directly in the eyes, and it feels like your mind is
being shredded. We usually just avoid them." He looked at the building with clear distaste.
Sasrir, who had been a silent observer until now, finally spoke. "I can glide in as a shadow.
Kill them without being detected." He stated it as a simple fact, not a boast. "They won't
know I'm there until it's too late." Lyra and Finn turned to him, their expressions a mix of
scepticism and hope. "You're sure?" Lyra asked. "One wrong move, and their collective
screech will bring every predator in a five-block radius down on us."
Sasrir gave a single, slow nod. "There will be no screech." The confidence in his tone was
absolute. After a brief, silent exchange, Finn and Lyra agreed. "Alright, shadow-man," Finn
said. "Show us what you've got. We'll be right here, ready to slam this door shut if it goes
sideways."
Without another word, Sasrir seemed to dissolve. The shadows at his feet flowed upward,
consuming his form until he was nothing more than a darker patch in the dim light. This
patch then slid silently under the gap in the crumbling doorway, disappearing into the
chittering darkness within. I stood with the others, trying to look as anxious as they did.
The wait was tense. The only sound was the incessant, rustling chitter from inside the
building. Finn had an arrow nocked, pointed at the door. Lyra's knuckles were white where
she gripped her knife. I just listened, stretching my senses, but I couldn't detect anything from
Sasrir—no sound, no shift in the air, nothing. It was as if he had truly ceased to exist.
After exactly five minutes, the shadow flowed back out from under the door, coalescing into
Sasrir's form. He was pristine, not a drop of blood or a speck of dust on him. "It is done," he
said, his voice flat. The chittering from inside the building had stopped. The silence was now
absolute.
Finn stared, his mouth slightly agape. "You're kidding me. All of them?" Sasrir just looked at
him. Lyra cautiously pushed the door open a little wider. The interior was dim, but we could
see the twisted, feathered forms of the serpents littering the floor. Each one had a single,
precise puncture wound at the base of its skull. There was no blood, no sign of a struggle. It
was a masterclass in silent, efficient butchery."Well, I'll be damned," Finn breathed out, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Remind me
never to get on your bad side." He clapped Sasrir on the shoulder, a gesture the shadowy
figure endured without reaction. "Alright, let's move! This is a goldmine. Their feathers are
valuable, and the venom sacs are worth a small fortune if they're intact."
We moved in quickly, the mood entirely transformed. The grim tension from the Glutton fight
and the earlier Spire Messenger encounter was replaced by focused, profitable work. Finn
and Lyra started the grisly task of skinning and harvesting, their movements practiced and
efficient. They showed me how to carefully remove the iridescent feathers and extract the
small, pulsating sacs from the serpents' jaws without rupturing them.
"See?" Finn said, holding up a perfectly extracted sac. "This little beauty can tip an arrow or
a blade. The soul-shock isn't lethal, but it'll stun anything short of a Fallen for a good ten
seconds. Gives you all the time in the world to finish the job." I nodded, storing the
information away. It was a useful tool, one I hadn't considered before.
The work was messy, but it felt productive. For the first time since joining this group, we
were accomplishing a goal without disaster or near-death experiences. The simple, mundane
act of harvesting, of building a tangible resource, was a strange comfort. I played my part, the
eager apprentice, asking questions and following their instructions to the letter.
"Not bad for a couple of newcomers," Lyra commented as she packed a bundle of pristine
feathers into her pack. She gave me a appraising look, the suspicion in her eyes having
lessened considerably. "You two might just work out after all." I offered a modest smile.
"We're just trying to pull our weight."
Within twenty minutes, our packs were bulging with valuable materials. We had stripped the
nest clean. As we exited the building, the quality of the light had changed. The oppressive,
constant gloom of the Dark City was deepening, the crimson hue from the Spire above
growing richer as the unseen sun began to recede. "Right on time," Finn said, hefting his
heavy pack. "Let's not press our luck. Back to the Castle."
The return journey was swift and, for once, entirely uneventful. We encountered no more
monsters, no more bizarre obstacles. The ruins were silent except for our footsteps. The
success of the final leg of the mission seemed to have lifted a weight off all of us, even Sasrir,
whose silence felt less menacing and more contemplative.
The guards at the Bright Castle gate gave our bloodied but heavily-laden group a nod of
respect as we passed through. The look of schadenfreude from the morning was gone,
replaced by a professional acknowledgment. We had returned successful, and in this place,
that was all that mattered. We headed straight for the quartermaster's station to log our haul.
As the valuable feathers and venom sacs were counted and stored, I felt a small sense of
accomplishment. It was a façade, of course, a single step on a much longer and darker path.
But for today, we had played our parts perfectly. We had proven our utility, saved two
seasoned Hunters, and secured valuable resources. As the castle's gloom enveloped us once
more, it felt a little less like a prison and a little more like a base of operations. The game was
afoot, and we were finally learning how to play.Of course, the most important thing was making sure our value was appreciated by Gemma.
Impressing him, and the big man behind him, was our end goal. Still, I enjoyed working with
other people, and being able to talk to someone who didn't already know my mind like the
back of his hand. As much as Sasrir dumbed himself down for me, our thought processes
were still too similar to really feel like I was exchanging opinions and values with an actual
separate person. He was me and I was him, after all.
I was snapped out of my thoughts by the sound of approaching footsteps. Looking up, I saw
Gemma approaching me with Kora and Finn by his side. Glancing between me and Sasrir, he
gestured for us to follow with his chin. As we walked down the blackened corridors, he
started the conversation.
"Well, I heard the review of your mettle, and I can't say it was too shabby. That trinket you
have on you, what's its upper limit?"
"Well, apart from blinding humans if aimed at the face, it can probably burst a hole through a
creature made of shadow or corruption. If they're covered in scales or armour though it
probably won't work as well" I lied smoothly, downplaying the power of the Unshadowed
Crucifix but still within the bounds of usefulness.
It seemed to work, as Gemma no longer paid attention to me and instead focused on Sasrir.
"As for your, Mr Black, I'm much more impressed. Finn here told me that you dealt with a
dozen Feathered Serpents by yourself in just a few minutes? Without even getting a scratch,
at that."
"It was just type advantage" Sasrir deflected the thinly-veiled probing. "They have no way of
hurting me so long as I remain in shadow form, though I have to materialise to harm them in
turn." A lie, he could form weapons while still hiding, but Gemma didn't need to know that.
Especially about the Shadow Curse.
Gemma surveyed him with narrowed eyes but didn't press any further. We had arrived at a
room I recognised as being a hotspot for Hunters, and had a solid guess what was going on.
Sure enough, Gemma swung the door open to reveal a row of beds and other teenagers
scattered about. "Welcome to the Hunter's Quarters, where you will be staying for quite a
while. In other words, congratulations of being hired. Any bed without a jacket on it is free,
pick whatever one you like."Chapter 26: Materialist's World
Chapter Notes
Obligatory "this is a work of fiction, all events and characters are fictional, under no
circumstances should anything be taken or seen as serious"
Basically, if you're deeply allergic to religion, skip this chapter. There isn't much, but ya
know...
A week bled into the next, the days marked not by a sun but by the grim rhythm of survival.
Just because Gemma had hired us didn't mean he trusted us. We were on a long, invisible
leash, our every move observed and our every decision weighed. The initial trial had ended,
but the real test of our integration was just beginning.
Our world shrank to the hunting patterns of the Dark City. Each morning, we'd meet with
Lyra and Finn, the four of us forming a new, tentative unit. The objective was always the
same: secure resources, avoid the big predators, and make it back before the light fully
receded. It was grueling, repetitive work, a brutal apprenticeship in the economy of this
ruined world.
Sasrir was the faster learner, his instincts for terrain and threat assessment seeming almost
preternatural. He could read the subtle signs of a monster's passage or the structural weakness
of a building with a single, sweeping glance. While I was still processing the environment, he
had already mapped three escape routes and identified two potential ambush points. His
efficiency was undeniable, but it was a cold, silent proficiency that kept the others at a
distance.
I, on the other hand, was the more approachable one. I made a conscious effort to be
available for the small, meaningless conversations that built camaraderie. I'd ask Finn about
different arrowhead types, or Lyra about the shifting patrol routes of the Spire Messengers. I
listened more than I spoke, and when I did speak, my words were carefully chosen. My
almost telepathic abilities to read surface thoughts and emotions allowed me to always say
the best thing at the right moment, to offer a word of encouragement or a piece of relevant
advice that felt intuitively right.
Kora rejoined our squad near the end of the first week, her return a quiet affair. The bruises
on her face had faded to a sickly yellow, but a new hardness had settled in her eyes. She
moved with a slight stiffness, a permanent reminder of her fight with the Messenger. She
didn't speak of Roric, and we knew better than to ask. His absence was a silent, heavy
presence in our group, a vacant space where a giant used to be.The man was still alive, but a Hunter with only one arm wasn't much of a Hunter any more.
Gemma cared enough for his men to probably look out for him as long as he could, but
Roric's days of prosperity were likely behind him.
The dynamics of our hunts shifted with Kora's return. She was quieter, more withdrawn, her
leadership now a series of terse commands rather than the bold proclamations of before. She
watched Sasrir and me with a guarded, clinical interest, analyzing our every move. We were
no longer just new blood; we were the ones who had succeeded where her partner had not.
I used this to my advantage. During a lull in one hunt, as we took shelter from a sudden,
acidic drizzle, I mentioned offhandedly how Roric's initial distraction had likely saved all our
lives. I didn't embellish or flatter; I simply stated it as a tactical fact. Kora didn't respond, but
she gave me a long, measured look, and the tension in her shoulders seemed to lessen by a
fraction of a degree. It was a small crack in her armor, carefully chiseled.
Back in the Hunter's Quarters, my campaign of charm continued. The large room was a
chaotic mix of bunk beds, personal stashes, and the low hum of exhausted conversation. I
made a point of moving through it, not as a recluse like Sasrir, but as a participant. I'd help a
younger Hunter mend a torn pack strap, or share a useful tip about which fungi in the eastern
ruins were actually edible.
My "knack for finding things" became a useful, if minor, legend. I'd "stumble" upon a cache
of usable scrap metal or a nest of non-aggressive, egg-laying creatures, always presenting it
as dumb luck. It built a reputation for being useful without being threatening. People started
to greet me by name, their nods of acknowledgment slowly warming into genuine smiles.
My memory of the Forgotten Shore was sharpened thanks to my Pathway, so remembering
where certain things were placed was an easy way to gain favour, though I was also wrong
about things.
Sasrir, by contrast, was a specter. He claimed a top bunk in the far corner, a space that
seemed to grow colder and darker by his mere presence. He spoke to no one, and after a few
failed attempts at interaction, the others gave him a wide berth. They respected his lethal
efficiency in the field, but in the dorm, he was an unsettling mystery. The only people he
spoke with were myself and occasionally Finn or Lyra-but mostly me.
Our relationship drew several raised eyebrows, and some Hunters even jokingly referred to
him as my Echo. I'll admit, I smiled at the jab, and I swear Sasrir did too.
By the time our tenth day at Bright Castle ended, the shift in perception was palpable. Where
once there had been suspicion and sidelong glances, there was now a grudging acceptance. I
had shared rations, told self-deprecating stories of my early failures in the Labyrinth, and had
a seemingly innate ability to diffuse minor tensions between other Hunters. Every person in
the dorms had a somewhat positive opinion of me.
From his bunk, Sasrir watched the exchange, his expression unreadable in the gloom. Later,
when the room was asleep, his voice was a whisper only I could hear. "You play the social
game well." It was neither praise nor criticism, merely an observation. "It is a different kind
of hunt."I looked out at the sleeping forms of the Hunters, their faces relaxed in a rare peace. They
were starting to see me as one of their own, a reliable member of the crew. They had no idea
that every friendly word, every shared laugh, was a calculated move in a much larger game.
Well, not to sound like some manipulative mastermind bastard-I wasn't. I lacked the
intelligence and experience for that, but I could still play a bunch of kids who had spent the
last few years in a cesspit killing for their lives. People like that were the most eager to
believe in friendship, or any connection at all.
**********************************
After successfully establishing my "Nice Guy" persona, it was time to take things up a notch.
Anybody can be kind; I wanted to be memorable in a special way. And for that, I would
expand a little bit more upon the identity I had assumed in this world-that of the Human
Saviour. I would become a disciple of a forgotten God, a Christian zealot in a world that had
long discarded the name of Christ.
It began the next morning. Before the bland, nutrient-paste breakfast, I made the sign of the
cross over my tray and bowed my head. "Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts, which we are
about to receive from Thy bounty, through Christ our Lord. Amen." The words, spoken in a
clear, steady voice, cut through the usual morning grumble. Hunters at my table froze, spoons
halfway to their mouths, staring.
Within days, my routine was entrenched. I prayed before every meal, I recited the Lord's
Prayer during moments of quiet, and I began using my free time outside the castle walls. I
would offer a hand to the struggling, telling them, "The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not
want," or assure a frightened child that, "God is our refuge and strength, a very present help
in trouble." To the desperate inhabitants of the Outskirts, I became a strange but welcome
beacon of an alien comfort. While I couldn't give much, at least one person got a meal that
day.
Inside Bright Castle, I was a spectacle. The Host, in particular, found me hilarious. They'd
cross themselves exaggeratedly as I passed, shouting, "Praise the Lord!" in mocking tones.
They'd ask me to bless their weapons, snickering. I would just smile or sigh, never taking
offense or rising to the bait. They never went particularly hard on me though, since my
charity extended to them as well, plus Sasrir was a constant warning over my shoulder.
The reaction from Gemma was the most telling. He caught me on my way to a hunt, quietly
murmuring a Psalm. "What in the hells are you on about now, kid?" he asked, his tone a mix
of annoyance and curiosity. "Seeking strength in the Lord, sir," I replied calmly. "For He is a
shield to all who take refuge in Him." Gemma stared for a second, then let out a sharp,
incredulous laugh. "You're cracked. But as long as you kill monsters, pray to whatever rock
you want." He walked off, shaking his head, and my "mission" was officially tolerated.
For most Hunters, I was free entertainment. They'd watch me as one would a peculiar animal,
placing bets on which forgotten Bible verse I'd quote next. "Adam, my socks have a hole!
Can your God fix that?" one would yell, and I would reply with utter seriousness, "Man looks
on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart." The laughter was a gift; it
cemented their view of me as a harmless holy fool, blinding them to my true intentions.And that was the difference between me and Nephis in our actions. When Changing Star did
it, it was as an outsider, a foreign presence that was exerting influence over the rabble. But
when it was me? I was a Hunter, one of Gunlaug's one, plus he probably didn't even know I
existed at this point, maybe only as "the guy Sasrir hangs out with". My acts were smaller,
my presence far less threatening and my prestige non-existent.
But I still made the difference where I wanted it.
The shift began, starting with the Artisans and Handmaidens. These were the people who
mended broken bodies and broken tools, who understood suffering on a visceral level. They
saw my actions not as comedy, but as compassion. When I helped an old Artisan, quoting,
"Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me,"
I saw a flicker of genuine reflection in his eyes. When I assisted a Handmaiden, speaking of
the Good Samaritan, her usual weary cynicism softened.
During a long trek, Finn, ever the pragmatist, asked the question on everyone's mind. "This
'God' of yours... you really think He's out there? Listening?" I met his gaze with what I hoped
was a look of peaceful conviction. "I believe we are all made in His image, Finn, and that
even here, in this darkness, His grace can find us. I have to believe that." It was the perfect,
unassailable answer of faith—it required no proof and invited no further debate. He just
grunted, and the subject was dropped.
Sasrir observed my performance with his usual silent intensity. One evening, as I returned
from the Outskirts, his voice came from the shadows. "This is a dangerous fiction. You offer
them a hope you yourself do not possess. The fall from such a height will be severe." His
warning was valid, but it missed the point.
"The fall is not for me," I replied, my voice low and stripped of its pious affect. "It's for them.
Right now, they see a shepherd. Let them. A shepherd can guide his flock anywhere."
And then there was the Acting side of things: I could feel it, a bubbling sensation that only
ever grew stronger as the days passed. From Spectator to Hypnotist, Confession granted a
great chance to use my powers and digest the Potion. Plus there was the fact that Sasrir, as a
soon-to-be Rose Bishop, needed a religious organization to Act himself. In fact, I had
guessed that the lack of one was the reason why he had failed to completely digest his current
Sequence. An ascetic had religious connotations after all, not merely someone with
temperance.
"I can also feel the change, yes, but it seems to have reached a bottleneck. To advance to
Rose Bishop, and you to Psychiatrist, we need to clear the Crimson Spire and return to the
Waking World. We have reached the limit as Dormants."
"Don't forget the Soul Cores" I reminded him. "You're only a few away from being a monster,
while I'm only half to becoming a Devil. If we can both become Tyrants by the time the
Cohort arrive, then we'll be the strongest Awakened on this planet once we wake up."
"Right. Well, good luck with your missionary work."I would need it, no doubt, as the world of Shadow Slave was one with zero fervour or respect
for the divine. It was hard to, I suppose, when it's already confirmed that the Gods are dead
and buried, and all around you is a living hell. Still, that only meant I had to try harder.
'And the Curator did say that I could switch Pathways if I found the opportunity...'
Looking down at m chest, the Unshadowed Crucifix glowed softly with a golden light,
revealing the small smile on my face. 'Since I already know all the Potion formula up to
Dreamweaver, I can switch to Unshadowed and then back, and rely on a Boon from the
Uniqueness in my soul to also get the powers of a Manipulator. Sigh, if only I had the Chaos
Sea itself, then I could use all five Pathways...'Chapter 27: Chuunibyou-ism
Sometimes, in the dead quiet of the castle, I think about my old life. It feels like a dream, or a
story about someone else. It was a simple life, mostly. School, friends, the usual worries.
Nothing special. Nothing that screamed "future cult leader in a hell-dimension."
But there was always a part of me that didn't fit. I never really liked the classic heroes. They
were too perfect, too predictable. They always followed the rules, even when the rules were
stupid. They were boring. I was always drawn to the other side of the story. The villains were
just more interesting. They had ambition. They wanted to break the world and build
something new from the pieces.
Then there were the anti-heroes. They were my real favorites. The ones who lived in the gray
areas. They weren't trying to save the world, but they weren't trying to destroy it either. They
had their own code, their own messy, complicated reasons for what they did. They did bad
things for what they thought were good reasons, or good things in the worst ways possible.
That felt more real to me. The world isn't black and white; it's a million shades of gray.
But my absolute favorite trope was the hidden mastermind. The quiet one in the background.
The one everyone dismissed as harmless or irrelevant. While the heroes and villains were
busy fighting their loud, obvious war, the mastermind was moving pieces on a chessboard no
one else could see. Their power wasn't in strength, but in knowledge. In seeing the patterns
everyone else missed.
I used to fantasize about that. About being the one pulling the strings. It wasn't about being
evil. It was about the intellectual challenge. It was the ultimate puzzle. It was about control in
a world that felt chaotic. To have everyone underestimate you, to see you as a side character
in their story, when you're actually the one writing the plot. That was the real power.
It was why I originally got into this novel, why I was so hooked with Sunny at the start.
Really, Guiltythree was nothing short of a genius with that-creating such an intricate and
compelling beginning and world, all with as little as actually possible. Credit where credits
due, and all that. Still, I preferred the world of Mysteries, with its crimson moon and
steampunk monstrosities. Adam and Klein and Roselle and Amon...they were so interesting
to me back then.
And chaos… I've always had a strange relationship with chaos. It terrified me, like it does
everyone. But I also found it fascinating. A perfectly ordered system is predictable, stagnant.
But chaos… chaos is potential. It's a blank canvas. In the midst of chaos, the old rules don't
apply. The playing field is leveled. Anyone with a sharp enough mind can step in and start
shaping the chaos into a new order. Their order.
Coming here, to the Forgotten Shore, was the ultimate chaos. It was the end of every world I
knew. The terror was real, the pain was real. But so was the… opportunity. This place is pure,
unadulterated chaos. Society has collapsed into squalor and tyranny. Power is the only law.
It's a perfect breeding ground for a new system. For my system.So when I put on this act, this mask of the gentle, praying boy, it's not just an act. It's a role I
was born to play. It's me finally stepping into the fantasy. I get to be the unassuming face that
hides the calculating mind. I get to be the one everyone laughs at, while I'm quietly mapping
their weaknesses and ambitions.
Gemma thinks I'm a useful oddity. The Host thinks I'm a hilarious joke. The Handmaidens
think I'm a kind soul. They're all looking at the mask. They see the anti-hero doing
questionable things for a "good" cause, or they see the harmless fool. They don't see the
mastermind lurking beneath the surface. They don't see the person who is perfectly
comfortable with chaos, because I know how to wield it.
Their laughter, their pity, their condescension—it's all fuel. It's the perfect camouflage. In a
world of brutal strength and obvious power plays, no one suspects the quiet young man who
talks about God and helps the poor. They don't see the strings I'm attaching to them. They
don't feel the gentle tugs that are already starting to guide them.
This world is a tragedy. But for me? It's the ultimate sandbox. It's a world of chaos waiting
for a new order. And I'm in the perfect position to provide it. They're all players in a game,
fighting for scraps on the board. They haven't realized yet that I'm the one who owns it. And
when I've made my order, when I've shifted this world to my way? Well, I'll probably retire to
the countryside and spend the rest of my days sipping alcohol by the beach.
That is, if the Curator doesn't yank me back for round two.
*******************************
The familiar, cold gloom of the Hunter's Quarters was my first sensation, followed by the
chorus of snores and rustling blankets. Another morning in Bright Castle. A full month had
bled into the next, each day a near-perfect copy of the last. The initial turbulence of our
arrival had settled into a rigid routine, and with that routine, opinions of us had hardened into
set, predictable shapes.
I swung my legs over the side of my bunk, the stone floor icy against my bare feet. A month
of this. A month of prayers, of hunts, of playing my part. The reactions were now as routine
as the days themselves. The Guards, when I passed them on my way to the outer walls, still
wore those familiar smirks. They saw me as just another survivor with a strange hobby,
whose antics broke the monotony of their watch. It was a comfortable disdain, one I'd
carefully cultivated.
The Hunters were different. Their mockery had lost its sharp, testing edge and settled into
something almost familial, like the way siblings tease each other. They'd roll their eyes at my
prayers, but they'd also toss me an extra strip of dried meat if supplies were good. They'd
joke about my "invisible friend," but they never hesitated to provide backup or share a useful
tip if I asked. It was a strange, grudging form of acceptance, built on a foundation of shared
risk and proven, if eccentric, utility.
My relationship with the Handmaidens was the most successfully cultivated. They definitely
looked kindly upon me now. Where others saw foolishness, they saw steadfast compassion. A
few of the younger ones, I noticed, would sometimes linger a little too long when I spoke,their eyes soft. They had been caught, not by any grand romantic gesture, but by the gentle
personality and pretty appearance I projected so diligently.
And yes, it was pretty. I ran a hand over my annoyingly smooth jawline. Try as I might with
what limited exercise I could manage, I couldn't seem to make myself look more muscular or
imposing. My face remained stubbornly boyish, my frame lean rather than broad. I looked
more like a choirboy than a warrior. I'd hoped my signature golden beard would grow in
soon, something to add a shadow of maturity, a hint of grit. But for now, I was stuck with the
face of a saint, not a soldier.
I went through my morning ritual, the motions so practiced they required no thought. The
murmured prayers, the careful folding of my thin blanket. Around me, the room stirred to
life. A Hunter named Jax tossed a ball of bundled socks at my head. "Say one for me,
preacher!" he called out with a grin. I caught it and gave him a patient smile. "His mercy is
boundless, Jax. Even for you." The room chuckled, the sound warm and inclusive. This was
my place now, my carefully constructed niche.
As I headed out toward the mess hall, I passed a trio of Handmaidens. The red-haired one
from my first day, Elara, gave me a small, genuine smile. "Good morning, Adam." Her
friends glanced at each other with knowing looks. I returned the greeting with a nod, my
expression the picture of humble serenity. It was all working exactly as planned. The Guards
saw a boy, the Hunters saw a quirky brother, and the Handmaidens saw a kind soul. They
were neither right not wrong in their assessments: I was all these things, but still more than
the sum of my parts.
The satisfaction of playing my role almost made me start humming a tune, but of course,
Sasrir had to burst my bubble. Sliding in silently beside me, his steps synchronized perfectly
with mine. "You know, if you did that to someone else, they would probably stab you in
fright" I said to him.
He shrugged, unbothered by the thought. "They'd have to hit me first. And besides, seeing
your cheery face, I couldn't help but try and scare it off you."]
"You're a sadist" I rolled my eyes in fake exasperation.
"And you're a chuunibyou" he responded, amusement dancing beneath his monotone timbre.
I coughed awkwardly, waving my hand at him in embarrassment. "Please, it's not that bad.
I'm just doing what I'm meant to. I mean, the Curator obviously provided me with this role
for a reason, right? Besides, isn't it fun?"
Sasrir hummed in acknowledgement, his gaze looking out the nearby window. "I suppose
there is a certain charm to it. Watching people struggling to hold back their fright when I
appear behind them always lifts my spirits. You know, they've started calling me a reaper, out
in the Outskirts. I suspect it'll only be a month or two more before they say I snatch babies
from cribs."
Now that got a laugh out of me. According to the division of manpower, Sasrir was the front
while I was in the shadows-just as our Pathways dictate. While this was intended to boost my
own reputation, it also had the unexpected side effect of alienating Sasrir and turning intosome sort of bogeyman. While he went out on hunts with me and the rest of the squad, he
always branched off on his own and returned with a monster carcass in hand. As the weeks
went by, his reputation as a monster slayer built and solidified into the current legend.
"It's a good thing you're already a Hunter, or else you would have gotten the Effie treatment
from Gunlaug. Gemma's already tried to pry some information about you out of me, but all
I've given him is the fact we're brothers."
"Brothers?" Sasrir raised an eyebrow at that. "Even with my shadow cloaking, people can tell
we look nothing alike."
"Brothers from a different mother," I responded breezily. "My dad and your mom, with little
brother Amon on the way."
"As long as I'm not the one that has to give birth to him" Sasrir snorted, annoyed by my
previous teasing.
We fell into a comfortable silence, the two of us watching the sunrise over the Dark City and
reveal its decayed glory. After a minute of this, I spoke up. "Any news on the whereabouts of
Athena?"
"Some, but mostly when she takes the initiate herself. I'm afraid of approaching her directly,
but trying to make it look like an accidental run in probably isn't going to work at this rate
either."
"We can't take on that Devil Knight without her," I sighed, gently rubbing the cross around
my neck. "Not to mention acquiring the other Lord Shards. The Crown, at least, requires her
presence-unless we can convince Seishan and Gemma to leave the City with us."
"Not likely."
"And the Soul Devourer?"
Sasrir's expression hardened. "I'm not going near that tree. My Listener powers still activate
on their own if they receive too strong a probe, and while I'm confidant in my own mental
strength, I don't want to risk hurting you by accident. The Unshadowed Domain requires too
big a blood tax to defeat both the Tree and the Centurion Demon. We'll need two to engage it,
and one to stay back to protect you."
"No Blood Weave or Mask then" I said dejectedly. The fact two Divine treasures were just
lying forgotten in the ground was enough to infuriate me beyond words, but there was
nothing I could do about it. We were too weak, too lacking, to make the most of our
information advantage.
Seeing me frowning, a smile smile appeared on Sasrir's face as he put his hand on my
shoulder. "Well, no need to be so upset. I did manage to find one thing in this godforsaken
city at least."
"Oh yeah? What's that?""I think I know where we can find Saint."