The chamber erupted into pandemonium, the once-stately hall of the Arcane Council transforming into a maelstrom of shouts and scrambling figures. Robed mages leaped from their thrones, runes on their sleeves igniting with protective glows as dust sifted from the vaulted ceiling like a grim snowfall. The air hummed with raw mana, thick and electric, raising the hairs on Ethan's arms. Lady Seris's obsidian eyes locked onto him, her predatory smile unwavering amid the chaos, as if she'd anticipated this very disruption. The bearded mage who had questioned him earlier barked orders to guards, his voice cutting through the din like a blade.
Ethan's instincts kicked in, his data analyst brain slicing through the panic like a query through cluttered datasets. Assess: Source of the rumble—external, seismic? Lightning—crimson, tied to Azrath. Scream—human, pained. Risks: Structural collapse, demonic incursion, political sabotage. He didn't wait for the Council's directives; hesitation was a luxury he couldn't afford. Pushing past a cluster of wide-eyed attendants, he bolted toward the grand doors, Vren and his guards falling in behind him without a word.
"Young Master, wait!" Vren called, his armored boots clanging against the marble. "It's too dangerous!"
"Data doesn't collect itself," Ethan muttered under his breath, though aloud he said, "We need to know what's out there. Stay close." His heart raced, but his mind was a fortress of logic—categorize threats, prioritize actions, mitigate fallout. This wasn't just a storm; it was a variable in a larger equation, one that included his "mark" and Barrenreach's cursed proximity to the Rift.
Outside the hall, Aetherion's streets were a frenzy. Citizens fled in waves, their cloaks whipping in a sudden gale that carried the acrid scent of ozone and sulfur. The sky had fractured, bleeding crimson veins that pulsed like arteries, casting the city in an eerie, blood-tinged twilight. Lightning arced erratically, not from clouds but from fissures in the air itself—rents in reality where shadows writhed. One bolt struck a nearby spire, shattering stone and sending debris cascading like lethal confetti.
The scream pierced the air again, raw and desperate, followed by another deafening CRACK that vibrated through Ethan's bones. It originated from the outer wards, a fortified perimeter of glowing obelisks encircling the city's edge. That's the source, he thought, mapping it mentally against Darius's journal sketches. The wards were ley-line anchors, designed to repel Abyss incursions, but they flickered now, their runes dimming like failing servers.
"Over there!" Ethan shouted, pointing toward a plume of smoke rising from a breached section of the wall. Vren nodded grimly, drawing his sword as the group sprinted through the emptying streets. Ethan's young body protested—the legs too short, lungs burning—but he pushed on, drawing faint mana to steady his strides, a trick Thorne had drilled into him. Optimize: Channel energy efficiently, no waste.
They reached the outer wards amid a scattering of guards, some tending to wounded comrades while others hurled spells at shadowy forms slithering through the cracks. The Rift's influence was palpable here: the ground cracked with black veins, grass withering to ash underfoot, and the air hummed with whispers—insidious murmurs promising power, echoing Azrath's temptations from his visions.
The scream echoed once more, weaker now, from a cluster of overgrown ruins just beyond the ward line—a forgotten outpost overgrown with thorny vines and crumbling stone, perhaps a relic from ancient battles. Ethan's curiosity overrode caution; in his old life, anomalies in data often hid the real insights. "I'm checking it out," he said to Vren. "Cover me."
"Young Master—" Vren protested, but Ethan was already moving, slipping through a gap in the wards where the runes had shattered like glass. The transition was jarring: inside the city, mana flowed cleanly; here, it twisted, corrupted, making his skin crawl as if invisible fingers brushed against him.
The ruins were a labyrinth of toppled columns and moss-covered walls, the crimson sky filtering through gaps in the canopy above. Ethan moved methodically, scanning for patterns—footprints in the dirt, scorch marks on stone. The noise had come from deeper in, a low whimper now replacing the screams. Not human, he realized, his analytical mind piecing it together. Animal? Wounded?
He rounded a fallen archway, dagger drawn from Lira's satchel, and froze. There, huddled in a shallow depression amid the rubble, was a small creature—no larger than a housecat, but unlike anything from his Earthly knowledge. Its fur was a shimmering silver, streaked with iridescent blues that shifted like oil on water, and tiny wings, bat-like but feathered at the edges, lay folded against its back. A long, tufted tail curled protectively around its body, and its eyes—large, luminous gold orbs—fixed on him with a mix of fear and intelligence. A gash marred its flank, oozing a viscous, glowing ichor that sizzled faintly on the ground.
Injured cute animal, Ethan thought, the phrase absurdly fitting despite the danger. It resembled a cross between a fox and a dragonling from fantasy tales, adorable in its vulnerability yet hinting at untamed power. The creature whimpered again, a sound that tugged at something primal in him—empathy, perhaps, or curiosity. Analyze: Wound—slash, not burn. From a beast? Or the lightning? Behavior—defensive, not aggressive. Potential ally? Or bait?
He approached slowly, palms open, channeling a whisper of mana to project calm, as Thorne had taught for beast-taming basics. "Easy there," he murmured, his voice soft. "I'm not here to hurt you." The creature tilted its head, ears perking—pointed and fringed with soft fur. It sniffed the air, then let out a tentative chirp, almost melodic.
Ethan knelt, examining the wound from a safe distance. The gash was deep, edges blackened as if corrupted by the Rift's taint. Demonic influence? He recalled a library tome on Abyss fauna: creatures twisted by chaos, but some, like spirit beasts, resisted it, forming bonds with worthy humans. This one seemed pure, its aura clean amid the corruption. "You're not from here, are you?" he said, more to himself.
The creature shifted, wincing, and extended a paw tentatively. Ethan hesitated, then reached out. As their skin touched—his hand to its paw—a spark jumped, not painful but connective. Visions flickered: vast skies, playful flights, a sudden storm ripping it from its nest. Empathic link? His mark throbbed faintly, Azrath's crimson eyes flashing in his mind, but the creature's presence pushed it back, like a firewall blocking malware.
"You're a survivor, huh?" Ethan smiled faintly, tearing a strip from his cloak to bind the wound. The fabric absorbed the ichor, glowing briefly before sealing. The creature nuzzled his hand, purring—a vibration that soothed his frayed nerves. Asset acquired, he thought analytically. In web novels, such beasts often became loyal companions, granting boons. He'd name it later; for now, it climbed onto his shoulder, light as a feather, wings folding neatly.
Vren's voice boomed from the entrance. "Young Master! The wards are stabilizing, but we must return—the Council demands your presence!"
Ethan stood, the creature's warmth a comforting weight. One mystery solved, more variables added. As he rejoined the group, Seris's knowing smile haunted him. Was this encounter coincidence, or part of the game?
Back in the Council hall, the chaos had subsided, wards reinforced and the sky's crimson fading to bruised purple. Ethan stood before the thrones, the injured creature—now dubbed "Lumia" for its luminous eyes—perched discreetly under his cloak, its presence a secret edge. The Council grilled him on the incursion, Seris probing with veiled accusations. "The Rift stirs at your arrival," she said silkily. "Coincidence, or curse?"
"Data suggests escalation," Ethan replied coolly, "but correlation isn't causation. Focus on solutions." His poise earned murmurs of approval, though Seris's gaze promised future clashes.
The pledge ceremony was swift: Ethan swore fealty to the Council, accepting Barrenreach's deed—a crystalline orb etched with maps and wards. "Rule wisely," the bearded mage intoned. "Or the Rift claims all."
With the formalities done, Ethan retreated to a guest suite in the hall, a opulent chamber with views of the city's spires. Lumia explored curiously, her wound already healing with unnatural speed, batting at floating dust motes. Ethan unpacked Darius's journal and the orb, projecting holographic maps of Barrenreach: desolate crags, poisoned rivers, bandit camps dotting the fringes. The Rift loomed as a jagged scar on the edge, a bottomless chasm spewing miasma.
Superficial data, he thought, diving deeper. He requested access to the Council's archives, citing "preparation for rule." A librarian delivered tomes: histories of the territory, treatises on Rift ecology, and ancient scrolls on the Demon-Human War. Ethan pored over them late into the night, Lumia curled on his lap, her purring a rhythmic backdrop.
The books painted a grim picture. Barrenreach wasn't just poor—it was forsaken. Soil cursed by war remnants, water tainted by abyssal runoff. Bandits were survivors of displaced clans, beasts mutated guardians gone feral. But buried in a dusty volume titled Chronicles of the Eternal Schism, Ethan found anomalies—discrepancies in official histories.
He cross-referenced: Standard lore claimed demons invaded unprovoked, humans sealing them in the Abyss after a heroic war. But footnotes hinted at provocation—human mages experimenting with Rift energies, summoning entities for power. Patterns emerged: Key battles near Barrenreach, unexplained alliances, suppressed records of demon "ambassadors."
Deeper still, a sealed chapter, unlocked by the deed orb's mana signature. Ethan's eyes widened as forbidden truths unfolded. The war wasn't black-and-white; humans had initiated contact, seeking immortality through demonic pacts. Azrath, once a guardian spirit, was betrayed, twisted into a lord of vengeance. The Rift? A scar from a cataclysmic ritual gone wrong, where human greed shattered the veil.
Truth: Not invasion, but retaliation. Barrenreach—the epicenter, ground zero for the ritual. Ethan's mind reeled, connections firing like synapses. His mark? Perhaps a remnant of that ancient pact, reactivated by the lightning. If true, House Varyn—and his father—might be complicit, hiding the real history to maintain power.
Lumia stirred, her golden eyes alert, as a shadow passed the window. Ethan tensed, book open to a damning illustration: A crimson-eyed figure, not demonic, but human-corrupted. A soft knock sounded at the door—no, a scratch, unnatural.
He rose, dagger in hand, as the scratching intensified, whispers seeping through: "Vessel… the truth awakens…"
The door rattled, and crimson light bled under the frame...