The guardians did not strike him. They did not pursue him. They remained in place, their purpose unresolved but no longer absolute, stone frames holding against a decision they had not been designed to reconsider.
Noctis moved past them and continued deeper into the catacombs.
The pressure did not lessen. It followed him, settling into his aura as a constant resistance that demanded adjustment with every step. He regulated his pace and limited extraction to what his Grid could accept without destabilizing. Essence drawn from bone and iron settled unevenly, forcing him to pause at intervals and allow the spirals to recalibrate.
He worked chamber by chamber.
In some vaults, the sanctification resisted strongly enough that he bypassed them entirely, marking their locations mentally rather than expending strength prematurely. In others, the bindings were old enough to yield after sustained pressure. He stripped marrow from long-sealed remains, separated iron from prayer-etched clasps, and drew residual blood essence that clung stubbornly to bone.
Time lost coherence.
Torchlight shifted as he moved, shadows dragging across carved reliefs and broken shrines. The air remained dry and stale, disturbed only by his passage and the occasional grinding adjustment of stone as dormant constructs rebalanced themselves behind him.
The headache persisted, deepening into a constant pressure that made precise control expensive rather than automatic. He adjusted again, narrowing his focus, allowing the Grid to prioritize stability over volume.
Eventually, the extraction reached a threshold.
The weight of essence within him reached a point where additional intake risked diminishing returns. He sealed his draw deliberately, allowing what he had taken to settle fully before moving again.
Noctis turned back toward the ascent.
The return path offered no relief. Sanctified resistance pressed against him in reverse, reacting to the altered state of the chambers he had passed through. He moved steadily, conserving strength rather than forcing pace, maintaining the narrow equilibrium he had established.
When he reached the stairwell, the faint glow of his torch caught on dust motes stirred by air flowing down from the ruined nave above.
The surface was close.
He began the climb without haste, his focus already shifting toward what would need to be done next. The materials he carried would require immediate sorting and stabilization before forging could resume. The sanctification embedded in them would need to be bled off carefully to avoid contaminating the crucibles.
Above the cathedral, Twilight continued its rhythm.
Below it, the catacombs settled back into uneasy stillness, their wards altered but intact, their guardians resuming positions that no longer fully understood what they were meant to prevent.
Noctis reached the upper landing as the torchlight thinned and the night air flowed in again, carrying with it the distant sound of the city at work.
He did not stop.
Back at the city.
The shaded square no longer echoed with isolated drills. It carried the sound of massed movement.
Two hundred and forty-seven soldiers stood in formation beneath the awnings, their spacing measured and consistent, armor fitted closely enough that no plate rattled when they shifted their weight. Twilight steel absorbed torchlight rather than reflecting it, the crimson etchings along each piece pulsing faintly in time with the Legion's movement. Cloaks dragged low across the stone, dark fabric trailing like extensions of shadow rather than ornament.
They moved at Alyndra's signal, not her voice.
Shields formed across the front ranks as Twilight Fangs flowed outward and flattened, locking together with controlled precision. The sound was not a clash but a hiss, essence settling into structure. The line advanced as one, boots striking stone in a cadence that had been drilled into muscle rather than memorized.
The formation did not hurry.
When the second signal came, the shields dissolved and lengthened, reforming into spears that slid forward through practiced gaps. The second rank stepped through cleanly, thrusting in unison before withdrawing back into place. There was no wasted motion, no overextension. Each movement ended exactly where the next required it to begin.
Varun watched from the flank, eyes tracking individual failures rather than the formation as a whole. When he intervened, it was physical and immediate. A spear knocked aside, a shoulder forced lower, a stance widened with a shove rather than a word. The adventurers moved along the outer edges, calling short corrections that addressed mechanics rather than enthusiasm.
Fatigue showed.
Breathing deepened. Sweat darkened cloth beneath armor seams. But spacing held. Timing remained intact. When a soldier faltered, the formation compensated without command, pressure redistributed automatically until balance was restored.
Beyond the main square, those still training with old iron did not slow their own drills to watch. They could hear the cadence. They could see the new steel move. That was enough. Their attention remained on their own forms, their own endurance. There was no bitterness in it, only expectation.
Veyra moved along the perimeter, observing without interruption. When she spoke, it was to clarify consequence rather than inspire effort. The Legion did not chant in response. They did not need to. Their focus remained internal, fixed on maintaining cohesion as the drills continued beyond the point where enthusiasm could carry them.
The square did not quiet when torches were replaced. The cadence did not change when night fully set in.
Training ended only when degradation began to outpace correction.
The Legion stood where it was dismissed, armor steaming faintly in the cooler air, weapons reverting to their neutral forms as Twilight Fangs settled back against forearms and belts. Orders were minimal. Dispersal was controlled.
The square emptied gradually, leaving behind scuffed stone, discarded cloth wrappings, and the faint residue of essence where Twilight steel had reshaped itself repeatedly under stress.
Work continued elsewhere in the city.
The catacombs narrowed as Noctis moved deeper.
Stone coffins lined the passage walls in dense succession, their surfaces darkened by age and residue from centuries of sealed sanctification. Dust hung thick in the air, disturbed only by his movement and the low vibration of wards responding to proximity. The etched script along the walls glimmered faintly as he passed, reacting not as traps but as pressure fields reinforcing themselves.
Each step drew response.
Silver chains embedded in the stone hummed softly, consecrated energy tightening around their anchor points. Noctis slowed rather than forcing pace, allowing his aura to press forward incrementally. He unraveled the bindings with sustained pressure, separating intent from structure until the glow dimmed and the chains sagged inertly against the wall.
The first sealed chamber opened under this approach.
Rows of stone shrines filled the space beyond, each coffin marked with ecclesiastical symbols carved deeply enough that time had not erased them. The air carried weight here, not hostility but accumulation — prayers layered over bone until separation required deliberate effort.
Movement registered before sound.
A coffin shifted against its stone cradle, the lid grinding aside with slow inevitability. Bone scraped against stone as a skeletal arm, still wrapped in remnants of ceremonial cloth, dragged itself free. The remains rose without haste, joints glowing faintly as sanctified essence reasserted cohesion.
Noctis did not draw a weapon.
He observed as the corpse completed its ascent, hollow eye sockets burning with pale light that did not flicker. This was not reanimation driven by hunger or corruption. It was function restored to a body assigned purpose long ago.
Other coffins responded.
Stone scraped in overlapping rhythm as additional lids slid free. One after another, the guardians rose, each bearing the markers of rank and office they had held in life. Their movements were stiff but deliberate, sanctification compensating for decay.
Noctis advanced a single step into the chamber.
His spirals flared as his aura expanded, not violently, but with controlled pressure. The response was immediate. The air tightened. Wards along the chamber walls brightened. The guardians oriented toward him, not to strike, but to close distance and block further passage.
They moved to deny space.
Noctis adjusted his stance and continued forward, maintaining pressure without escalation. The guardians met him, their resistance firm but measured, sanctified energy pressing back against dominion that did not seek to corrupt it, only to override its claim.
Stone cracked under conflicting forces.
The chamber shuddered as sanctification strained against extraction already in progress. Essence bound to bone resisted separation, pulling back even as his Grid began to draw it free. The pressure behind his eyes intensified, forcing him to regulate intake carefully to avoid destabilizing the balance he had established.
Above the city, Twilight steel cooled and soldiers rested where they fell.
Below it, sanctified dead fulfilled the final obligation placed upon them.
Noctis continued forward, maintaining control as resistance thickened, working methodically through the chamber without haste, without retreat, and without allowing escalation to outrun extraction.
The process had begun.
The chamber Noctis left behind did not remain inert.
Sanctification did not dissipate completely when the guardians fell. It redistributed. The wards embedded in the walls adjusted to the altered conditions, their glow dimmer but steadier, reinforcing boundaries that had lost their first layer of defense. The catacombs were designed to respond this way, to preserve denial even after partial failure.
Noctis moved through the next passage without haste.
The corridor narrowed, its ceiling lowering enough that carved reliefs brushed the top of his torchlight. These depictions were older than the bishops he had just stripped, their lines worn smooth by time and deliberate defacement. Figures of saints and martyrs overlapped, layered one atop another as though the stone itself had been amended repeatedly to reflect changing doctrine.
Essence here was thinner, but more tightly bound.
It did not pool in bone as before. It clung to the walls, to the very geometry of the space, diffused through sanctified architecture rather than concentrated remains. Drawing it free required sustained contact, and Noctis adjusted his approach again, allowing his aura to bleed into the stone gradually rather than forcing extraction outright.
The pressure behind his eyes intensified.
He moderated intake further, prioritizing stability over yield. The Grid responded by redistributing load across his spirals, dimming some while others flared unevenly. The imbalance was uncomfortable, but manageable. He marked the sensation carefully. Prolonged work at this depth would require recalibration before forging could resume safely.
Another chamber opened ahead.
This one had been sealed more thoroughly than the others. Iron plates reinforced the stone doors, their surfaces etched with overlapping sigils layered so densely that individual functions were difficult to distinguish. The sanctification here was heavier, weighted with intent that had not degraded through exposure.
Noctis did not open it immediately.
He stood before the doors and extended his awareness inward, testing the structure without triggering response. What lay beyond resisted even passive contact, recoiling slightly as though recognizing intrusion without engaging.
This was not a burial vault.
It was a containment cell.
He began dismantling it slowly, unbinding the outermost layers first. The iron resisted extraction more strongly than bone, its consecration woven directly into the metal rather than applied afterward. Each increment drawn free pulled sharply against his spirals, forcing pauses between attempts.
Above ground, the city adjusted without him.
The forge halls did not sleep, but they slowed. Twilight steel required stabilization periods between major batches, and the smiths rotated accordingly, maintaining heat without exhausting the crucibles. Sanctified residue in the new materials forced adjustments to the refining process, adding time and complication to work that had already pushed capacity.
In the shaded square, training schedules shifted again.
The Night Legion assembled at irregular intervals now, drills broken into shorter blocks separated by enforced stillness. Alyndra and Varun observed the effects carefully. Blood Memory responded differently under disrupted rhythm, sometimes settling more effectively when denied continuous motion.
Veyra noted the changes and authorized the adjustments without comment.
The Legion adapted.
Back beneath the cathedral, the iron doors yielded incrementally.
When the final sigil dimmed, the doors did not swing open. They sagged inward under their own weight, grinding against the stone floor as the sanctification anchoring them finally lost cohesion.
The chamber beyond was small and circular.
At its center lay a single sarcophagus, carved from pale stone veined with gold that had long since tarnished. The air inside the chamber was dense enough to feel textured, pressing against Noctis's aura with uniform resistance.
This essence was different.
It carried no immediate hostility and no active denial. It simply existed, stable and heavy, bound so thoroughly that separation would require sustained effort over time rather than decisive action.
Noctis circled the sarcophagus once before touching it.
The moment his aura made contact, the pressure shifted subtly, aligning itself against him in a way that suggested intent rather than mechanism. Whatever lay within had not been animated, but it had been preserved with deliberate care.
Extraction here would not be immediate.
He placed his hand against the stone and began the process slowly, allowing his Grid to interface without forcing separation. The pressure deepened, settling into a constant strain that demanded attention with every breath.
Minutes passed without visible change.
He continued.
Above, in Twilight, the unequipped soldiers finished their drills later than scheduled. Their iron blades were duller now, their grips roughened by use, but their movements had sharpened. They did not look toward the armed Legion as often. Their attention had turned inward, focused on meeting the standards they knew were coming.
Equipment shortages remained.
Veyra reviewed updated tallies as reports came in, adjusting projections based on the materials Noctis had already secured. The numbers did not yet balance. They would not until he returned with more.
Below, the sarcophagus responded.
Hairline fractures appeared along its surface as sanctification redistributed under pressure. The essence within resisted extraction not by recoiling, but by anchoring itself deeper, forcing Noctis to narrow his draw further.
The headache intensified into a persistent, dull pain.
He adjusted his breathing, slowing it deliberately, allowing his spirals to resynchronize gradually. The Grid stabilized enough for him to continue without risking collapse, but progress remained slow.
This was acceptable.
He was not racing anything beneath the cathedral.
Time worked differently here.
The stone finally yielded enough to allow partial separation. Essence bled out in controlled increments, thick and heavy, settling into his Grid unevenly. He halted extraction once stability wavered again, sealing the remaining sanctification in place for later passes.
He stepped back.
This chamber would require return visits.
Noctis turned away and continued deeper into the catacombs, marking the location precisely in memory.
The passages beyond twisted more tightly, their construction less uniform. These were older sections, built before the cathedral had expanded above them, their sanctification less refined but more stubborn for it. Here, coffins were packed close together, their lids unmarked, their contents anonymous but potent.
He resumed extraction with care.
Above, Twilight prepared for his return without knowing exactly when it would come.
The Legion rested in controlled intervals. Smiths cleaned crucibles and reset molds. Scouts reported increased activity along old trade routes, movement that did not yet constitute threat but suggested attention.
The city remained functional.
Below it, Noctis continued working through the dead, chamber by chamber, adjusting pace and method as resistance changed. Each extraction added weight to his Grid and sharpened the strain behind his eyes, but none of it forced him to stop.
The catacombs did not run out of material.
And he did not leave.
The stillness that followed the bishops' collapse was temporary.
Beyond the first chamber, the catacombs tightened again, their geometry growing more deliberate as Noctis advanced. The air thickened perceptibly, carrying a pressure that asserted itself before his aura even reached the next set of wards. The stone here had been carved with greater care, its surfaces layered with script so dense that the original blocks were barely visible beneath centuries of additions.
These wards did not wait for contact.
They glowed steadily as he approached, lines of consecrated intent already active, reinforcing one another in overlapping lattices. The iron bands sealing the coffins along the walls were broader and more heavily worked, their surfaces etched with ritual markings that bound sanctification directly into the metal rather than relying on surface application.
These were not ordinary interments.
Noctis recognized the distinction immediately. The scale of the coffins, the density of the wards, and the way the air resisted him all indicated a higher tier of containment.
Archbishops.
He stepped forward and applied pressure deliberately.
His aura met the wards head-on, not in a burst, but as a sustained force. The response was immediate and violent. The sanctification hissed as it destabilized, light flaring along the carved lines as the layered protections attempted to reinforce themselves faster than he could dismantle them.
Chains embedded in the stone walls began to rattle, their consecrated links heating as intent surged through them. Sparks of pale fire scattered across the floor as Noctis pulled the bindings apart one strand at a time, unraveling the structure that allowed the wards to function in concert.
The resistance was stronger here.
It required focus to maintain pressure without escalation, and the strain on his spirals increased sharply as the Grid compensated for the denser sanctification. The ache behind his eyes deepened, but he did not slow.
The first coffin split with a grinding crack.
The lid slid aside under its own internal pressure, stone scraping against stone as something within asserted cohesion. A skeletal figure rose from the interior, its frame taller and more imposing than the bishops he had already stripped. Layers of inscription glowed faintly across its bones, scripture carved directly into the marrow rather than etched onto the surface.
This sanctification was structural.
As the archbishop completed its ascent, a staff formed in its grasp, the metal assembling itself from residual essence bound to the remains. Gold and iron twisted together along the shaft, and the head crackled with the remnants of divine energy preserved for centuries.
The archbishop moved without hesitation.
It swung the staff in a wide arc, and the chamber responded. Light erupted outward from the impact, flooding the space with blinding radiance that ignited additional wards along the walls and ceiling. The stone vibrated as sanctified force propagated through the structure, attempting to bind Noctis's position and compress his aura inward.
He did not retreat.
Noctis passed through the radiance without altering his pace, his aura diffusing the light as it pressed against him. The sanctification lost cohesion under sustained pressure, its intensity bleeding away into red-tinted distortion as his dominion asserted itself over the conflicting intent.
He seized the staff mid-swing.
The weapon resisted immediately, divine charge flaring as it attempted to reassert function. Noctis twisted his grip and applied focused pressure through his spirals, crushing the sanctified lattice that held the energy together. The light guttered and shifted, its color darkening as the binding failed.
He tore the staff free and discarded it.
With his other hand, he drove his palm into the archbishop's chest cavity and locked the skeletal frame in place. Extraction began at once. Faith essence resisted separation more fiercely here, bound deeply to identity rather than animation, but the Grid adapted under load. Soul fragments, spectral cohesion, and residual blood trace were drawn out in controlled sequence, each layer stripped deliberately rather than violently.
The glow faded from the bones.
The archbishop sagged and collapsed, its structure intact but inert. Before it struck the floor, Noctis altered his focus and redirected the remains. The skeleton dissolved into condensed crimson particulate and vanished from the chamber, transferred into contained storage within his blood reserve for later processing.
Additional coffins reacted immediately.
Stone lids fractured and slid aside as more archbishops rose, their movements overlapping as sanctification surged through the vault. Fractured chants filled the space, voices degraded by time but reinforced by collective intent. Wards snapped into alignment across corridors and archways, attempting to restrict movement and isolate Noctis within narrowing fields of resistance.
He advanced through them methodically.
Each engagement followed the same pattern. Sanctification was destabilized under sustained pressure, weapons were neutralized rather than shattered, and the animating force was stripped away without compromising the physical remains. The strain on his Grid mounted steadily, forcing recalibration after each extraction to prevent overload.
The chamber filled with the sound of stone shifting and settling as one archbishop after another collapsed. Every fall left behind intact bone, immediately removed from the space to prevent interference with subsequent engagements.
When the last of them fell silent, the wards dimmed noticeably.
Residual sanctification clung to the walls and ceiling, but the coordinated resistance had ended. No further movement registered among the coffins lining the chamber.
Noctis surveyed the space.
Shrines set into the walls held relics accumulated over generations. Rosaries bound in silver lay draped across stone plinths. Ceremonial robes embroidered with prayer hung stiffly in alcoves. Fragments of armor inlaid with gold and etched blessings rested where they had been placed with deliberate reverence.
Each item radiated stored intent.
He extended his aura outward and drew them in.
The relics flared as his presence enveloped them, sanctification resisting extraction through sheer density rather than active defense. Noctis maintained pressure until the bindings failed, one by one. The glow dimmed and extinguished, leaving inert material behind as the stored essence was stripped free.
The rosaries went dark.The robes lost their rigidity.The armor's etched blessings collapsed into faint residue.
He transferred the materials into storage alongside the recovered skeletal remains, cataloging their presence implicitly through the Grid.
The chamber grew quieter as the last traces of active sanctification settled.
Ahead, the passage sloped downward again.
The doors at the far end were heavier than any he had yet encountered, reinforced with layered iron and stone that carried a pressure distinct from what lay behind him. This was not the containment of clergy or relics.
Whatever lay beyond had required deeper isolation.
Noctis stepped forward without hesitation.
The resistance here would be greater, the cost higher, but the catacombs had not yet been exhausted. He moved into the narrowing passage, already adjusting his focus for what remained to be taken.