Rust Shadows surged—like living darkness given form.They moved with a haunting grace, slipping from broken walls, seeping out of corners, flowing like spilled ink in the dim.
Faint crimson eyes flickered within the murk—unblinking, patient, cruel.
Their forms merged so perfectly with the gloom that one might not see them until it was far too late… until they were already there.
Then came the scream.
A single, raw note of terror that split the silence like shattering glass.
One of the scouts.
Another scream followed—shorter this time.
Then… silence.
A silence thick enough to choke on.
Panic spread like wildfire.
Some ran. Some froze. Some clutched their weapons so tightly their knuckles turned white.
And through the chaos— a voice cut clean across it.
"Now!"
Varik's voice.
Calm. Unshaken. Command incarnate.
Instantly, his squad moved.
They scattered in practiced precision—some darting right, others left, a few surging forward. Their movements weren't random; they were fluid, measured, drilled.
At that moment, Sylvan saw it all.
He stood near the hall's center—removed from the frenzy yet close enough to feel it, the weight of death pressing in.
He saw mercenaries screaming, shadows striking, Varik's team fracturing the chaos with surgical control.
Then, he raised his right hand. Just slightly.
From the void… a sword appeared.
Not radiant. Not refined.
No golden aura, no blade that sang.
It was dull steel. Worn. Ordinary. A sword that looked more like it remembered battle than sought it.
And on his right index finger— a ring.
Simple. Ash-gray. Plain in every way.
But far from ordinary.
It was a Storage Ring.
A minor magical tool, used to store small essentials: weapons, rations, gems, gold, trinkets.
Within it lay a pocket dimension, a silent space where one could summon what was stored with a thought.
Its value depended on color, each hue marking its tier, its strength, its capacity. Sylvan's was ash-gray — a standard grade.
It could barely hold five kilograms. Enough for a dagger, some dried food, perhaps a waterskin. Nothing grand… but enough to survive.
Elowen edged closer — slow, hesitant, almost instinctive — like a drowning soul reaching for driftwood.
No words escaped her lips, yet her eyes spoke everything: fear, confusion, a desperate need for something—anything—to hold on to.
She stopped beside him without invitation, drawn not by courage, but by his stillness, as if his presence could shield her from the catastrophe closing in.
Sylvan turned his gaze toward her. His eyes flicked to the bow on her back. There was no time for gentleness. No time for composure.
"Grab your bow," he said — his tone steady, low, but cutting through the noise like a blade. "Now."
His words reached her… but her body refused to obey.
She stood frozen, trembling, eyes locked on the creeping shadows at the hall's edges. It was clear she had never faced real combat. Her mind lagged behind the terror, trying to make sense of a nightmare that refused to wait.
Then Sylvan's voice rose again — sharper, colder — a voice that struck like a slap across a dream:
"If you truly want to die," he said, "then stand there. No one will stop you. But don't fool yourself into thinking someone else will save you. Not even me… especially me."
Elowen stared at him. His words struck somewhere deep—unexplored territory. Not anger. Not shame. Something else. Like a crushing weight lifting from her nerves. His harshness was a slap, jolting her from the fog of terror.
She looked at him—eyes still terrified, now holding a flicker of awareness. Awareness that standing idle wasn't an option… that relying on others was fatal if you couldn't defend yourself.
Slowly… she raised her hand. Not suddenly. Not confident. Just—a step. Toward the bow on her back. Her fingers brushed the leather strap, then drew the weapon, slow and hesitant. Trembling—but unyielding. She didn't look at the beasts. Just gripped the bow, clutching it like a lifeline.
The ground trembled with the Shadows' shrieks.
Darkness pulsed—a single, living entity, swallowing light, consuming sound, claiming the hall.
Sylvan didn't attack.
Didn't even think of it.
He retreated first—slow, then faster—dodging gulfs of shadow, tracing the crumbling stone wall to his right.
A mercenary charged ahead, shouting something guttural—then vanished backward into the dark. Bone cracked. Silence followed.
Sylvan dropped to one knee, slid behind a leaning pillar. Rust Shadows moved too fast… faster than thought. All he caught were smears of black at the edge of vision, faint whispers trailing death.
He lifted his head, eyes locking on Elowen—fumbling to notch an arrow, hands trembling, bowstring quivering.
"Focus," he barked—sharp, deliberate. "Only shoot when you see the red eye. Rust Shadows only take damage when half-revealed."
She nodded—barely audible, voice strangled by fear.
Then one emerged before her—half-formed, half-dripping black ichor like burning oil.
She loosed an arrow—missed.
In the next heartbeat, the Shadow lunged.
Sylvan surged forward—grabbing Elowen and dragging her down just as the creature's arm tore through the space where she'd stood.
Cold air grazed his cheek. The iron tang of blood flooded his lungs. He raised his right hand, light flickering from his fingertips, thin and wavering, barely visible.
His sub-ability: Threads of Memory, from the Thread Path.
Threads unseen, uncut, unbound… however, they touched, sensed, guided.
A marginal gift—useless in direct combat—but one that seeped into his mind like whispers from forgotten worlds.
Thin strands brushed his awareness unbidden, linking him to scattered emotions and memories in this realm—glimpses of alien pasts, fading scenes from beings long gone, or spirits haunting earth for centuries.
A rock tumbling from a mountain. Maybe a dying flame in an empty room.
But he couldn't choose what he saw, or whom. And needed proximity—sometimes touch—to activate it.
Even forcing it to see a specific memory revealed only grey fog swallowing recollections whole.
Non-living things? Only those touched deeply by time, or holding echoes of ancient existence.
Threads of Memory were frail. No strength, no defense… but they murmured truths no one else could hear.
Tried weaponizing them mid-battle before. Failed—every time.
Every attempt crumbled.
Still, with painful effort, he expanded the Threads—two meters wide. Enough to feel movement, to sense presence slithering through darkness.
Just to sense nearby memories… like primal alarms warning of movement, approaching danger, or strange presences slithering from shadows.
But even that was futile in battle.
What use was knowing something approached if you couldn't tell from where?
His ability gifted only fragments—murky flashes of a nearby being's past. No direction. No clarity.
Ignoring those flashes took focus. Focus took time. And time—one heartbeat—meant the line between life and death.
Worse, in chaos, the threads tangled. Shadows blurred, memories overlapped, his mind drowned in noise.
Simply put… Threads of Memory weren't made for war.
He let them drift, weaving through the dark, reaching outward. Then, he felt it. A ripple of savage memory. Blood. Fury. Hunger.
Something was coming.
He shouted before thought could catch up— "Shoot again!"
Elowen loosed a second arrow—wild, blind, fired into the dark before her.
By chance… it struck true.
The Rust Shadow convulsed and shrieked—like air catching fire.
Then it vanished.
Not dead. Retreating.
Both gasped for breath. Sylvan steadied himself, eyes darting ahead—where Varik's squad clashed amid chaos.
They moved with cold, military precision.
Lira and Darius led the vanguard, blades flashing in rhythmic tandem.
Further back, Ryn hurled spinning metal discs—each one humming as it struck, vibrations lighting up hidden forms crawling in the dark.
And Marisa… stood beside Orin.
Orin's bow glowed faintly gold—light pulsing softly from within, as if the weapon breathed.
Beside Elowen's crude wooden bow, it looked like a relic of gods—a diamond edge beside splintered wood.
However, Orin didn't aim. His eyes were half-closed, one hand pressed to the stone floor, listening to the unseen.
Then—he pointed toward a heap of rubble. His voice, low and calm:
"Marisa… activate your sub-ability there."
Marisa stared at the spot. Shadows crawled slowly through cracks.
She closed her eyes briefly, then opened them again—no light, no glow, only stillness bleeding into the air.
Moments later, the Shadows faltered.
As if forgetting purpose. Losing direction. Their movements stuttered. Their forms flickered. The faint red glow in their eyes dimmed to nothing.
Consciousness Shift. From the Unbalance Path.
This was Marisa's sub-ability: Consciousness Shift. No damage. No noise. Just a subtle ripple of confusion—a discordant vibration in the enemy's perception. Enough to destabilize a beast with no real mind, blurring shadow from motion, attack from void.
Orin's eyes snapped open.
Without a word. He drew the bow. No hesitation, no breath—three arrows flew like a single thread of light slicing the dark, slicing the air with deadly silence, then exploding mutedly as they pierced the dark forms.
They struck. No sound. No cry. Only fading sparks as Rust Shadows collapsed into ash.
His shots were precise—but only because Marisa's shift shattered their focus.
Every step calculated.
Every word deliberate.
And Varik himself… stood apart.
Hands clasped behind his back, eyes tracking his team without interfering. Watching. Measuring. Waiting.
Sylvan felt the contrast like a blade to the chest—the storm of chaos around them, and Varik's stillness at its center.
Shadows thickened. Steel clashed. Screams ricocheted between the broken pillars, echoing down ancient corridors like ghosts reliving their own deaths.
There was no clear path. No straight line. The darkness moved with intent—breathing, shifting, changing form each time he blinked.
Then realization struck him with brutal clarity: fighting here was pointless.
He turned to Elowen.
She was shaking—arrow trembling between her fingers, lips pressed white.
"Listen closely…" His voice was steady now, quiet but cutting through the noise. "If we stay, we'll be swallowed like them. Follow me—now."
She didn't ask where. His tone didn't leave space for doubt.
He caught her wrist, pulling her toward the hall's far left, where fallen pillars and fractured stone made a narrow passage between rubble and wall.
In that moment, he sought not light—but the deepest shadow.
As they moved, Sylvan stretched out his right hand, pulling a faint filament of light from the air—so thin it looked imagined.
He fed it into the cracks of the wall, letting it spread like a spider's web—his Threads of Memory.
Not to see the past this time, but to listen—to feel for echoes of death, traces of life, stains of violence clinging to stone.
The Threads shivered, rippling through space… then stilled—one direction pulsing faintly, untouched by recent blood.
"This way," he murmured.
He guided Elowen through the narrow gap, sword ready, every sense straining.
He wasn't running from battle.
He simply knew when a fight could only be won by fools… or by luck.
Sylvan paused to breathe.
Elowen leaned against the cold stone behind him, eyes wide—fear and confusion warring across her face.
Then, suddenly, Sylvan stopped.
No sound.
No movement.
Just silence—heavy, crushing—like the air itself had turned solid inside his lungs.
The Memory Threads slipped from his fingertips on their own, thin streams of light unraveling into the dark. They touched something unseen… something cold. Wet. Alive.
And then—memory hit him.
Not gently, but like a flood bursting through a broken dam.
Flashes. Smeared color.
A child's scream swallowed by water. Eyes staring upward through murk. Rust. Blood. Bodies drifting—weightless, boneless, forgotten.
The stench of iron invaded his skull until breathing hurt.
He gagged, spinning instinctively—his blade cutting through emptiness, through ghosts.
Then—impact.
A jarring shock raced up his arm, bone-deep, rattling teeth. It was like striking the surface of a dream made of iron. The recoil hurled him backward—stone tearing across his coat—until his back smashed against a boulder.
His sword slipped from his grasp, clattering on rock.
Fingers numb. Shoulder screaming.
He raised his head slowly—vision blurring.
The air in front of him twisted.
A Rust Shadow emerged—not from the floor, but as if the floor itself birthed it, dragging its formless limbs from the stone. Its eyes gleamed red, close enough that he could feel its breathless void pressing against him.
Then… before he could move, he heard it—not from outside, but within. Threads of Memory… stirring on their own.
He didn't understand why, but the Threads that had never helped him began vibrating fiercely—as if warning, responding, or connecting to something deeper.
He reached a trembling hand for his sword… but before fingers closed, the Shadow before him erupted—a flash of living darkness.