Location: The High Spire, Sector 1
The Grave-Walker did not climb back up to the Spire. It simply manifested from the shadows of Lady Vespera's vanity mirror, dripping wet with canal sludge. The black water stained the pristine white carpet.
Vespera did not turn around. She was applying a layer of pearl dust to her cheekbones.
"Report," she said softly.
"The target... chose suicide," the Grave-Walker rasped, shivering slightly. The cold of the canal had seeped into its bones. "He collapsed the bridge. We fell. He utilized an alchemical dampener to survive impact. He has fled into the sewers of Sector 9."
Vespera paused, the brush hovering millimetres from her skin.
"He collapsed the Great Bridge?" A faint smile touched her lips. "How wonderfully dramatic. He is not just a thief; he is an arsonist of order."
"Permission to pursue," the Grave-Walker hissed. "I can track his heat signature. He is wounded. Leaking entropy."
"No."
Vespera set the brush down. She turned, her eyes cold and ancient.
"If you chase a rat into a corner, it bites. If you let it run, it leads you to its nest." She walked to the window, looking down at the dark scar of the canal far below. "He has a Resonance Core that is screaming for connection. He cannot keep it silenced forever. He will seek help. He will go to someone who understands the Origin."
She tapped the glass.
"Let him feel safe, Grave-Walker. Let him think he escaped. And when he exposes his allies... we will harvest them all."
The Grave-Walker bowed low, water pooling around its feet. "As you command, Mistress of Stasis."
Location: Sector 9, "The Green Lung"
Current Status: Biological Hazard Zone.
Sector 9 did not smell like coal. It smelled of wet earth, rotting orchids, and copper blood.
This was the domain of the Flesh-Crafters. Here, the smokestacks were wrapped in ivy that pulsed with blue veins. The streetlamps weren't gas; they were bioluminescent glandular sacs hung from iron poles.
Dante stumbled through the misty streets. He was in bad shape. The canal water had seeped into his coat, and the heavy water in his jaw was running low. The Silvergrin felt stiff, the liquid metal moving sluggishly against his bone.
He reached a building that looked less like a house and more like a tumor growing out of the bedrock. The front door was made of calcified rib cages fused together.
Dante didn't knock. He placed his hand on the bone door.
"It's me," he whispered. "Open up, Silas. Before I dissolve your lock."
A slot in the door slid open—not a mechanical slot, but an eyelid. A giant, bloodshot eye stared at him.
"Dante?" A voice crackled from a speaker box embedded in the bone. "You look terrible. You look like a painting left out in the rain."
"Open the door, Silas. I have... samples."
The eye blinked. The rib cages groaned and pulled apart, the bone retracting into the walls with a wet squelch.
Dante stepped inside.
The interior was a chaotic symphony of biology and machinery. Tanks of green fluid lined the walls, containing floating organs—hearts beating without bodies, lungs breathing water. In the center of the room, bent over an operating table, was a man who looked too normal for this nightmare.
Silas Vane.
He wore a crisp white lab coat that was spotlessly clean, contrasting sharply with the gore around him. He had wild, curly hair and thick spectacles that magnified his eyes. He was holding a scalpel in one hand and a half-eaten sandwich in the other.
"Don't touch anything," Silas chirped, not looking up from the dissecting table. "The rug is carnivorous. And the fern in the corner is sensitive to criticism."
Dante leaned against a glass tank, sliding down to sit on the floor. He placed the jar of Void-Tar between his legs.
"I missed you too, Silas."
Silas turned, spinning on his heel. He looked at Dante—really looked at him. He saw the mismatched skin on the shoulder, the prosthetic jaw, the way reality seemed to blur around Dante's edges.
"Fascinating," Silas murmured. He abandoned his experiment (a cat with bat wings) and walked over, crouching in front of Dante.
"The thesis was correct, then?" Silas asked, his voice hushed. "The 'Zero-Point' Experiment? You actually did it."
"I failed it," Dante corrected, his metallic voice grinding. "I didn't find the Origin. I just fell into the hole it left behind."
Silas reached out to touch Dante's face, then pulled back, remembering. "Right. Entropy. If I touch you, I lose a finger."
"I need repairs, Silas. My jaw is seizing up. And I need a place to hide this." Dante tapped the jar.
Silas looked at the jar. "Void-Tar? Crudely applied. What's inside? A soul? A plague?"
"A Resonance Core. Siege Class."
Silas dropped his sandwich.
"You brought a... Dante, are you insane? That's not a sample. That's a nuclear warhead made of ghosts!"
Silas stood up and began pacing, his hands fluttering. "If the Guild finds out I have that here, they'll revoke my license. And by revoke, I mean they'll turn me into a mindless servitor drone!"
"Silas," Dante said sharply. "It's from the Third Era. It has the frequency of the Origin."
Silas stopped pacing. He froze.
The fear vanished from his face, replaced by a hungry, obsessive curiosity. It was the same look he used to get back at the Academy, right before they blew up the chemistry wing.
"The Origin frequency?" Silas whispered. "The True Tone? The sound of creation?"
"It's hungry," Dante warned. "It eats mana. It broadcasts a signal. I need you to build a containment unit. A real one. Not a bucket of tar."
Silas looked at the jar, then back at Dante. A slow grin spread across his face.
"You want me to cage a piece of God," Silas said. "Dante, you magnificent bastard. You always did bring me the best projects."
Silas rushed to a workbench, sweeping a pile of bones onto the floor. He grabbed a blueprint and a piece of charcoal.
"Okay, the price is high. You know the rules. Equivalent Exchange."
"I don't have money, Silas. I spent it all not dying."
"I don't want money," Silas scoffed. "I want data. While I build your box, I want to run tests on you."
He pointed the charcoal at Dante.
"You are a living paradox, Dante. Matter that destroys matter. I want to measure your decay rate. I want to sample your blood—or whatever sludge is in your veins now. I want to know what it felt like."
"What what felt like?" Dante asked, struggling to stand.
"To see It," Silas said, his eyes gleaming behind the thick lenses. "To see the Truth before it broke you."
Dante shuddered. A memory flashed—white light, a sound like screaming metal, and the sensation of his own name being erased from the ledger of history.
"If I tell you," Dante said, his voice low, "you won't sleep for a week."
"I haven't slept since graduation," Silas countered. "Hop up on the table. Move the cat. Let's do some science."
Dante limped over to the metal slab. He pushed the bat-winged cat aside (it hissed at him).
As he lay down, the adrenaline finally left him. The exhaustion crashed in.
"Silas," Dante mumbled as the Flesh-Crafter strapped sensors to his chest. "There's one more thing."
"Hmm?" Silas was calibrating a large, needle-like instrument.
"Lady Vespera knows."
Silas dropped the needle. It clattered on the floor.
"Vespera? The Stasis Witch?" Silas went pale. "Dante, you didn't bring a warhead to my house. You brought the apocalypse."
"She let me go," Dante said, closing his eyes. "She's watching. Waiting."
Silas picked up the needle, his hands trembling slightly. "Then we better work fast. Because if she comes here, she won't just kill us. She'll pause us. Forever."
He leaned over Dante, the needle gleaming under the bioluminescent lights.
"Hold still. This is going to hurt. But since you're already half-dead, I assume you won't mind."
Dante didn't answer. He was listening to the ticking of the clock on the wall.
Tick. Tock.
Every second was a theft. And the owner was coming to collect.