"You two, secure Amara. And the rest of the Shadow Guards who are conscious start bringing in storage crates. Every artefact in this building is coming back with us!" Valeria commanded, pointing toward the museum's upper levels, where the glow was even stronger. "This place is a magnet for Constellation energy; we are not leaving it for the Aristocrats!"
With Amara's body carefully placed on a makeshift stretcher, the scythe still unnervingly attached to her hand, Valeria finally emerged from the museum's eerie depths. The sight outside was instantly perplexing.
The survivors who had fled the initial attack, a huddled, scared group, were gathered a block down the street. More surprising were the scattered, familiar figures of the Hollow Tusk, the mercenary guild that had rudely refused to join the Myth Guild just days ago. The scarred leader, who had bellowed at his men to abandon the fight, now stood shuffling awkwardly near the survivors.
Valeria felt a deep surge of exhaustion and irritation. She was low on energy, hauling a friend who was essentially a corpse attached to a demonic weapon, and now she had to deal with cowards.
She directed the Shadow Guards carrying Amara toward the main street where they could find a transport vehicle. Then, she walked directly toward the Hollow Tusk leader, her figure imposing despite her fatigue.
"Well, well," Valeria said, her voice dry and laced with contempt. "Look who decided not to die after all. You ran like scared children, abandoning citizens and fellow fighters."
The scarred leader, whose name was Jax, avoided her gaze, shuffling his feet. His men looked equally ashamed.
"Look, Myth Commander Vesper," Jax mumbled, his bravado utterly gone. "What we saw… that wasn't a Null. That was something else entirely. We're fighters, not exorcists."
"And now that you've seen what happens when you try to stand alone, what's your plan?" Valeria challenged, crossing her arms. "Go back to scavenging until another ghost monster shows up? You refused Zayden's offer before, claiming self-sufficiency. Well, I just saw your self-sufficiency run down the street screaming."
Jax finally looked up, his face etched with genuine fear and defeat. He glanced at the survivors, then at the eerie stillness of the museum, and finally back at Valeria, whose stern eyes offered no quarter.
He swallowed hard. "Okay. Okay, you were right. That thing... it felt like the end of the world. We can't survive this alone." He gestured loosely to his small, bedraggled group. "The Hollow Tusk... we'll join the Myth Guild. We'll sign the papers, whatever it takes. Just... just keep us alive. And teach us how to fight that."
Valeria stared at him, stunned by the abruptness of the surrender. She had expected another long, tiresome argument, not an immediate, desperate capitulation. It was an astonishing change of heart, a direct result of facing the terrifying, Constellation-level power of the death creature.
She suppressed the triumphant smirk that threatened to surface. The Myth Guild needed numbers, and their reputation, though earned with extreme effort, was finally winning over the local factions.
"Good," Valeria said, her voice remaining level and serious. "You will be escorted back to base. You will report to Commander Tyrel immediately. He will handle your integration. Do you understand the rules?"
"Yes, Commander," Jax replied instantly, nodding vigorously. "Loyalty, service, no solo runs. We understand."
Valeria looked past him, her eyes fixed on the distant part of the city where Darian and Isara had fled, and where the Corpseheart family was clearly operating. She had two commanders and a mysterious golden crystal to get back to base, a massive influx of new, desperate recruits, and a friend who was medically unexplainable.
'Dare better have an answer for all of this,' she thought grimly. 'And I need to tell Tyrel to triple the guard roster. We just bought a target.'
****
Back on the Heritage Planet....
The air in the forge, already thick with heat and power, became instantaneously lethal. The killing intent that slammed into Zayden was not the wild rage of a monster, but the cold, focused fury of a master betrayed. It felt like being submerged in molten iron, suffocating and crushing all at once.
"You!" the old man's voice rasped, deep and resonant, utterly devoid of the rhythm he had displayed moments before. He spun around, the large forging hammer now aimed menacingly at Zayden. His eyes, though obscured by the heat haze, were clearly focused and utterly unforgiving. "Who are you, and why have you invaded my sanctity? Speak, before I turn you into slag!"
Zayden's Seventh-Rank Starborn strength allowed him to resist the immediate urge to collapse, but the pressure was immense, pressing the breath from his lungs. He quickly raised both hands in a non-threatening gesture, his space ring flashing as he drew on the only thing that could halt this execution.
"Wait! Elder! I mean no harm!" Zayden choked out, the words barely audible over the roaring furnace. "I am Zayden, here to meet Cole. I was merely passing by, and the sight... the forging... it drew me in."
The old man scoffed, his gaze hardening. "Drawn in? You steal the secrets of my craft and call it being drawn in? That is a crime punishable by eternal confinement in the deepest mines!"
Ziden knew no explanation would work. He had gained the Master Forger title without effort, witnessing the secret culmination of the man's work. Only a show of genuine, earned talent might save him.
"I can prove my sincerity!" Zayden gasped, forcing himself to take another step closer, resisting the paralysing fear. "My proficiency... it increased just now. I can demonstrate that I understand the basics of what you are doing!"
He quickly pulled a small, unworked piece of metal and a minor power crystal from his space ring. Ignoring the scalding heat, Zayden held the metal and power crystal together, closed his eyes, and channelled his Constellation energy. He didn't have the quilted tool, but he knew.
With newfound, instinctive precision, Zayden began tracing a complex series of lines onto the metal's surface using a focused beam of his own energy. He wasn't just drawing lines; he was fusing the crystal's power into the metal, etching a rudimentary Healing Stigma, a basic one, but perfectly formed and entirely functional.
The old man watched, his hammer slowly lowering as the killing intent receded. His eyes, initially filled with homicidal fury, now narrowed with intense professional scrutiny.
Zayden finished the stigma, and the metal piece pulsed with a faint green light. He held it out.
"A basic Grade-C Healing Stigma. Perfectly formed," Zayden said, trying to steady his voice. "I am not a spy. I am... a novice who just received a sudden epiphany. I seek only knowledge."
The old man approached, snatching the metal piece. He examined the stigma for a long moment, then looked at Zayden, a deep, rumbling laugh shaking his massive chest.
"An epiphany? Hah! You have the touch, boy! And the audacity to trace an Ironheart stigma with nothing but your bare hands! My name is Varkos Ironheart, and you, Zayden, are a thief and a genius," Varkos declared, slamming the hammer onto the anvil with a deafening CLANG that signified not war, but acceptance.
The intense focus of Varkos Ironheart's forge lesson was unable to begin as their focus was abruptly shattered by a violent, resonating thump that shook the entire estate. It was not the rhythmic impact of a hammer, but the heavy, deliberate slam of the colossal silver-veined gates closing again, followed moments later by the sound of furious voices echoing down the meticulously ordered street.
Varkos instantly ceased his instruction, his expression snapping from focused intensity to profound irritation. He released the star-iron he was working on, and the heat in the room dropped noticeably.
"Intruders," Varkos grumbled, a low, dangerous sound in his chest. "No one enters the Ironheart estate with such disrespect unless they seek a fight."
Zayden, still reeling from the mental exercise of tracing the Kinetic Acceleration Glyph, felt his heart plummet. This timing was too precise to be a coincidence, but he hadn't yet connected it to his past actions. He frowned, retrieving his sword and adjusting the strap of his weapon.
"Elder Varkos," Zayden began hesitantly, "I... I think this might be some sort of Aristocrat issue. Perhaps a border dispute?"
Varkos gave him a dismissive look. "Aristocrat issues are handled by my brother, the family Lord. They do not dare breach the main gate while I am busy." He pointed at Zayden's forearm where the faint Golden Crow mark lay beneath the surface. "Unless they're after the secret of that nasty little stigma you've got branding your skin. But even that wouldn't warrant this much noise."
"I hope not," Zayden murmured, uneasy. "I really don't want to fight anyone from a rival family."
"You won't have to," Varkos scoffed, wiping his hands on a nearby cloth. "You're under my roof, and more importantly, you're mine now. Come. Let's send these disruptive fools back to their dusty estates."
Varkos led Zayden out of the workshop, his massive, muscled body moving with surprising speed. They walked quickly through the identical grey towers and back toward the towering main gates.