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...
The sun rose over Extreme Night City, its pale light filtering through the perpetual gloom that clung to the streets like a shroud.
Farlier Manor loomed at the city's edge, a grand yet foreboding structure of dark stone and ivy-choked walls, its presence a silent testament to the enigmatic figure who had once ruled it.
For three years, Leylin Farlier had dwelled within its confines, his cold, unyielding aura casting a shadow that even the city's mightiest—Lord Viscount Jackson and the formidable Level 3 acolyte Murphy regarded with wary respect.
Yet unbeknownst to all, Leylin had slipped away months ago, summoned back to the Abyssal Bone Forest Academy, leaving the manor in the hands of his butler, Dicus, and the loyal but dim-witted knight, Abid.
In the master bedroom a chamber once Leylin's sanctum the morning stirred with a languid decadence. The room was a sprawl of opulence: velvet drapes hung heavy over tall windows, a massive four-poster bed dominated the space, and the air carried the mingled scents of wine, sweat, and perfume.
An old man, Dicus, lay sprawled across the tangled sheets, his wiry frame surrounded by a trio of beautiful young women, their bare skin glistening in the faint light. He awoke with a groggy yawn, stretching his arms as he squeezed the nearest girl's breasts.
She jolted awake with a start, her dark eyes blinking sleepily before curving into a practiced smile.
Leaning in, she met his lips in a deep, lingering kiss, her fingers trailing along his chest.
"Prepare a bath," Dicus muttered to another girl still dozing beside him, his voice rough with sleep and indulgence. As she stirred and obeyed, he pulled the first girl closer, indulging in a quick, careless tryst amidst the rumpled bedding.
She was a farmer's daughter, hired as a maid with dreams of catching the manor lord's eye a lord rumored to be a powerful, reclusive figure. But Leylin had never emerged from his private quarters, leaving her ambitions unfulfilled.
When Dicus, the lecherous butler, turned his attention to her, she saw an opportunity. Gleefully, she rallied the other young maids, leading them into his bed to bask in his newfound wealth and authority.
At first, Dicus had kept his vices discreet, confining them to his chambers. But three month ago, he'd discovered the truth Leylin was gone, vanished without a word.
He'd kept the secret close, sharing it with no one, but as weeks passed, ambition flared within him like a wildfire. With cunning words and promises of power, he'd swayed Abid, the manor's strongest knight, to his side.
Abid, a slave tortured into blind obedience, lacked the wit to question Dicus's claims. Believing the butler to be Leylin's trusted right hand, he'd pledged his loyalty, helping Dicus weave a web of control over the manor's inhabitants farmers, workers, maids, servants, even the Roran mercenary group all bound to him with bribes and jobs.
To the outside world, Dicus maintained an illusion: Leylin was holed up in his lab, consumed by a vital experiment.
The city's nobles, accustomed to Leylin's antisocial nature, swallowed the lie without suspicion.
Emboldened, Dicus claimed the master bedroom, reveling in the finest wines, the most succulent feasts, and the prettiest girls, living as a king atop a throne of deceit.
The manor's businesses shops and trade ventures funneled a steady stream of gold into his coffers, fueling his lavish excess.
But today, an important guest was due to arrive, a harbinger from the City Lord's faction, threatening to pierce the fragile bubble of Dicus's reign.
The Great Hall of Farlier Manor buzzed with an artificial warmth as Dicus prepared to receive his visitor. The cavernous room, with its high ceilings and polished oak floors, was adorned with tapestries depicting forgotten battles, their threads fraying at the edges.
A long table stretched across the center, laden with silver goblets and platters of fruit and exotic dishes Dicus had grown accustomed to flaunting.
He sat next to the head chair, he cannot openly sit on the head chair especially before outsiders, else his cover would be blown.
Dicus was clad in a grey suit custom made from the most expensive shop, his wiry hair slicked back, exuding a false air of authority.
The guest arrived with the clink of armor a full-fledged knight named Sir Elton, nephew to Viscount Jackson. Tall and broad-shouldered, Elton carried himself with the quiet confidence of nobility, his dark hair cropped short beneath a steel helm.
His eyes, sharp and assessing, swept the hall as he approached, a leather satchel slung over his shoulder. Behind him trailed a young woman, her beauty striking flowing auburn hair, a slender frame draped in a simple yet elegant gown, her demeanor poised yet submissive. (Image)
"Master Dicus," Elton greeted, bowing slightly, his tone respectful but measured. "On behalf of my uncle, Viscount Jackson, I bring greetings and a gift."
He gestured to the woman, who stepped forward with a graceful curtsy. "This is Lysa, a maid trained in the Viscount's household. She's yours to command, a token of his esteem."
Dicus's chest swelled with pride, a smug grin spreading across his lined face as he appraised Lysa. Her presence was a trophy, a symbol of his rising status.
"A fine gift indeed," he said, his voice oily with satisfaction. "The Viscount's generosity knows no bounds. Tell him I'm deeply honored." He waved a hand, beckoning Lysa closer, already imagining her among his harem.
Elton took a seat across from him, folding his gauntleted hands on the table. "How fares the Viscount?" Dicus asked, leaning back with feigned casualness. "And yourself, Sir Elton? How does the city hold?"
"Well enough," Elton replied, his tone amiable. "My uncle thrives, though he's ever busy with the city's affairs. And you, Master Dicus? Your health seems robust, your spirits high."
Dicus chuckled, sipping from a goblet of crimson wine. "Never better, my friend. The manor prospers under my Lord's care businesses flourish, the people are content." The lies rolled off his tongue with ease, a performance honed over months of deception.
They exchanged pleasantries for a time, the conversation a dance of false camaraderie weather, trade, the latest gossip from the city's taverns.
But as the pleasantries waned, Elton's gaze sharpened, his voice dropping to a more serious note. "Master Dicus, might we revisit a matter we've discussed before? My uncle has invested much in your goodwill—bribes, permits, gifts. He seeks insight into Lord Leylin's status. Can you share anything today?"
Dicus hesitated, his fingers tightening around the goblet. He'd resolved to dip his toe into the Viscount's camp months of Leylin's absence had dulled his fear, and the allure of Jackson's bribes was too tempting to resist.
Yet the risk gnawed at him; if the truth of Leylin's departure leaked, his fragile empire could crumble. Worse, the Viscount might turn on him if he withheld too much.
"Very well," he said at last, forcing a smile. "A tidbit, then, for old friends."
He opened his mouth to speak. "My lord Leylin—we first met him in a market…" The words had barely left his lips when a dry cough rattled his chest. (Image)
He waved it off, clearing his throat, but it returned, sharper this time. "We met him—" Another cough, harsher, cutting him off.
His eyes widened as the spasms grew violent, wrenching through his frame. The goblet slipped from his hand, clattering to the table, wine spilling like blood across the wood.
Elton rose, alarm flickering across his face. "Master Dicus, are you well?"
The coughs deepened, a wet, hacking sound, and Dicus clutched his chest, his face contorting. Blood flecked his lips, staining his chin as he gasped for air.
The knights stationed around the hall hurried forward, their armor clanking as they lifted him from his chair.
"To his room," one barked, supporting Dicus's trembling form.
Another turned to Elton, bowing stiffly. "Sir, please return to the Viscount's manor. Master Dicus is unwell come back another time."
Elton's jaw tightened, frustration simmering in his eyes. He nodded curtly, retrieving his satchel. "Tell him I wish him a swift recovery," he said, though his tone betrayed his irritation.
With Lysa in tow, he departed, the echo of his boots fading into the corridor. The City Lord's faction had poured a fortune into Dicus money, women, privileges all to glean a few words from Leylin.
The Royal Family loomed over Viscount Jackson, dissatisfied with his tenure, and a favorable nod from Leylin, suspected emissary of a prestigious Magus Academy behind the royal family could ease their pressure.
Yet every effort had yielded nothing. Even Murphy, the city's only other acolyte, had refused to intervene, his fear of Leylin unshakable despite his own Level 3 status.
Back in the manor, Dicus's condition spiraled. Carried to his bedroom, the very chamber he'd usurped from Leylin, he collapsed onto the bed, maids swarming around him in a flurry of panic.
Their hands pressed cool clothes to his brow, offered water he couldn't swallow, but his symptoms worsened with each passing hour.
A fever took hold, sweat beading on his sallow skin, his breath growing shallow. By evening, he could neither eat nor drink, his body wracked with chills.
As night fell, a cry tore from his throat sharp, shrill, a sound of pure agony that reverberated through the room, chilling the maids to their core.
By morning, the sickness had spread. Abid, the knights, the farmers, the mercenaries, maids, the servants all began to falter.
Fever swept through the manor like a plague, faces paling, bodies trembling. Days passed, and the symptoms deepened each night sweat-soaked sheets, hollowed eyes, wrenching cries echoing through the halls each night.
The pain was visceral, as if their insides were being twisted and devoured, the screams so loud they carried beyond the manor's walls, drawing fearful whispers from the city beyond.
Desperate, the manor pleaded for aid from Viscount Jackson, who turned to Murphy, the lone acolyte left in Extreme Night City.
Murphy resisted at first, his apprehension of Leylin a cold knot in his gut. Even as a Level 3 acolyte, he'd dreaded Leylin since their time in the Withering Woods Leylin, then a mere Level 2, had wielded too many unknowns, a genius likely backed by an official Magus.
Crossing him was a risk Murphy refused to take, especially now, as Leylin neared his own breakthrough. But the Viscount's insistent pleas wore him down, and reluctantly, he agreed to investigate.
Stepping into Farlier Manor, Murphy felt the air grow thick with an unnatural chill.
The patients, Dicus chief among them lay emaciated, their skin clinging to bones, eyes sunken with torment.
He examined them with a practiced eye, tracing faint magical signatures in the air, his stomach twisting as realization dawned.
"A curse," he muttered, his voice tight. "Leylin's work, no doubt." He couldn't pinpoint the trigger perhaps a word, an act of betrayal but the malice was unmistakable.
Something insidious festered within them, an insect or spirit gnawing at their organs, prolonging their suffering with exquisite cruelty.
The deaths would not be swift. The pain was a blade, sharp and unrelenting, driving them to the brink of madness. Murphy lingered only long enough to confirm his suspicions, then fled, unwilling to delve deeper into Leylin's wrath.
A week later, the manor's inhabitants were husks gaunt, lifeless shells, their final breaths stolen amid wails that lingered in the air. The cries of unseen spirits echoed on, a haunting requiem that branded the manor a cursed ruin.
Declared a withering mansion, it stood abandoned, its legend spreading through Extreme Night City as a grim warning of a dark curse's power. (Image)
____
The air in Dorotte's laboratory hung thick with the mingled scents of decay and arcane reagents, a faintly metallic tang underscoring the musty stillness.
The chamber was a cavern of shadows, its stone walls lined with shelves groaning under the weight of dusty tomes, vials of murky liquids, and the skeletal remains of unidentifiable creatures.
A single lantern dangled from the ceiling, its flickering light casting jagged patterns across the experiment table where Dorotte stood, his skeletal form draped in a tattered black robe.
The green embers in his eye sockets pulsed faintly, their glow reflecting off the polished surface as he sorted through a small stack of books.
Leylin stepped into the room, his boots scuffing softly against the worn floor, Abigail coiled snugly around his shoulders. Her scales shimmered like polished obsidian in the dim light, her tongue flickering as she tasted the air.
He approached the table with a measured stride, his bright brown eyes sharp with anticipation, though a faint tension lingered in his posture tomorrow loomed large, the bloodbath's shadow stretching ever closer.
Dorotte glanced up, his mandible twitching as if suppressing a grin. "You're punctual, as always," he rasped, his voice a dry whisper that echoed faintly in the stillness. He gestured to the stack of books with a bony hand, their leather covers cracked and faded with age. "These are for you hard-won, I'll have you know. Took some wrangling to pry them from her grasp."
Leylin's gaze settled on the books, his fingers brushing the topmost spine as he read the titles aloud, his voice low and reverent.
"The Art of malediction by Magus Estelle…
Curse Weaving: Threads of Torment by Magus Estelle… Anatomy of the Damned by Magus Estelle… Soul Shards and Hexed Bonds by Magus Estelle… and Blood Curses: The Vein of Vengeance, again by Magus Estelle." He paused, noting the faint scrawl of handwritten notes peeking from the margins of the last volume, the ink faded but precise. "Her own annotations?"
"Aye," Dorotte confirmed, his embers flaring briefly with a mix of pride and exasperation. "Mentor Estelle doesn't part with her work lightly especially not these, her personal copies. She's a fiend for curses, that one, and a master of dissecting human anatomy and soul studies to boot. It was a pain to convince her. Thankfully, you offered those single-use magic artifacts for her students to buy, or she'd have slammed the door in my face. Cost me a favor or two besides."
Leylin's lips curved into a faint, appreciative smile as he lifted Anatomy of the Damned, flipping through its brittle pages. Diagrams of flayed limbs and intricately mapped organs stared back at him, annotated with Estelle's meticulous observations.
"These are perfect," he murmured, his tone laced with hunger. "Curses are one of main my focus. And this anatomy research… it'll refine my Branded Swordsman progress. Understanding the body's limits, its breaking points that's the key to perfecting the runes."
Dorotte's skeletal frame shifted, the creak of his bones punctuating the quiet. His embers dimmed slightly, a warning glinting in their depths. "Curses again, eh? I've told you before, Leylin they're a treacherous path. They cling like damp rot, seeping into everything if you're not careful. Estelle's a genius, but even she treads warily. Pay attention to her notes heed the cautions, not just the methods. And don't get so fixated on the future that you stumble over what's right in front of you."
Leylin met his mentor's gaze, his expression unyielding, though he inclined his head in acknowledgment. "I'll be thorough, Teacher. I always am. The present's secure, I've prepared for what's coming."
Dorotte tilted his skull, studying him for a long moment before his voice softened, though it retained its edge. "Speaking of what's coming… the bloodbath's tomorrow. Are you ready?"
A slow, charming smile spread across Leylin's face, softening his sharp features into something disarmingly warm.
But his eyes betrayed him gleaming with a savage, ominous red glow that seemed to pulse in the lantern's light, a stark contrast to his calm demeanor. Abigail stirred on his shoulder, her hiss a quiet echo of his intensity.
"Absolutely," he said, his voice smooth yet carrying a razor's edge, the single word heavy with unspoken promise.
Dorotte's embers flared briefly, a flicker of something pride, perhaps, or unease passing through them.
"Good," he rasped, pushing the stack of books closer. "Then take these and make them yours. Estelle's knowledge is a weapon wield it well, but don't let it cut you in return."
Leylin gathered the books into his arms, their weight a satisfying burden against his chest. "I won't," he replied, his tone firm with resolve. He offered a slight bow, the red glow fading from his eyes as he turned to leave, though the air seemed to hum with the ferocity he'd let slip.
The door creaked shut behind him, muffling Dorotte's lingering gaze, and Leylin stepped into the corridor, thoughts of Branded Swordsman, curses, runes and bloodbath burning bright in his mind.
"Oh.." Leylin suddenly stopped, his attention focused on the person before him, "What a pleasant surprise seeing you here, my dear fellow apprentice Jayden."