Michael limped through the last stretch of forest before the trees gave way to a massive, sun-scorched plain. At the edge of the horizon, rising from the cracked earth like a jagged crown, stood Emberglass.
It didn't look like any city he'd ever seen.
Black towers of steel and red-glowing crystal jutted up like broken spears. Spires twisted unnaturally into the sky, stitched together with floating rings of runes that hummed with energy. The entire structure shimmered faintly—as if wrapped in a heat haze.
And above it all floated a glowing eye of fire—a surveillance spell? A sun shard?
Michael didn't know.
He just knew one thing.
"If I want answers… I've got to go through hell."
The walk was harder than the fight.
His shoulder burned. His left arm barely moved. His shirt was torn, stained deep red. The sword had grown silent again, as if satisfied for now. No resonance. No whisper.
Just pain, blood, and a city that didn't care if he lived long enough to reach its gates.
And when he did reach them?
There was no welcome.
No guards.
Just an arcane gate—a glowing disc carved into obsidian stone, flanked by two glass statues of cloaked mages with empty eyes.
A soft click sounded when he stepped too close.
"Present core signature," a voice said.
Cold. Automated. Magical.
Michael blinked. "What?"
"Mana not detected. You are unmarked."
"State caste or be removed."
Michael's jaw clenched. "I don't have mana. I'm just—"
"Designation confirmed: Dreg."
"Entry permitted. Observation active."
The door hissed open. Magic surged through its rim.
Michael hesitated.
Then stepped into Emberglass.
✦ ✦ ✦
The smell hit first—like ozone, ash, and perfume. Magic here wasn't subtle. It bled into the stone, hummed in the air, even danced across the skin like static.
The streets were paved with molten-glass bricks. Buildings curved in unnatural angles, many of them floating slightly above the ground, tethered by glowing runes. People passed by in ornate robes, arcane symbols stitched across their bodies.
Some floated.
Some shimmered.
All of them pulsed with visible mana—glowing veins in their arms, crystals embedded in their foreheads, or runic tattoos crawling across their skin like living ink.
And then there were the others.
The Dregs.
Dirty. Ragged. Kept to alleys. They walked with eyes low, voices quiet. Branded with gray collars or glyph-stamps on their arms. Some wore masks. Others were missing fingers.
Michael stepped past one who coughed violently and collapsed. No one looked.
"I don't belong here," he muttered.
He didn't. But he had no choice.
He wandered until his legs gave out.
A sharp-boned old woman in a rusted shawl caught him before he collapsed.
"First time?" she rasped.
"First and probably last."
She eyed his sword—then quickly looked away.
"That's not a Dreg's weapon. You one of them castoffs from the outer zones?"
Michael shook his head. "I'm not from this world."
She blinked once. Then twice.
Then laughed—a harsh, broken sound. "That's a new one."
She dragged him to a shadowed archway near a gutter tunnel, lit by a single red lantern.
"Stay here. Don't talk. Don't flash that sword unless you want your spine sold for glyph ink."
Michael slept. Not well. But long enough to let the sword do… whatever it did.
He woke to whispers again. Not from the blade. From people.
Three of them.
Two mages—young, gold-stitched robes, arrogance leaking from their pores—and a silent figure in black armor trailing behind.
"That's him. No core, but the signature's faint. Echo-level."
"A Dreg triggering resonance? Shouldn't be possible."
They didn't think he was awake.
Big mistake.
Michael's eyes opened—and the sword was already halfway to his hand.
"Draw of Iron—"
But a blast of violet force slammed into his chest, pinning him to the wall before he could stand.
"Easy," one mage said. "We're not here to kill you. Yet."
"We just want to know where you got that sword."
Michael spit blood. "How about you ask nicely?"
They didn't laugh.
The armored figure stepped forward.
Something about him felt wrong. No mana. No light. Just weight. His armor looked like obsidian soaked in blood. His eyes, if there were any, didn't blink.
"Echo of Steel," he rasped.
"Prove it."
"What?" Michael asked.
"Draw your blade. Survive me. Or I remove your head and bind the sword to a proper mage."
Michael's body screamed. His arm barely worked. His lungs ached from the earlier blast.
But he gritted his teeth.
And stood.
"Fine. You want to see what it can do?"
"Then come find out."
✦ ✦ ✦
The alley became a blur.
Michael dashed forward, feinting left. His blade sparked as it scraped the ground. The armored man didn't dodge—he absorbed the hit with his chestplate and responded with a backfist that sent Michael tumbling across the cobbles.
Ribs cracked. Pain screamed.
Michael rolled. Came up with blood in his mouth and fire in his bones.
He whispered.
"Form Two…"
And the blade answered.
Binding Edge.
A sudden weight surged through the sword. Lines of silver etched themselves into the ground—chains of energy, flaring outward from the impact zone.
They wrapped around the man's legs, slowing him for a second.
Just a second.
But it was enough.
Michael leapt and drove the sword into the gap beneath his shoulderplate.
CLANG!
The armor cracked—but held.
Still, it made the man stumble.
He hissed—not in pain, but acknowledgment.
"You've touched the Echo. It's begun."
The mages looked stunned.
"Wait—he's not lying?"
"He's resonating?! That's impossible!"
The armored man didn't reply. He turned—and walked away.
"Leave him. For now. He won't survive this city."
And just like that, they were gone.
Michael collapsed again, this time for real.
His ribs felt shattered. His skin felt scorched.
But his hand never left the sword.
⸢Resonance Increased: Echo of Steel – 8%⸥
🞂 Form II confirmed.
🞂 New trigger unlocked: Chainstrike (situational bind on strike)
🞂 Pain resistance increased.
🞂 Next unlock at 12%.
And beneath all the updates, one simple line appeared:
"You are being watched."