The sarcophagus chamber trembled under the weight of their clash. The air was thick with heat from Gordo's steaming vents and the frigid death-aura of Setkhefre's magic. Nara's white qi threads quivered like the strings of a harp in a storm. Every movement of her fingers had to be perfect — one slip and Setkhefre's crushing strength would reduce her puppet to scrap.
Setkhefre raised his arms again, and the Icicle edge fell like a guillotine of crystal light. Gordo braced with all four arms, steam venting in furious bursts as its armor split in jagged cracks. Nara gritted her teeth. She could feel Gordo's limbs starting to go sluggish under the strain — and the Pharaoh had yet to show his Heal ability.
If he recovers, it's over…that's when she saw it — not in his stance, but in the invisible tug of his control over the room. The Shadow Servants were tethered to him like her puppets were tethered to her. Every time he commanded them, there was the briefest flicker in his own defenses.
A weakness.
Nara dropped her control of the Animus Mines entirely — they'd been a distraction long enough — and rerouted every thread into Gordo. The puppet's steam vents screamed. Metal plates glowed from within. It lunged low, arms blurring into a double overhand strike while the other two tore at Setkhefre's legs. For a fraction of a second, the Pharaoh's magic shifted to save his servants — and Nara yanked all her spirit-threads like a fisherman setting a hook.
The four-armed puppet's blades drove deep into the golden wrappings at his knees, cutting through the divine bindings and dropping Setkhefre to one leg. The entire chamber gasped as the immortal monarch bellowed in fury — and, for the first time, in pain.
The Pharaoh's roar rolled through the ruins like a sandstorm. Dark light flared from his headdress, spilling into the cracked chamber walls.
"—DEAD BREAK!—"
Two sweeping strikes of pure, abyssal force slammed into Gordo.The first tore through its shoulder plating, severing one arm entirely. The second crushed the puppet's torso inward like a tin can. Steam hissed out in dying bursts. The qi frame shook under Nara's hands. Her fingers trembled over her spirit-thread controllers — not in fear, but in the knowledge that Gordo had maybe seconds left before total collapse. Setkhefre rose on one knee, golden wrappings falling in tatters, his empty eye sockets blazing with black fire. "Child…you will serve me in the afterlife."
Nara's lips curled into a thin smile, "I don't take offers from relics." Nara whipped her spirit-threads tighter, pulling Gordo in close. At the same time, she released another true wave of mines — the Animus charges she'd hidden beneath the floor earlier. The mines detonated in a perfect ring around the Pharaoh's kneeling position, shattering the marble under him.
Dust and light exploded upward — and Gordo slammed all three remaining arms into the gap at his knees. There was a sound like tearing silk and grinding stone as the Animus-forged blades drove through the Pharaoh's core! Setkhefre froze mid-motion. His Shadow Servants collapsed into puddles of darkness. Then — with a final hiss — Gordo slumped backward, chest cavity blown open from backlash, its glow dying out.
Nara took a long exhale, "Worth the trade."
The golden wrappings fell in a heap as Setkhefre's body collapsed, and the chamber was bathed in a vertical pillar of Inheritance light that speared through the ceiling, up into the sky — visible across half the Little World. Gasps erupted the instant the Inheritance Beacon erupted from the ruins. The colossal pillar of gold-lit qi shot straight into the clouds, refracting into dozens of shimmering threadlike streams — a unique flare that only their craft could produce.
The Puppet Walker Patriarch Morvek stood bolt upright, his black robe with silver webs swaying with the sudden motion. The deep furrows of his face cracked into a smile that hadn't been seen in public for decades. "She's done it," murmured Elder Siveen, her eyes wide as the golden light reflected off the polished wood of her marionette rings. "She actually took down a Pharaoh Guardian…" Morvek didn't answer right away. He let the murmurs swell, the apprentices grabbed each other's shoulders in giddy disbelief, the veteran puppet-masters rose from their seats in silent pride.
The clan's section erupted in cheers, their qi threads flaring into the air in salute, weaving the shapes of giant war puppets that marched in glowing, synchronized formations overhead. Across the stands, other clans watched in a mix of wariness and recalculation — it was the same kind of weight shift that had happened with Ash and Dimitri, and now also with the Puppet Walkers. The pride came in quiet, precise artistry laced with ruthless efficiency.
Morveks eyes narrowed, threads of his own qi curling around his fingertips. "Keep watching, my prodigy. The board is changing, and your next move will matter more than any kill."
The dust was still settling, the stench of scorched linen and sundered shadow clinging to the air. Nara stood amid the wreckage, her marionette controller still humming faintly in her hand, steam drifting from Gordo's chest cavity as the puppet slowly lowered its arms. Nara looked down to her poor broken puppet.
She went over and cradled it before tucking it into her ''Broken toys'' Toy box, inside her Pocket Ring. Her gaze drifted to the remains of Setkhefre — the once-pristine golden wrappings now scattered across the cracked stone floor. Each strand shimmered with an unnatural vitality, whispering the echoes of the Pharaoh Guardian's intent and qi. Nara knelt, fingers brushing over the warm, metallic fabric.
A slow, delighted smile spread across her face. "These threads… this isn't just gold. This is memory. Every strike, every command, every ancient instinct — all woven in." She wound the wrappings carefully into her storage ring, the thought already crystalizing in her mind. "When I remake you, Pharaoh… you'll be mine."
Little World – High Over the Golden Plains.
Far from the ruins that Nara was raiding, Vaylan Dusk Spire crouched atop a shattered monolith, half-shadow, half-light, his dual-element aura faintly rippling the air. From here, he could see the sky in every direction — and the four monumental Inheritance Beacons now burning across the horizon like celestial spears.
A small smirk tugged at the corner of Vaylans mouth. "So the island is filled with legendary monsters, If we want to prove ourselves we must signal a beacon."
He turned his attention downward, to the cracked savanna where paw prints the size of cauldrons had dug furrows in the dirt. The trail ended at a low ridge… and the deep, thunderous rumble of a growl that seemed to vibrate through the stones themselves. Without another word, Vaylan stepped forward, dissolving into alternating bands of blinding radiance and pitch darkness — the Umbral Path carrying him straight toward the hunt.
The growl swelled into a full-bodied roar that cracked like a war horn across the grasslands. Dust swirled, and the shadows at the ridge's edge thickened into something that felt… predatory. The Lord-Tier Manticore stepped into view — a towering beast with a red leonine frame overlaid in bony, scale-fused armor. Its obsidian scorpion tail arched high, dripping venom that popped, hissed and crackled as it hit the dirt.
The purple bat wings were shredded in places, yet still beat with enough force to hurl sand into spirals. Vaylan's mismatched eyes — one gleaming with holy light, the other saturated in shadow — scanned the creature with a tactician's calm. "You're bigger than the rumors gave you credit for."
The Manticore lunged without preamble—thirty paces vanished beneath its leap. Claws like obsidian guillotines came down in a thunderous hammer blow.
Vaylan Duskspire moved as if the air itself yielded to him. One instant, he was shadow; the next, a gleam of light behind the beast's hind legs. The Mace of the Umbral Path coalesced in his hand—its haft wrapped in smoke, its head a nest of screaming skulls. With a snarl of intent, he swung. A torrent of spectral visages burst forth, their hollow eyes burning with black fire as they dove toward the monster.
The Manticore's barbed tail lashed backward, faster than thought. Vaylan caught it with his buckler; the impact cracked through his arms and spine like a gong strike. Venom hissed, melting shallow rivulets through his shield.
"Not bad," he murmured—then his tone dropped into a curse. "Veil the senses."
Black mist surged from his palm and shot forth like living tar, enshrouding the Lord-tier Manticore's head. The world dimmed around it; vision, sound, scent—all devoured by shadow.
Vaylan raised his mace again, the trophied heads of fallen cultivators upon it wailing to life. "Let's see how you fare, blind beast."
He swung once—twice—and waves of howling, homing skulls tore through the air, striking the veiled Manticore in bursts of black fire. Each explosion tore furrows across its armored hide, and for a heartbeat, the beast staggered.
Then it roared, the sound deeper than mountains splitting. Shadows peeled away as its jaws yawned wide—not flame, not venom, but something worse.
A blast of pure shockwave—air, sound, and fury condensed—erupted from its maw, tearing the ridge to dust. Rock sheared into sand; the air became knives.
Vaylan was flung skyward.
Vaylan hung suspended in the air for a heartbeat, cloak torn and streaming like a banner of dusk. Below, the Manticore shook free of the veiling curse, its mane bristling with crackling shadow-light as it bellowed toward the heavens.
"Enough," Vaylan whispered. The word echoed—not through sound, but through shadow.
He dropped.
The Wailing Mace spun once in his grip before vanishing into vapor. In its place, from wrist to elbow, talons of condensed night flared into being. Each finger became a blade of living darkness, curved and pulsing with a heartbeat of their own.
"Shadow Claws—Unbound Form."
Vaylan struck the air with an open hand. The world folded.
A dash of pure shadow cleaved the space between him and the Manticore—no flight, no motion, only arrival. He appeared beneath its chin, claws already slashing upward. Five ribbons of darkness carved through fur and flesh, bleeding light instead of blood.
The Manticore howled, wings thrashing, tail lashing blind arcs that split the air.
But Vaylan was gone again—a blur that left no shadow behind. He reappeared above its back, hands already aglow with gathered energy. The claws pulsed, overcharged with spiraling black flame.
"You think sound will save you?" His voice was a whisper carried by a thousand echoes. "Then hear this."
He spread his fingers. The Shadow Claws detonated into a storm of spinning blades, a cyclone of crescent-shaped night. Each blade curved midair, homing like serpents, carving through the Manticore's wings and armor with surgical precision.
The beast roared, its massive body collapsing to one knee, bleeding twilight from a dozen wounds.
Vaylan landed behind it, smoke coiling from his hands as the last of the blades returned to mist. The Wailing Mace reformed with a low groan of spirit metal.
"Kneel," he murmured, "and fade."
The final strike came down like a judge's verdict—the Mace's ghostly skulls shrieking in chorus as they smashed into the beast's spine, sending up a pillar of black flame that devoured sound itself.
When the light cleared, only ash and claw marks remained scorched into the stone.