Three Hours Earlier
Night lies heavy over the village. No fire yet. No screams yet. No wind stirs the trees. The Dark King stands before the old Alchemist's door—a black silhouette against the pallid moon. He raises his hand. Knocks. Softly. Almost tenderly against the half-demolished door, which is almost about to collapse.
"Who comes to me at such a late hour?"
The voice behind the door sounds tired, yet watchful. The Dark King smiles. Then he speaks—and his voice is that of a boy, warm and familiar, the voice of Grem:
"One who seeks help, my lord."
Hasty footsteps. The rattle of a bolt. The door swings open, and the old Alchemist freezes. The color drains from his face. His knuckles turn white where they grip the doorframe.
"Who... who are you?" His breath comes in jagged gasps. "Are you the Devil? Has my final hour come?"
The Dark King steps inside. Slowly. With the confidence of a wolf entering its enclosure. The Alchemist retreats—step by step—the floor creaks as if something heavy had been standing there before—until his back strikes the iron hearth in the kitchen. The heat burns through his coat, yet he barely notices.
Then something strange happens. The old man breathes in deeply. Once. Twice. His shoulders sink. As if flipping an internal switch, the panic leaves his face. He walks to his chair and sits down. Perfectly normal. As if he has merely welcomed a neighbor for tea.
The Dark King raises a brow, or something resembling one. "Impressive. How quickly you've grown calm again, old man."
"I have heart problems." The Alchemist shrugs. "Which is why I learned to control my Qi."
"Remarkable! I have heard of the Baitenger's Qi-flow control."
"Only the Baitenger can control the flow of Qi."
"Truly?" The Dark King leans against the doorframe. "Tell me more."
The Alchemist studies him. Doubt flickers in his eyes, but then he speaks: "It is more a flowing with the Qi than a controlling of it."
"But did you not just say—"
"I know what I said." The Alchemist interrupts him—not rudely, but firmly. "Words make it difficult to grasp. One must feel it to understand." He pauses, searching for the right words. "Qi flows everywhere. In people. In trees. Even in swords. Usually evenly. But when we are agitated..." He clenches his hands into fists, then opens them again. "...then it flows hectically. Irregularly. And if we now let the Qi flow back to its original state..." He lets his hands sink, relaxes his fingers. "...then we do not control it. We do not command it. We flow with it. We become one with it. Merge with it."
His eyes gleam now—the shine of a man speaking of his craft, even in the face of death.
"That is what makes our Qi-smiths so special. They channel their Qi, connect it with the sword's Qi during the forging. And the Qi-warrior..." He smiles weakly. "...he guides his sword to perfection with his Qi."
The Dark King claps his hands softly. Not mockingly—sincerely. "Very interesting! How many wonderful things exist in this beautiful world!"
The smile freezes on his lips. He straightens, and suddenly he fills the entire doorframe. The air in the room seems to grow thinner.
"But what actually brings you to me?" The Alchemist senses the shift. His hand twitches almost imperceptibly toward the table's edge. "Surely you did not come for a lesson on Qi-flow. And what shall I call you, young man?"
"Elandor." The Dark King's voice has changed. Deeper. Older. Stranger. "That was my name. When I was still human."
A shiver runs down the Alchemist's spine. "And no, you are right," the Dark King—Elandor—takes a step toward him. "I did not come for your lesson.""You call them Homunculi. What do you know of them?"
The Alchemist's pallor becomes even more pronounced. "How... how do you know of my research?"
"I have good news." Elandor smiles. Too many teeth. "And bad."
He leans forward until his face is only a hand's breadth from the old man's. His eyes—once brown, now black as oil—bore into the Alchemist's.
"The bad first: you will not live to see today's sunrise."
Silence. A log splits in the embers.
"The good?" Elandor's voice grows almost tender. "A part of you will live on forever in me."
The Alchemist swallows. Once. "I understand." His voice does not tremble. "And why tell me all this?"
"Respect." Elandor stretches out his hand—the fingers are too long, the joints crack when he moves them. "Only genius recognizes genius. You are the card that could decide everything. My trump." His fingers twitch with longing. "Do you know how long I have searched for you?"
"If I am so important..." The Alchemist leaves the sentence unfinished. His right hand glides beneath the table. Searches. Finds.
A click.
He draws forth a dagger—slender, curved, with the typical Baitenger ornaments. The metal flashes in the firelight.
Elandor bursts into laughter. "Haha! You amaze me again and again, old man!"
The Alchemist springs up. The dagger trembles in his hand—not from fear, from tension.
"You believe you can stop me with a dagger?" Elandor shakes his head, still laughing. "But I must admit—very brave. My respect."
He means to plunge the blade into his own throat.
But the Dark King moves his claws with considerable speed between the old Alchemist's throat and the dagger's edge.
"And you have surprised me again." Elandor's voice grows quieter. Appreciative. "You are ready to end your life with your own hands. My deepest respect. It will truly be an honor to incorporate you. Your body. Your mind. My new flesh-vestment."
He lunges. Too fast for human eyes. His claws—for that is what they are now, no longer fingers—snap around the Alchemist's throat. The blade scratches across skin, misses the artery by millimeters.
"Wait!" the Alchemist gasps. "I only wish to speak one last prayer!"
"No prayers!" Elandor's face contorts. Rage. Hunger. Longing. "They are never heard anyway!"
The claws close tighter. The dagger falls clattering to the floor.
And then—screams.
They tear through the night's silence like a rusty saw through wood. They last long. Too long.
Then the door opens.
The old Alchemist steps out. He beams. Grins. Laughs—a laugh that is too broad, shows too many teeth, runs too straight. He must concentrate to steer the musculature correctly. This face has never smiled so. Yi's face.
"Your will shall pass," he whispers into the night. His voice sounds wrong—two voices overlapping, one young and one old. "Your body—and everything it has learned—shall belong to me."
He strokes his beard. Over his cheeks, which are older now. The Qi-flow control. With that he can slow the loss of his humanity. Restore his old power.
"The knowledge of the Homunculi." He gazes at the sky, where the stars pale. "My beloved Lysandra. Wait for me. Do not go into the light."
One last time he smiles—this time perfect. Natural. Deadly.
"My plan is within reach."
Meanwhile, in the Outpost Fortress
Liyen sits on the cold stone floor of her cell. The fetters bite into her wrists, but she barely feels them. Outside, someone roars. Then a scream. Then silence—the worst silence of all.
She does not know what to do.
The village burns. Flames lick into the night sky, dyeing the clouds orange and black. Through the barred window she sees shadows running—too many shadows, too fast, too hungry.
The Noctusborn offspring fear no more. Have no inhibitions. They outnumber the villagers, and they know it.
Liyen presses her forehead against the cold iron bars. Somewhere out there is the Dark King. And now that chaos has broken loose, no one will come to save her.