The first blade came fast.
Dagon dodged. Millimeters only. Enough.
Six guards were descending the dungeon stairs in tight formation — spears forward, shields raised, moving like a trained unit. The leader shouted orders, his voice echoing off the damp stone walls.
— Surround the intruders! Don't let anyone escape!
Dagon remained still. Watching. Calculating.
Keara supported Lord Kaelen Vel'Shara against the wall — the gray-haired man breathed with difficulty, his twisted ankle barely supporting his weight. Lady Seris held the healer's hand, eyes wide with fear and exhaustion.
Jelím floated beside Dagon, her hands already slightly raised. The cracked mask hid her expression, but her body was relaxed. Almost… bored.
— Jelím — Dagon said calmly. — Do you mind?
She tilted her head.
— Not particularly.
She raised her right hand with a delicate, almost casual gesture, like someone brushing away an annoying fly.
The first guard froze mid-step. The spear trembled violently in his hands — not from fear, but from an invisible force taking control. The metal vibrated, then reversed on its own, the tip spinning one hundred and eighty degrees.
— What— — he began.
The spear attacked.
It pierced the shield of the companion beside him, driving through it and pushing the guard backward with a force that did not come from human muscles. The impact hurled him against the stone wall. The sound of ribs breaking.
— TRAITOR! — the third guard shouted, explosive confusion taking over.
He turned, attacking the first without hesitation. Metal clashing against metal. Accusatory screams echoing.
Jelím moved her other hand. Two fingers tracing a pattern in the air — so subtle it looked like she was dancing.
The torches on the walls went out simultaneously.
Absolute darkness swallowed the dungeon.
Then they reignited.
Light revealing companions.
They went out again.
Darkness where enemies hid.
Light. Darkness. Light. Darkness.
On the third flicker, something broke inside the guards' minds. Perception distorted — familiar faces transformed into unknown threats. Identical uniforms appeared different. Familiar voices sounded strange.
One guard swung his sword wildly — striking his own companion in the shoulder. Blood sprayed, staining the blue uniform.
— You attacked me! — the victim roared, retaliating with brutal force.
— I didn't— it wasn't me! — the first tried to explain, but the third's spear was already piercing his back.
Jelím descended gently to the floor. She walked through the chaos as if strolling through a quiet garden. A guard ran directly at her, sword raised, shouting incomprehensible accusations.
She sidestepped by centimeters, unhurried, her body turning gracefully. His blade passed where she had been half a second earlier and continued, piercing the stone wall with the force of his own momentum.
Keara watched, hand covering her mouth.
— You… you're not even trying.
— I don't need to — Jelím replied simply, her voice calm as ever. — Mental manipulation is about suggestion. I don't need full control. Just… tilt perception slightly. They do the rest themselves.
She made a final gesture — thumb and index finger touching delicately.
The six guards collapsed simultaneously. Unconscious before hitting the ground.
Thirty-two seconds. From the first strike to the final silence.
Lady Seris let out a strangled sound — half sob, half suppressed scream. Lord Kaelen pulled her against his chest, shielding her from the sight of the bodies scattered around.
Jelím turned her mask toward them.
— Apologies for the… inconvenience — she said, her tone suggesting she wasn't particularly sorry.
Dagon nodded approvingly.
— Efficient as always.
But he noticed what the others did not — the way Jelím's hand trembled briefly before stabilizing. The breath that left her slightly heavier. The invisible cost of manipulating six minds simultaneously, even superficially.
Even she has limits. She just doesn't admit them.
He looked at the couple — pale, shaking, clearly terrified by what they had just witnessed.
— Let's go — he said firmly, his voice allowing no argument. — Before more arrive.
---
The Escape
The palace corridors had transformed into a labyrinth of stone and rising panic.
Bells rang incessantly — not the regular toll of the hours, but an urgent, frantic pattern. Three rapid chimes, pause, three rapid chimes. Invasion alarm. Voices shouted everywhere, echoing through passageways that twisted sounds until they became incomprehensible.
Dagon led, checking every corner before turning. He didn't run — he moved with controlled urgency, each step calculated. Keara supported Lord Kaelen, the noble's arm around her shoulders. Lady Seris followed behind, breathing unevenly, one hand pressed to her chest.
They passed a high window. Dagon stopped, quickly peering into the outer courtyard.
What he saw made something tighten in his chest.
Forty guards. Maybe fifty. Organizing into search formations. Torches being distributed. Dogs being brought in.
They're taking this seriously. Very seriously.
— Main exit is blocked — he murmured.
Jelím had checked the opposite direction. She returned, floating silently.
— Side gate too. Ten guards at each entrance. Archers in the towers.
Keara looked upward, evaluating.
— Roof?
— Risky with them — Dagon gestured to the exhausted couple. Lord Kaelen could barely walk. Lady Seris trembled so much she looked ready to collapse. — But maybe the only option.
That was when they heard it.
Footsteps. Many. Coming fast. The metallic sound of armor clashing during a run.
Dagon turned. Fifteen guards rounded the corner twenty meters ahead, coming straight toward them. Led by an officer who immediately pointed.
— THERE! THE INTRUDERS! DON'T LET THEM ESCAPE!
No time to hide. No detour. No negotiation.
Dagon sighed — a heavy sound carrying more than exhaustion.
— Alright. Enough subtlety.
His hand went to his sword. He drew it slowly, the blade singing against the sheath.
And the HUD exploded in light.
Not for him. For the other nearby players — Keara and Jelím saw it clearly, the interface blazing in the air like digital fire.
╔═══════════════════════════════╗
║ USER: Dagon Ashford ║
║ CLASS: Veteran Swordsman ║
║ LEVEL: ████████ ║
║ HP: ████████ ║
║ STAMINA: ████████ ║
║ STRENGTH: ████████ ║
║ AGILITY: ████████ ║
║ DEFENSE: ████████ ║
║ ENDURANCE: ████████ ║
║ [ALL ATTRIBUTES: MAXIMUM] ║
╚═══════════════════════════════╝
Keara felt her blood run cold.
Maximum. Everything. Every attribute. Every stat.
He reached the system's absolute limit. The ceiling. The end of the climb.
And how long did it take him to get there? How many died in the process?
Jelím remained still, but something shifted in her posture. Recognition. Respect. Perhaps… a hint of something that could be fear.
Dagon stepped forward.
He didn't run. He walked. Fast, but controlled. The sword in his right hand, posture far too relaxed for someone about to face fifteen armed opponents.
The first guard arrived screaming, spear thrust forward.
Dagon's sword moved.
One cut. Simple. Economical.
The blade sliced through the spear's shaft, splitting reinforced wood like rotten twigs. It continued, striking the guard's helmet with the flat of the blade — a precise impact that rang like a broken bell.
The guard fell unconscious before understanding what had happened.
Dagon turned. Elbow to the second guard — wet sound of jaw dislocating, teeth breaking. Side kick to the third — ribs cracking but not puncturing organs. Sword pommel to the fourth — base of the skull, instant knockout.
Every movement was exact. No waste. No excess. No death.
Only brutal efficiency transformed into an art form perfected over decades.
The fifth guard tried to attack from behind.
Dagon heard it. Turned. Blocked with his forearm — the enemy's sword struck skin and stopped, as if it had hit solid steel. Counterattack — direct punch to the solar plexus. The guard flew three meters, hitting the wall, sliding down unconscious.
Nine seconds. Ten guards down.
The remaining five hesitated. Looked at their fallen companions. Looked at Dagon — breathing normally, sword clean, posture relaxed.
One dropped his weapon and ran.
Then another.
The last three exchanged glances. Dropped their spears simultaneously. Raised their hands.
— We… we surrender — the leader said, his voice trembling.
Dagon lowered his sword.
— Smart.
He turned. Began walking back toward the group—
His hand trembled.
Only for a second. So fast almost no one saw.
Then it steadied again. He wiped the sword with an automatic motion. Sheathed it without looking.
But Jelím had noticed. And understood.
It's not the combat that exhausts him. It's holding so much power and using so little. It's breaking bones when he could cut flesh. Knocking out when he could kill. Remaining human when the system turned you into something else.
— Let's go — Dagon said simply.
The Hideout
They reached the Vel'Tharion tunnels through a secret entrance — a door disguised within the wall of an abandoned cellar that Dagon knew from three years of mapping every corner of Thornvale.
The tunnels stretched beneath the city like ancient veins of forgotten civilization. Dim illumination came from pale blue crystals embedded in the walls — pulsing softly, casting dancing shadows that made the tunnels seem alive.
Keara conjured additional light — a golden sphere floating above her hands, revealing corridors branching into dozens of directions.
— This way — Dagon indicated, turning left without hesitation.
They walked for fifteen minutes. Deeply. Far enough that surface sounds no longer reached them.
Finally they arrived at a small chamber carved into the rock. Supplies stacked in the corner — water, dried food, blankets. Improvised beds made of straw and cloth. Signs of recent use.
A prepared hideout. For emergencies. How many times has Dagon needed places like this?
Lady Seris collapsed onto a bed, crying silently in relief. Her hands covered her face, shoulders shaking. Lord Kaelen sat heavily beside her, pulling her close, murmuring words of comfort barely audible.
Keara immediately went to them. Her hands began to glow warm gold.
— Please, let me check you — she said gently. — I need to make sure you're alright.
Lord Kaelen nodded, shifting slightly to allow access.
Keara worked methodically. She checked the ankle first — swollen, bruised, but not fractured. She traced a rune in the air, light enveloping the joint. The swelling visibly decreased. The color returned to normal.
— Restorative Healing — she murmured.
Then Lady Seris. Small cuts on her wrists where ropes had been tied too tightly. Bruises on her arms. Mild malnutrition — not yet dangerous, but it would have become so had they remained imprisoned much longer.
More runes. More light. More magic flowing through hands that trembled slightly from exhaustion.
She worked for a full ten minutes. When she finished, sweat ran down her face, mingling with something that might have been tears.
— You'll be fine — she announced, her voice hoarse. — But you need proper rest. And real food. Not just water and bread.
Lord Kaelen held her hand.
— Thank you — he said simply. — My daughter… she has extraordinary friends.
Keara smiled tiredly.
— We're just people trying to do what's right.
Jelím was leaning against the opposite wall, mask still in place. But her body had sunk slightly. She was no longer floating — her feet touched the ground. A subtle but unmistakable sign.
Dagon watched her.
— You used too much power in that mental confusion.
— I'm fine — she replied, her voice firm as ever.
— Jelím.
The tone made her turn her mask.
Dagon said nothing else. He only looked. And she understood that he knew. He saw beyond the comforting lies she told herself.
Manipulating six minds simultaneously, even superficially, comes at a cost. It always does. And one day the cost will be too high.
Lady Seris looked at them with tears in her eyes — not only from relief, but from absolute gratitude.
— How can we repay you? — she asked, her voice breaking. — You risked everything… for people you don't even know…
Dagon only nodded, uncomfortable with gratitude.
— Rest. We'll bring Any soon. Bring her here. Reunite the family.
He turned toward the exit—
GONG. GONG. GONG.
The sound reached even the tunnels. Distant. But unmistakable.
Not a common alarm. A specific pattern — three long, deep strikes, five-second pause, three short, rapid strikes.
Keara frowned.
— What does that mean?
Dagon's expression hardened.
— Total city lockdown. No one enters. No one leaves. Capture order active. Reward for information.
— They're looking for the escaped prisoners — Jelím completed.
— And anyone who helped them — Dagon added grimly.
He looked at the couple — Lord Kaelen holding Lady Seris as if she might vanish at any moment. Both exhausted. Both still processing that they were free.
— Which means we need to get you — and Any — out of Thornvale. Today. Before nightfall, if possible.
Lady Seris sobbed.
— Our daughter… is she alright? They didn't… they didn't hurt her?
Dagon hesitated. He didn't know how to explain that Any was with Steve. That she had been used as bait unintentionally. That the forced kiss had happened.
— She's safe — he finally said. — With another adventurer. Young. Trustworthy. He's protected her so far.
More or less. I hope Steve hasn't done anything stupid.
---
[PERSPECTIVE SHIFT — STEVE]
[HOURS EARLIER]
Steve woke up sweating, heart racing.
The white plain. Again.
But this time it was worse.
Nessira was ten meters away.
No longer an impossible distance. No longer a vague silhouette. He could see details now — delicate patterns embroidered into the white dress, tiny flowers intertwined. Individual strands of black-and-gray hair moving without wind, each thread shifting independently as if alive.
The outline of her face still turned away. But now he could see the curve of her cheek. The delicate line of her neck. The way her shoulders moved with invisible breathing.
She's breathing. Does that mean she's alive? Or is it just illusion?
— Seven percent — she said, her voice echoing differently this time.
No longer a chorus of a thousand women. No longer impossible harmony.
Just… one voice. Feminine. Young. Almost… human.
— Keep going, Steve.
She extended her hand backward. Didn't turn her face. Just raised her arm, fingers opening in invitation.
— Keep coming toward me.
Steve tried to step back. His feet wouldn't respond. Anchored to the invisible ground as if roots had grown through his boots.
Her hand began to glow. Pulsing purple-black, forbidden colors bleeding through perfect skin.
— Soon we will be complete — she whispered, her voice carrying promise and threat in equal measure.
The glow intensified. Expanded. Began crawling up her arm like something alive—
Steve woke with a violent jolt.
Breathing irregular, choking. Sweat soaking his shirt until it clung to his skin. He looked around frantically, searching for a threat that wasn't there—
Any was sleeping beside him.
In the same bed.
Steve froze completely.
How… when… why…
He vaguely remembered — the inn had only one room available. Dagon had "forgotten" to warn them. The old bastard probably found it amusing. Nothing had happened during the night. They had just… slept.
We slept in the same bed. Me and her. In the same bed.
Why does this feel more terrifying than the goblin trying to kill me?
But it was strange. Intensely uncomfortable in ways Steve didn't know how to process.
Any was turned toward him, veil still covering her face even while sleeping — a habit so ingrained that even unconsciousness didn't erase it. Her hand rested on the mattress between them, almost touching his arm. Five centimeters. Maybe less.
The forced kiss returned to Steve's mind with brutal force.
She used me. To hurt Adrian. It was strategy. Just strategy.
Then why did she hold my hand afterward? Why did we walk through the city like that, as if it were normal?
Why did she buy two bracelets? One for her. One for me. Identical.
Why…
The questions had no answers. They just circled endlessly, each feeding the next.
Any moved slightly. Murmured something incomprehensible — sounds that could have been words or just dream-sighs.
Steve got out of bed very slowly, as if sudden movement might wake her. Or worse — make the situation even more uncomfortable.
He needed air. Space. Anything beyond that small room where the scent of her flowers seemed to fill every molecule of oxygen.
Thirty minutes later, Any woke.
She sat up with fluid movement, adjusting her veil automatically. A morning ritual so natural it happened before she was fully conscious.
She saw Steve near the window, staring outside with suspicious intensity.
— Sleep well? — she asked, overly casual.
— …Yes — Steve lied, still not turning.
Uncomfortable silence settled. Heavy. Growing by the second.
Steve finally turned. Opened his mouth. Closed it. Words died before forming. Tried again, forcing himself.
— Any, about yesterday… the kiss… I need to understand—
— We need coffee — she interrupted, standing up too quickly. — I'm starving. Aren't you?
She was already at the door. Hand on the latch.
Steve took half a step forward.
— But—
— Now, Steve.
The tone allowed no argument.
She left. The door closed with finality.
Steve stood there in the middle of the room, staring at the closed door.
Then he looked at the bracelet on his wrist. Simple silver, worked in a pattern that resembled waves. Or flames. Hard to tell.
He touched the cold metal with his thumb.
She gave me a gift. But doesn't want to talk about what it means.
Held my hand. But won't explain why.
Kissed me. But says it was only strategy.
What am I supposed to do with that?
He had no answer. And suspected Any didn't either. Or worse — she did, but refused to admit it.
He sighed. Followed her downstairs.
The Reunion
They were finishing breakfast — silent, uncomfortable, words dying before being spoken — when the inn door burst open violently.
BANG.
Everyone present turned.
Dagon entered. Keara right behind him, breathing heavily.
And behind them…
Steve saw the improvised cloaks first — common fabric hiding identities. Then he saw the way they moved. Careful. Painful.
Any dropped her cup.
The sound of ceramic shattering against the floor echoed like a gunshot.
— Mother…? — her voice came out tiny, broken, unrecognizable. — Father…?
Lady Seris began crying before she could even respond. Her hands went to her face, trying to contain the sobs tearing from her throat.
— My daughter… my little one…
Any tore off her veil.
She didn't remove it gently. She ripped it. The fabric split, shredded, thrown to the floor as if it burned.
The revealed face was contorted with raw emotion — tears already streaming, mouth open in a sound that was half laugh, half sob.
She ran. Not with aristocratic elegance. With the desperation of a child finding lost parents.
She embraced them with strength Steve didn't know she possessed. The three collapsed right there on the inn floor, kneeling, arms tangled together, faces pressed against one another.
— You're alive — Any kept repeating between sobs. — You're alive, you're alive, you're alive…
— We are, my daughter — Lord Kaelen whispered, his voice breaking. — Thanks to these extraordinary adventurers.
Any cried harder now. Not trying to stop. Not trying to control herself. Just feeling — all the fear, all the desperation, all the relief exploding at once.
Lady Seris kissed the top of her daughter's head repeatedly, as if needing to confirm she was real.
— I missed you so much… so much…
Steve watched from a distance, something tightening in his chest with a force that almost physically hurt.
When was the last time I hugged my mother like that?
The question came uninvited.
I don't remember. She's always unconscious. Connected to machines. I hold her hand. I talk to her. But never… never like this.
Never hearing her say my name. Never feeling her hug me back.
The pressure in his chest worsened.
Lord Kaelen looked over his daughter's shoulder. Saw Steve standing a few meters away, clearly uncomfortable, not knowing where to place his hands.
He gently pulled away from Any. Extended his hand.
— You're the boy who protected her?
Steve blinked, surprised.
— I… more or less? — the answer came hesitant. — Dagon did the hard part. I just… was there.
Lord Kaelen stood with difficulty — his ankle still hurt despite Keara's healing. He walked to Steve. Took his hand with both of his.
— Thank you — he said, his voice trembling slightly. — For being there. For keeping her safe. For not abandoning her when it would have been easier.
The words hit Steve like gentle punches.
I didn't do anything. Literally nothing. I was dragged into this. Any pulled me in. Dagon saved everyone.
Why is he thanking me?
But he answered anyway:
— You're welcome, sir.
Any looked at him then. No veil. Face completely exposed. Eyes red and swollen from crying. Nose running. Hair messy.
No mask. No protection. No control.
Just… Any. Real. Vulnerable. Human.
And she smiled.
Genuine. No ulterior motives. No manipulation. Just pure, simple gratitude.
Steve felt something warm explode in his chest. He didn't know how to name it. Didn't try.
Maybe it was worth it. All the chaos. All the fear. All the danger.
If this was the result… maybe it was worth it.
---
[PERSPECTIVE — ADRIAN]
Adrian stood on the palace balcony when the servant arrived running, stumbling over his own feet in desperation.
— My lord! The prisoners… they've escaped! Masked intruders freed them during the night!
Adrian turned slowly. Face completely neutral. Aristocratic mask perfected over years.
— Escaped? — he repeated, voice too calm. — When?
— Two hours ago! Twenty guards injured! None dead, but… most won't fight again anytime soon! Your uncle is furious, my lord, he—
— I understand — Adrian cut in smoothly.
He looked down at the city below. Thornvale waking under total lockdown. Guards patrolling every street. People being stopped, interrogated. Fear spreading like disease.
Any… you're free now. Finally.
He closed his eyes briefly. Allowed himself one second — just one — of genuine relief.
And I… am still trapped.
— ADRIAN!
His uncle's voice thundered behind him. Lord Councilor Matthias Thornvale — a man in his fifties, gray hair perfectly combed, beard trimmed with military precision. He wore authority like armor: dark red tunic embroidered in gold with the family crest.
Adrian turned. Neutral face. Polite voice.
— Yes, uncle?
— Did you know about this?! — Matthias snarled, approaching with heavy steps.
— Know about what, uncle?
— Don't lie to me! — the man slammed his fist against the stone balustrade. — That girl… she planned this! Hired intruders! Turned my own nephew against me!
Adrian did not step back. Did not tremble. Years of political training made his voice steady.
— Any planned nothing. She didn't even know her parents were imprisoned. How could she have hired anyone?
— Then who—
— Adventurers — Adrian interrupted, allowing controlled frustration into his tone. — Hired by someone. I don't know who. Perhaps her parents had allies we didn't know about. Or perhaps…
Calculated pause.
— …perhaps you should have informed me you intended to imprison them. I could have reinforced security.
Matthias froze. Anger faltered, replaced by something more dangerous — suspicion.
— Are you blaming me?
— I am stating facts — Adrian replied calmly. — You acted without consulting me. Now there are consequences. And the agreement with the crown is at risk.
Good. Use politics against him. It's the only weapon you have.
Matthias stepped closer. When he spoke again, his voice was low, dangerous.
— Find them. Bring them back. All of them. The parents. The girl. The intruders. Or the agreement with the crown collapses. And when it does…
He leaned closer, hot breath against Adrian's face.
— …you lose everything. Position. Title. Future. Everything. Understood?
Adrian simply nodded.
— As you wish, uncle.
Matthias stared a moment longer. Then turned and left, cloak swirling dramatically.
Adrian remained alone on the balcony.
When he was certain he truly was alone, he allowed himself to break. Just a little. Just for a second.
He leaned against the stone railing. Breathed deeply. Trembling.
Run, Any. Run fast. And don't look back.
Because I can't follow you. Not yet.
But maybe… one day…
He didn't finish the thought. Didn't dare. Hope was a luxury he couldn't afford.
He straightened. Reassembled the mask. Became Lord Adrian Thornvale again — noble. Heir. Prisoner of his own blood.
---
The Siege
Steve and Any ran through Thornvale's side streets, Dagon leading with the precision of someone who knew every alley, every detour.
Guards patrolled everywhere. Blockades at every main intersection. Questions being asked. People being searched.
— This way! — Dagon whispered, turning into a narrow alley between two wooden houses.
They ran. Passed through an empty market — stalls abandoned in haste, goods still exposed. Crossed a plaza where the central fountain bubbled indifferently to the chaos—
Twenty guards appeared ahead.
Tight formation. Shields raised. Spears pointed.
Dagon stopped. Turned slowly.
Fifteen guards blocked the opposite exit.
Surrounded. No visible escape route.
Keara prepared magic, hands beginning to glow. Jelím floated slightly, fingers curling. Dagon held his sword, still sheathed.
Lord Kaelen pulled Lady Seris and Any behind him, trying to shield them with a body that barely remained upright.
Steve looked at Any — wide eyes, gripping her mother's hand so tightly her fingers turned white.
No. Not like this. Not when we were finally so close…
That's when he felt it.
Familiar tingling. Cold. Wrong.
His right hand began to burn.
Not normal pain. The pain of something being born through skin, forcing passage from a place that should not exist.
[MULTIPLE THREATS DETECTED]
[PERCENTAGE SYSTEM: FORCED ACTIVATION]
[CONNECTION: 7% → 10%]
[FRAGMENT_001: ASSUMING TEMPORARY CONTROL]
Steve whispered, terrified:
— No… not now… please not now…
Purple-black bled through the skin of his right hand.
Not gradually. It exploded. Veins glowing with forbidden colors, impossible geometric patterns spreading up his arm like living tattoos.
The scythe began to materialize.
Not like before — when Steve consciously summoned it, with effort, with precarious control.
This time it was involuntary. Automatic. Like a survival reflex ignoring his will completely.
The black handle grew from his palm, solidifying, lengthening. The curved blade bleeding into reality with a sound like glass breaking in reverse.
And Steve realized with absolute, paralyzing horror — stealing his breath entirely:
He wasn't controlling it.
She was.
His eyes glowed purple for a brief second. The voice that left his throat wasn't entirely his — it carried an extra harmonic, a feminine echo beneath:
— Enough.
Any covered her mouth, stepping back.
Dagon turned instantly, hand going to his sword, body tense.
And he saw.
Steve — or something using Steve — holding a scythe that should not exist in the physical world.