The chamber was silent, save for the low thrum of magic that pulsed through the cracked stone floor like a slow, sleeping heartbeat. Torchlight flickered weakly against fractured pillars, unable to chase the shadows from the vaulted ceiling far above.
A man in dark robes knelt before the broken throne at the far end of the hall, his forehead pressed to the cold floor. Around him, other robed figures kept their heads bowed in reverent silence, not daring to move.
The throne itself was a jagged, asymmetrical thing, carved from obsidian and something that looked too much like bone. Upon it sat a figure draped in threadbare robes of deepest black. The right side of his face was hidden behind a cracked, featureless mask, while the left remained uncovered—skin pale as porcelain, with a single violet eye that gleamed with an unnatural light, never blinking.
Four figures stood flanking him, two on each side.
One was a woman in silver armor, her face veiled behind cloth that shimmered like morning mist. Beside her stood a being twice the height of a man, broad as a fortress wall, with molten lines running down his chest like cracks in cooling lava. To the other side stood a red-haired child, barefoot and freckled, wrapped in a cloak made of stitched-together dolls. The last figure was the most unsettling—tall and robed, headless, yet standing perfectly upright as though watching nonetheless.
The kneeling man finally spoke, his voice low but steady in the heavy quiet.
"Herald. The operation at the northeastern gate is complete. We managed to disrupt their outer defenses and spread enough confusion to keep the watch scrambling. Our losses… were within acceptable range."
The Herald did not respond.
The man swallowed, then continued.
"There were… complications. Harm was intercepted. Destroyed."
A pause stretched just a little too long.
"But not permanently," he added quickly. "A new vessel is prepared. We've already sent a team to recover his core. It won't take long."
Still, silence.
The man's gaze dropped.
"And… Love was captured."
Something shifted in the room, like the air itself had grown heavier. The Herald's violet eye narrowed. A thin new crack splintered along the arm of the throne.
"She has always been careless," he said, his voice soft, cold, perfectly controlled. "That mind of hers was never meant to hold so many roles. She plays too many parts, hears too many voices. It makes her… unfocused." He leaned back slowly, the crack in the throne deepening. "She still has her uses. But if she cannot deliver results soon, she will be replaced."
None of the four figures beside the throne so much as shifted.
The Herald's gaze drifted downward, settling on the red-haired child who sat at the foot of the dais, clutching a small, handmade doll.
"Dread."
The boy looked up, his lips curling into a smile too wide for his face. His teeth were too sharp, too many. The doll in his arms looked as though it had been stitched from something that once breathed.
"Yes?" he chirped, voice light and cheerful.
The Herald waited, as though expecting the boy to say something foolish.
Instead, Dread tilted his head thoughtfully.
"I'd like to go west," he said. "There's a little town near the old magi-train line. Nothing special. But Empire soldiers have been poking around there lately. Digging. Surveying."
The Herald said nothing. The stone statues along the walls stared ahead, unmoving.
Dread hugged his doll a little tighter.
"They're looking for something they don't understand," he mused, his tone still sweet but edged with something colder beneath. "I'd like to see what they find before they spoil it."
The Herald's eye fixed on him.
"And Arden?" he asked, voice low.
Dread shrugged.
"He's not my problem. Let someone else chase the quiet man. I'm not in the mood for ghost-hunting this week."
A few of the robed cultists exchanged uneasy glances, but Dread didn't seem to notice—or care.
"I'll be quick," he added, almost singsong. "Quiet. I won't ruin the festival."
Another pause. Then the Herald gave a slow, almost indifferent nod.
"Go."
Dread's grin widened. He hopped to his feet, spun once on his bare heel, and vanished into the shadows near the wall.
"I'll bring back something fun," his voice echoed faintly before disappearing entirely, leaving behind a scent like burnt sugar and old copper.
The Herald did not watch him leave.
The woman in silver armor stepped forward. Her voice was steady, cool, but threaded with caution.
"Herald… if I may speak freely, is it wise to keep provoking Arden?"
She held his violet gaze without flinching, though several of the kneeling cultists stiffened as if awaiting a death sentence.
"I've crossed paths with him once before," she continued. "Briefly. That… creature is no ordinary man. I would argue he is not a man at all."
The air grew still. Then the Herald raised a single hand. Silence fell, absolute and final. He then lowered his hand and spoke, not to her, but to the chamber itself.
"He can be hurt."
His tone was matter-of-fact, detached.
"He breathes. He bleeds. He walks. Whatever lives inside that skin, it is still bound by flesh. And that flesh belongs to a heretic. The one who murdered our god."
Murmurs rippled through the kneeling robed men, reverent and furious.
"He defiled the divine," the Herald went on, his voice never rising. "He cut us off from the voice that once guided this world. For that, he will be unmade."
He turned his head slightly, the cracked mask catching a shard of torchlight.
"He is not untouchable. But he is not our primary target. Not directly. There are… cleaner ways to break a man."
Now he looked at her.
"You've been watching him?"
"I have," she said, nodding once. "Since the capital. He's careful. Always watching the people around him. If he thinks someone's in danger, he moves slower. Divides his attention. He tries to be everywhere at once."
Her posture remained rigid, her tone analytical.
"If we pressure the people close to him, if we time it right, we can wear him down. He won't abandon them. That's where he's weakest."
She stood perfectly composed, chin lifted with quiet confidence. But in the dim light, the faintest shift in her stance betrayed her for the subtle anticipation of someone waiting for approval, like a hound expecting praise for pointing at prey.
The Herald, either oblivious or deliberately cruel, did not acknowledge her.
A new figure stepped forward from the shadows near the throne. She moved with quiet grace, long white hair flowing down her back like a silver waterfall. Her face was half-covered by a mask. One side wore a soft, serene smile, the other side a drawn tear and a frown. The contrast gave her an almost unsettling calm, like she carried two moods at once.
Her voice was gentle but firm when she spoke.
"Herald, I would like permission to approach Arden directly."
She paused, letting her words settle in the heavy air.
"I've watched him from afar. There's something... different about him. I believe I could get close, gain his trust, and the trust of those around him. It would give us a valuable advantage, insight from the inside."
The room was quiet for a moment. No one moved. The Herald's violet eye rested on her, unreadable.
"If you do this," he said slowly, "understand that if you are caught, you will face the consequences alone."
She nodded, calm and unafraid.
"I understand."
Behind the mask, her expression did not change. The smile and the tear remained, a silent vow.
In truth, Arden's ability to sense ill intent made him nearly impossible to approach with malice in one's heart. But Kindness carried no such darkness. She believed her mission was just and necessary, even righteous. That was what made her perfect.
The Herald gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod.
"Very well. Proceed."
Kindness bowed once, then retreated into the shadows, her white hair catching the faint light like the memory of snow. She moved with purpose, certain in her path, trusting that her intentions would shield her where deception could not.
Once beyond the throne room, in a quiet antechamber lit by a single runestone, she paused. Her fingers traced the edge of the mask, a relic the Herald had given her long ago. It was more than decoration. It was a seal and a suppressor. Without it, the sickness within her, the hollow hunger that had lived in her veins since childhood, would leak out uncontrollably, draining life from anyone near.
But with it, she could almost pass for human. Almost.
She took a slow breath, steadying the whispers in her mind. Two voices, one purpose. Two faces, one truth.
She would find Arden. She would make him see.
For the mission, she would go by another name: Alma.
The capital was still piecing itself together.
From the bell tower of a half-repaired church, Alma watched. She had spent the last three days gathering whispers, from a weary priest who spoke of miracles and massacres in the same breath, to adventurers drinking away the memory of battle in a guild hall that still smelled of smoke and fresh lumber. They all spoke of Arden. The Ghost who ended fights before they began.
She learned his habits: his quiet walks through the damaged districts, his lingering stares at automatons, the way the girl with gold hair never left his side.
He is drawn to broken things, she thought, one side of her mind cool and analytical. Or perhaps he simply understands them.
The other side, the one that hummed with restless conviction, whispered: He is strong. His light is pure. He must be shown the truth.
Her fingers brushed the phantom weight of her mask, which she had left safely hidden. The relic kept the hunger at bay, but it couldn't silence the conflict inside her. One face for calm, one for sorrow. One mind for planning, another for… feeling. Sometimes too much.
She watched him from a distance as he stood in a shattered plaza, staring at one of the empire's mechanical guardians. He didn't look like a legend. He looked… almost peaceful.
He is not like the others, the calm side observed. He does not revel in the unnatural. He merely exists beside it.
But he permits it, the other side countered, a tremor of disdain in her thoughts. He allows this metal plague to continue. That makes him complicit.
Alma pushed the thought down. She had a plan. A simple, sincere approach. She would be a simple traveler seeking the famous adventurer. A tavern would be best. It's public, but intimate. A neutral ground, perfect for her mission.
She chose The Cracked Barrel, a place that had escaped the worst of the fighting. Its doors were still sturdy, its hearth still warm. She arrived early, finding a corner where she could watch the entrance. Without the mask, her face felt strangely light and exposed, vulnerable in a way that was both unsettling and familiar.
When Arden and the girl entered, her pulse quickened with a nervous, almost giddy anticipation. This is it. The moment of connection.
She gave them time to settle, to order. She watched them from behind her tankard, noting how the girl, Sora, kept close, and how Arden's gaze drifted without seeming to land anywhere.
Now, the calm side urged. Be gentle. Be curious.
Alma rose, smoothed her simple grey dress, and crossed the room. Her face, now unshielded, held a soft, earnest expression, one that she'd practiced in the mirror. The absence of the relic's weight made her feel unanchored, but she pushed the discomfort aside. This was how it had to be.
"May I join you?"
Her voice was soft, melodic. The kind of voice you'd trust immediately.
Sora's eyes flicked toward the woman, a hint of surprise in her expression.
Arden glanced up from his mug, gave her a slow once-over, and nodded once. He didn't seem impressed or wary. Simply accepting of this seemingly innocent stranger.
She settled down across from him, smooth and graceful. Sora shifted beside Arden, her eyes narrowing slightly.
Part of her was wary, that there was something unfamiliar about this woman. Another part felt an uneasy tug in her chest. The woman's quiet beauty only made Sora more self-conscious, a feeling she tried not to show.
From around the room, a few patrons glanced their way. Some looked curious, others a little envious. Maybe because Arden was known, or maybe because of the new woman sitting so close to him.
A couple of rougher men exchanged low murmurs, throwing subtle glances that said, "Who does she think she is?" But no one made a scene.
A barmaid passed by and took the woman's order without question. She then turned her attention back to Arden, a warm, genuine smile on her face.
"I couldn't help but wonder," she began, her tone light and curious. "Are you truly Arden? The Platinum Class Adventurer?"
Arden gave a single nod, accompanied by a noncommittal hum.
Unfazed, the woman leaned forward slightly, her smile never wavering. "I've heard stories. About the people you've helped. It's so rare to find someone who walks a pure path in a world so full of... complications."
Sora cleared her throat, shifting nervously. "It's… true. Arden's done a lot, but he doesn't like to brag."
"Of course not," the woman said, her smile softening as she looked at Sora. "True purity never does. It simply is." Her gaze returned to Arden. "My name is Alma. It's a pleasure to meet you."
As she spoke, Arden felt it. A subtle, almost imperceptible pull. A faint drain on his immense mana reserves. It was like a tiny leech had attached itself to an ocean, so small and gentle that no normal mage would ever notice until they felt fatigued hours later. Sora felt a whisper of the same sensation and frowned, rubbing her arm.
Alma seemed completely unaware, as if the draining were as natural as breathing. She was soon happily chattering, her tone that of a naive girl sharing her deepest passions.
"Oh, this empire," she sighed, not with malice, but with a kind of sorrowful disappointment. "It's so… impure. All these machines and magi-trains. They bury the natural world under metal and noise. It's just not right."
She leaned forward, her grey eyes earnest. "There was a village I visited once, they were using these awful, unnatural powders on their crops. I had to teach them the proper, pure way to farm. It's my duty to help people see the truth."
She spoke with the unwavering conviction of someone reciting a holy text, her smile never wavering. There was no malice in her words, only a deep, sincere belief.
Arden listened, his face unreadable. He finally spoke, his voice flat. "Your clothes aren't natural. The cloth was woven and dyed. This building isn't natural. Cooked food, spices, furniture... all made by people."
Alma's smile faltered for just a moment, a flicker of confusion in her grey eyes. "That's… that's different. Those are necessities. They can be made with pure intentions. But the empire…" Her voice grew softer, almost pleading. "It builds for the sake of building. It creates power that doesn't belong in this world. It's a sickness. A blight that needs to be cleansed, so we can return to a simpler, kinder time."
A brief, sad memory flashed in her mind: a younger her, her face bare, without the mask's gentle pressure, in a simple nun's habit, tending a garden. She remembered feeling the "impure" life force of a sickly child she was trying to "purify" by holding his hand, the hunger inside her pulling without her control, drain away until he grew still.
She had only been trying to help. She never understood why they looked at her with fear. The mask had been a mercy, a way to keep the sickness in check. Without it now, she could feel the old, familiar ache stirring in her veins.
She looked at Arden, her head tilting with genuine, innocent confusion. "You... you're supposed to be pure. The rumors said your power was untouched, like clean water. But you're defending this… this corruption?"
Without the mask's dampening influence, the gentle pull on his mana became sharper, more anxious. Her own control was thinning, the barrier between her will and her hunger wearing dangerously thin.
Her hands, resting on the table, began to tremble. "Maybe… maybe you need to be shown. Maybe you need purification, too." Her voice was a whisper, but it had lost its melodic quality, taking on a desperate, sharp edge.
It was then that the mana drain reversed. Instead of pulling, the sickness within her surged, directionless and ravenous. Unchecked by the relic's seal, it burst through the last of her restraint. A wave of her own mana forced its way into his system. It was a violation, an attempt to overwrite his very nature with her own.
Arden's response was instantaneous and absolute.
His right hand snapped up in a blur, his palm connecting under the chin with a force that snapped her head with a crack.
The sound was clean and sharp, echoing in the sudden silence of the tavern. Her body flew out of the chair, crashing through two empty tables before slamming against the far wall. She crumpled to the floor.
For a moment, there was only the sound of splintering wood and the terrified gasp of the patrons.
Then, impossibly, she moved. Her neck was clearly broken, but she pushed herself up, her head lolling at a sickening angle. The serene mask was gone, replaced by a look of profound, childlike hurt. Her grey eyes were wide with confusion, her white hair beginning to darken at the roots.
"You... you hurt me?" she whispered, her voice trembling with confusion. "I was only... sharing my gift. My purification?" She looked at her hands, which were beginning to twist and swell. "Why would you do that? Don't you want to be clean?"
Black veins crept across her skin like ivy. Her form began to swell, the modest dress straining at the seams. "If you won't accept purity willingly…" she said, her voice deepening as the hollow hunger took over, twisting sincerity into need. Her fingers elongated into sharp, bony claws. "…then I have to help you. I have to make you see."
Arden watched her, his expression unreadable. He simply raised his right hand, palm open, ready to end it.
Seeing the corrupted woman tense to lunge, Sora acted. A dome of shimmering water, interwoven with threads of stabilizing mana, snapped into existence around Arden, shielding him. It wasn't necessary, but the instinct was.
The creature that was once Alma lunged. Claws extended, she slammed into Sora's barrier with a wet thud. She didn't scream in rage, but let out a pained, frustrated cry.
"Why are you hiding? Let me help you! Let me make you pure!" She slammed against it again, black ooze dripping from her body and sizzling on the floor.
From within the barrier, Arden's head tilted slightly. "I was kind of hoping I could do something," he mused, almost to himself. "I guess I can't exactly 'fix' someone in that kind of state..."
Her form continued to bubble and distort, the corruption spreading rapidly as she pleaded with them. "Please... just hold still. It will only hurt for a moment. Then you'll be clean, like me!" The air grew thick with the smell of ozone and something sweetly rotten.
Sora held the barrier firm, her expression grim. "Some things are too far gone, Master," she said softly, her eyes fixed on the monstrous, pleading figure. "Like milk that's been left in the sun too long."
The corrupted woman's body began to swell unnaturally, her skin stretching taut over expanding flesh, glowing from within with a dangerous, unstable light. "Don't you see? I have to! ALL MUST BE PURE!" she cried out, the words becoming garbled as the transformation fully consumed her, her sincere desire twisting into a violent imperative.
Arden sighed, a faint sound of resignation. His raised hand slipped into the shimmering space beside him, his Item Box, and emerged holding the custom magi-shotgun he'd personally commissioned from Thalia's workshop.
It was a piece of gleaming dark steel, etched with intricate mana-conduits, utterly devoid of ornamentation. He racked the slide one-handed, the shk-chk sound sharp and final in the tense air, then leveled it at her corrupted, bloated form over Sora's shoulder.
"Just hold still. It will only hurt for a moment." he said flatly, repeating her earlier words.
BOOM.
The blast was deafening in the confined space. A collective gasp and a scream came from the few patrons still huddled behind the bar.
The shot tore through her swollen torso, but instead of blood, a geyser of black ooze and jagged white light erupted from the wound. She staggered back, her body convulsing violently.
"N-no..." she gurgled, clawing at the gaping hole in her chest with a look of utter betrayal. "This... this isn't pure..." Her form started to bubble and expand even more rapidly, the glow within her intensifying to a blinding degree.
Sora's eyes widened. "Master, she's going to—!"
Before she could finish, Arden had already raised his free hand. A dome of dark energy snapped into place around the convulsing figure just as her body detonated.
The explosion was massive, a contained storm of black acid and blinding white light that slammed against the inside of the barrier. The tavern shook violently, mugs rattling off shelves and shattering on the floor. When the light faded, only a sizzling, smoking crater remained within the dome.
A stunned silence fell, broken only by the drip of spilled ale and someone's ragged breathing. Arden lowered the magi-gun. The smell of ozone and profound corruption lingered.
He glanced at the shattered room and the terrified faces of the patrons, who were staring at him and the crater with a mixture of awe and sheer terror. Then he looked at Sora.
"...We should probably find somewhere else to eat."