The roar of the river was a physical thing in the narrow gorge, vibrating up through the soles of Chen Mo's worn boots and into his bones. The remnants of the ancient bridge loomed ahead, a broken jaw of stone against the leaden sky. The two crumbling ledges flanking the central gap looked like the teeth of a trap.
Alena moved first, her movements still graceful but now edged with a sharp, focused tension. She chose the slightly higher ledge on the left, testing the moss-slick stone with a careful foot before committing her weight. Chen Mo, the sinew-bound mace a heavy, amber-pulsing weight on his back, took the lower right-hand path. The distance between them was only six feet, but the churning, frothing water ten feet below made it feel like a mile.
He moved inch by inch, his back pressed against the cold, wet stone of the arch, his fingers scrabbling for any crack or imperfection. His Keen Eye was on overdrive, highlighting patches of unstable, crumbling mortar in dull red and safer, drier footholds in a faint green. It was a disorienting data stream, but it kept him from putting his foot on a section that gave way with a heart-stopping clatter of falling stone into the abyss below.
Halfway across the gap, the ledge on his side narrowed to little more than a protruding lip. He had to turn sideways, shuffling, his chest facing the void. The amber glow from the mace cast his elongated, wavering shadow on the stone behind Alena. He could see her, a silhouette of focused determination, moving with the delicate precision of a climber.
A sudden, sharper gust of wind whipped through the gorge, carrying icy spray from the river. Chen Mo flinched, his foot slipping. For one terrifying second, he was balanced on the edge, arms windmilling. Alena's hand shot out, not reaching for him—an impossible distance—but pointing, her voice cutting through the din. "The crack! To your left!"
His Keen Eye flashed. A vertical fissure in the stone, just within reach. He jammed the fingers of his free hand into it, his nails tearing, and arrested his fall. His heart hammered against his ribs like a frantic bird. He hung there for a long moment, gasping.
[Stress-induced physiological response noted. Adrenaline efficiency: 87%. Recommend controlled breathing.] The system's calm analysis was absurdly out of place.
He hauled himself back onto the ledge, his muscles trembling. He didn't look down. He focused on the stone in front of his face, on the next six inches, then the next. Time lost meaning. There was only the stone, the wind, the roar, and the agonizingly slow progress.
Finally, the ledge on his side widened, merging with the remains of the roadway on the far side of the gap. He stumbled onto solid ground, his legs watery. A moment later, Alena joined him, her face pale but her eyes bright with triumph. They were across.
The northern bank was different. The air felt older, quieter, the trees taller and darker. The oppressive weight of the Blackstone Outpost's reach seemed to lessen, replaced by a watchful, ancient stillness. This was claimed by older things.
Alena sagged against a tree, breathing heavily, the strain of the crossing and her injuries finally catching up. Her eyes went to the mace on his back, its amber light a cheerful anomaly in the grim forest. "That light… it will be seen. From far away. The Sunstone is a beacon."
Chen Mo knew she was right. The system's 24-hour grace period was a ticking clock, but its glow was an immediate liability. He needed to contain it. He untied the sinew and, using a strip of leather from his pack, wrapped the glowing pommel tightly, layer upon layer, until only a faint, dull ember showed through. It was like muffling a star.
"Better," Alena murmured. "Now, we must move north-east. My kin have scouts in these woods. We must find them before the Watchers find another way across."
As they moved deeper into the woods, a change came over Alena. She became quieter, her head tilted, listening to sounds Chen Mo couldn't perceive—the rustle of leaves, the call of a specific bird. She was home.
Chen Mo, however, was more alien than ever. The forest here felt aware. His Keen Eye began tagging things his primer had no name for: a tree with bark that shimmered like mother-of-pearl, a patch of flowers that hummed with a sub-audible vibration, a stream whose water glowed with a soft, blue bioluminescence. This forest was steeped in the very energies his Protocol hungered for. He walked a minefield of invisible wealth, every step a potential trigger for the debt he carried.
After an hour, Alena stopped dead. She knelt, touching a barely visible mark on a tree root—a symbol carved with exquisite subtlety. "A ward-mark. We are in the Glade's outer territory." She made a series of soft, melodic whistles, like a bird's song.
For a minute, nothing. Then, from the surrounding foliage, three figures emerged. They seemed to materialize from the shadows itself. They were Elven, like Alena, but taller, their features sharper, their eyes holding the ageless patience of ancient trees. They wore camouflaged leathers and carried bows of pale, polished wood that looked grown, not carved. Their arrows were tipped with what looked like thorn and bone, but Chen Mo's Keen Eye tagged them with a faint, dangerous aura.
The lead scout, a male with silver-streaked hair, looked from Alena's battered state to Chen Mo, his gaze lingering on the clumsily wrapped bundle on his back, from which a sliver of amber light still leaked. His expression was not welcoming, but wary. He spoke in their flowing language.
Alena responded, her tone urgent. There was a quick, sharp exchange. Chen Mo heard the words "Watchers," "Blackstone," and "warning." The scout's eyes narrowed. He gestured at Chen Mo and said something, the word "Da'veth" laced with clear disdain.
"He asks what a 'Stone-blind' human is doing in the sacred woods," Alena translated, a flicker of apology in her eyes. "And why I am with one who carries a stolen sun."
"I didn't steal it," Chen Mo said, keeping his voice level. "I found it. At the bridge. It belonged to a dead man. I'm carrying it because…" He faltered. He couldn't explain the Protocol.
"Because he has an affliction," Alena said, stepping in smoothly, her eyes meeting the scout's. "A… hunger for such light. But he is an ally. He saved me from the Watchers. He fought with cunning and courage. He is under my word."
The scout looked deeply unconvinced. He barked an order. One of the other elves moved forward, a slender wand of crystal in his hand. He pointed it at the wrapped mace. The crystal flared with a white light. He then pointed it at Chen Mo.
The moment the wand's energy passed over him, the system in his mind erupted.
[EXTERNAL SCAN DETECTED. Arcane-probing waveform. Low-intensity.]
[Protocol Defense: Passive. No hostile intent identified.]
[Analysis: Scan is assessing mana-capacity and spiritual contamination.]
[WARNING: Scan may interact with active Material Debt Contract field.]
The elf with the wand frowned, his eyes going distant as he read whatever results he perceived. He spoke to the lead scout, his words quick and low. Chen Mo caught "Yth'cal" and "void-mark."
The lead scout's hand drifted to the hilt of a long, leaf-bladed knife. "He carries no inherent magic," the scout said, now speaking the common tongue with a heavy accent, his eyes locked on Chen Mo. "A true Stone-blind. Yet… there is a silence around him. A hunger, as you say. And the old sun weeps in his presence. It is not natural."
"It is his burden, not his crime," Alena insisted, her voice gaining an edge of command. "The warning I bear is for the Glade-Council, not for your suspicion. Will you lead us, or must I find the path myself, bleeding and pursued?"
A tense silence hung in the clearing. Finally, the scout gave a curt nod. "We will take you to the Fallen Glade. The Council gathers there, for the dark news travels swift. The human may enter. But the sun he carries will remain at the threshold. It is a thing of the outer world, of dead kings and lost wars. It has no place in the heartwood."
They moved again, the elves flanking them, silent as ghosts. Chen Mo felt like a bull in a crystal shop, his every clumsy step loud in the preternatural quiet. They descended into a deep valley, where the air grew thick and sweet with the scent of blooming night-flowers and damp earth. The trees here were monstrous, their trunks wide as houses, woven with glowing lichen and cascading waterfalls of silver moss.
And then, they entered the Fallen Glade.
It was a place of terrible, beautiful ruin. In the center of the valley lay the colossal, shattered trunk of a tree that must have been a mountain in life. Its fall had cleared a great space, and its body, now a moss-covered, decaying monument, formed the council floor. Dozens of elves were gathered on and around it, their faces grave in the soft light of floating, will-o-wisp orbs. The air thrummed with low, anxious conversation.
But it was not the elves that stole Chen Mo's breath. It was the state of the glade itself.
The great fallen tree was not just dead. Parts of it were wrong. Patches of its bark were blackened and brittle, not with fire, but with a creeping, oily corruption that seemed to absorb the light. Strange, fungal growths of a sickly violet hue pulsed where flowers should have been. A section of the clearing's floor was bare and cracked, the earth itself looking drained and sterile.
[Environmental Analysis: Catastrophic mana corruption detected. Designation: 'Blight' or 'Void Rot'.]
[Source: Unknown. Effect: Life-force drain, magical degradation, spiritual decay.]
[Warning: Proximity to corruption may have unpredictable effects on Protocol systems and host physiology.]
The lead scout announced their presence. All eyes turned to them, the worry on the elves' faces deepening into outright alarm at the sight of a wounded Alena and a bedraggled human. An ancient elf, his long hair the color of frost, stood from a seat of living root. "Alena Swiftbrook. Your return is ill-timed. The Glade is wounded."
"The wound is deeper than the Glade, Elder Nythril," Alena said, her voice carrying across the quiet space. She gestured to the corruption. "The Watchers of Blackstone do not just hunt our kind. They seek to become the instrument of this. They believe they are purging impurity, but they are being wielded by the very decay they fear. I was ambushed not just for what I am, but for the truth I carried from the southern watch: the Blight is not natural. It is being guided. And its source is near Blackstone Outpost."
A ripple of horror went through the assembly. Elder Nythril's gaze shifted to Chen Mo. "And this Stone-blind? Why is he here?"
"He is the reason I am here to deliver this warning," Alena said. "He fought the Watchers with me. He has… a unique perspective. And he carries an artifact from the Bridge of Sorrows. A Sunstone Mace."
Murmurs arose. Elder Nythril's eyes sharpened. "A Sunstone? Here? In this blighted place?" He walked forward, his movements frail but his presence immense. He stopped before Chen Mo. "Show me."
Chen Mo slowly unwrapped the leather from the pommel. The amber light burst forth, clean and warm, pushing back the gloom of the glade. It seemed to pulse in rhythm with his own heartbeat. The elves gasped, some taking a step back, others leaning forward with desperate hope.
The Elder studied it, then studied Chen Mo. "You feel its call? Its warmth?"
Chen Mo shook his head. "I feel its weight."
"A strange answer." The Elder's eyes seemed to look through him, at the silent Protocol within. "There is a hollow where your magic should be, traveler. A shaped void. This Sunstone… it is a tool of purification, of driving back darkness. In this place, at this time, its finding is no accident. The old bridges sometimes yield what is needed, not what is sought." He reached out a gnarled hand, not for the mace, but to place a finger on Chen Mo's chest, over his heart.
The moment the Elder's finger made contact, the system went haywire.
[CONTACT WITH HIGH-ORDER MANA SOURCE!]
[Analysis: Entity 'Nythril' – Advanced Spiritual Awareness. Attempting deep-structure scan.]
[Protocol Defenses: Compromised. Passive mode insufficient.]
[Material Debt Contract Field is being… probed…]
[ERROR. CONTRACT INTEGRITY THREATENED. EXTERNAL MANIPULATION DETECTED.]
A searing, icy-hot pain lanced through Chen Mo's mind. He cried out, staggering back. The world dissolved into a cascade of overlapping images: the blue interface of the Protocol, the glowing amber of the Sunstone, the creeping black-violet of the Blight, and the ancient, forest-green eyes of Elder Nythril, filled with sudden, profound shock.
"By the First Root…" the Elder whispered, snatching his hand back as if burned. "What are you? What binds you? This is not a soul-geas… it is a cage of star-metal and cold logic!"
Before Chen Mo could respond, before the panicked system could stabilize, a scout burst into the glade from the southern treeline, her face etched with panic.
"Watchers!" she cried. "A full warband! They forced a crossing downstream! They are burning a path straight for the glade, led by a man in red robes—he carries a staff that smells of the Blight!"
The council erupted into chaos. Alena grabbed Chen Mo's arm, her violet eyes wide. "The red-robed one… a Blight-Caller. The source."
Elder Nythril turned from Chen Mo, his face a mask of grim resolution. He looked at the Sunstone Mace, then at Chen Mo, then at the advancing corruption in his own glade. A desperate plan seemed to form in his eyes.
"Stone-blind one," he said, his voice cutting through the noise. "Your void-cage and that sun-iron you carry… they are two sides of a terrible coin. The Blight is a corruption of life and spirit. Your… bond… is a void that consumes magic. That mace is a focus that burns it clean." He pointed a trembling finger at the darkest patch of corruption on the fallen tree. "The Blight-Caller comes to feast on this place, to make it a beacon of rot. You must go. Take the sun-iron. Let your hollow nature and its purifying light clash at the heart of the corruption. It may disrupt the Caller's power. It may save what is left of this glade."
It was a suicide mission. Send the magical void and the magical torch into the epicenter of a magical plague, hoping the resulting contradiction would cause a magical backlash.
The system finally stabilized, blaring a new, synthesized objective, its text flashing urgently.
[CRISIS EVENT: 'GLADE'S FALL'.]
Primary Objective: Deploy 'Sovereign's Tusk' and 'Sunstone Mace' into Blight Convergence Zone.
Hypothesis: Conflict of conceptual authorities (Order/Consumption vs. Chaos/Decay) may generate systemic cascade, destabilizing localized Blight field.
Secondary Objective: Survive the resultant arcane discharge.
Reward: 1000 PP, Protocol Clearance Level +1, Data on 'Blight' & 'High-Order Mana Interaction'.
Failure: Glade falls. Host expiration probability: 99.7%. Material Debt Contract will be forfeit to corrosive energies.]
Chen Mo looked at the warm, hopeful light of the mace. He looked at the cold, efficient curve of his Tusk. He looked at the decaying, weeping wound in the world before him. The Watchers were coming. The elves were readying for a last stand. Alena was looking at him, not with a plea, but with the grim acceptance of a soldier handed a terrible weapon.
He had 23 hours left before the system claimed the mace. He had a blade that was part of his soul. And he had a Protocol that saw the end of the world as a fascinating experiment.
He tightened his grip on the sinew holding the mace. He met Elder Nythril's gaze.
"Where," he asked, his voice dead calm, "is the heart of it?"