He saw only a streak of black, then the air detonated around him, as if the shadow itself had screamed.
Everything froze.
Dust hung motionless in the air.
The trembling Threads around him fell still.
Even his breath locked in his lungs.
Then the silence shattered.
The Rust Shadow crashed into him—a blur of smoky rage moving too fast to follow. No shape, no form, only twin crimson eyes swirling in the dark.
Sylvan snatched his sword, hurling himself backward on instinct alone. The first strike missed by a hair, but its edge grazed his shoulder, carving a searing line of pain up his arm. Not deep—but wrong.
Blood welled bright red… then turned.
Flecked with black.
As if rust itself had seeped into his veins.
He clenched his teeth, stumbling back, weaving Memory Threads around him with his good hand. The Threads pulsed wildly—sensing, reacting—forming faint, trembling lines before him like spider silk shimmering against the dark.
Then—space bent.
The air twisted. Pressure shifted. A cold presence coiled around his neck.
And those eyes—blazing crimson, inches away, sliding through the gloom like smoke given purpose.
Sylvan raised his sword—too slow.
A breath away. Crawling like dark smoke between walls, eyes burning with malevolent light.
Sylvan raised his sword—too slow.
An arrow tore through the darkness.
It missed the creature by inches, striking stone behind it with a flash of sparks.
Sylvan's head snapped toward the source.
Elwyn.
Standing in shadow, bow quivering in her hands.
Face pale as ash—but her eyes… alive. Defiant.
She had missed—but the miss bought him a heartbeat.
Sylvan lunged forward, voice cutting through the chaos: "Elwyn! Shoot again—don't stop!"
She hesitated, torn between him and the crawling horror. Then loosed a short, sharp breath, drawing the string again. Another arrow flew—steadier, if only marginally. It sliced past Sylvan as he ran, striking near the beast and erupting in a fleeting silver flash.
The shadow stalled for a heartbeat—then surged, moving faster than thought. Claws ripped the earth. The ground buckled. Stone exploded beneath it. Sylvan dodged sideways, but the shockwave hit him like a gale, flinging him like a wooden doll into a fractured wall. crashed into rubble, landing amidst shattered debris.
He coughed—dust and blood spilling from his lips.
His chest burned, ribs screaming with each breath.
Pushed himself up, through blurred vision, he saw the creature still advancing—relentless, patient, utterly certain.
He tried to rise. Pain anchored him. His leg wouldn't respond. His arm throbbed with fire. As despair threatened to swallow him, something shifted. Threads the Memory around him vibrated—jerking erratically, coiling through air as if responding to something unseen. A sign of a memory was awakening. His eyes widened as he whispered hoarsely: "No... not now..."
Too late. The memory detonated around him—not as threads, but as cascading visions slamming into him like lightning strikes: soldiers collapsing, pools of blood spreading like dark mirrors, reflecting twisted faces frozen in silent screams. A sky burning red as hellfire. Walls consumed by black flame, as if the night itself burned.
And amidst it all—three figures stood locked in confrontation within the ruin. Their faces shrouded in mist that refused to yield their secrets. Yet their auras alone made his bones ache. Power unlike anything Sylvan had ever felt—power that bent the air, silencing even echoes.
Something inside him fractured. His heart recoiled. The air thickened; a low hum pulsed in his ears like the heartbeat of the world. He couldn't stop the memory. Couldn't breathe.
Then—stillness.
The beast, mid-lunge, froze. Motionless. The crimson blaze in its eyes flickered, dimming—as if it, too, had witnessed what Sylvan saw.
For long seconds, only the drip of blood from his wound disturbed the silence.
Suddenly—
SHIIIING!
A blade of pale blue light impaled the beast from behind, cleaving it clean in two.
The sword withdrew, leaving a trail of cold air. The Rust Shadow collapsed—dissolving like smoke.
Sylvan, caught between reality and memory, remained seated, breath ragged. He stared at the point where the sword had struck. Out of the haze emerged a girl in a silver breastplate, dark hair bound tight, eyes like frozen glass—cold, precise, and terrifyingly calm.
Only Lira. Her short blade thrummed faintly with blue light.
She paused for a heartbeat, then moved to cut down another Rust Shadow, never glancing back.
Sylvan kept staring at the space where the creature had died. His chest rose and fell in shallow bursts; the world itself seemed stunned, unwilling to resume.
He watched Lira walk away—measured steps, unhurried. Her blade's glow trailed briefly through the gloom before fading into the rubble.
He followed her with hollow eyes.
Why did a wave of exhaustion crash over him? Was it the wound the memory had torn open inside his mind—or the shame of watching her finish what he could not, with such effortless grace?
A strangled sound escaped him. He pressed a hand to his shoulder; pain flared sharp and wild, as if awakened anew.
"Aghh…" He groaned, struggling to rise, but his body refused.
"Sylvan!"
He looked up. Elwyn was running toward him, face pale, tears trembling on her lashes, barely held back.
She fell to her knees beside him, voice shaking. "Are you alright?! Your wound—it's bleeding!"
Sylvan gave a faint, self-deprecating smile, his voice rough.
"If I were alright, I wouldn't be on the ground... but don't worry. The rust didn't get in."
Her gaze lingered, worried, but she quickly composed herself. Reaching into a small pouch at her waist, she produced a slim silver tube. When she uncorked it, a sharp herbal scent filled the air.
"Stay still..." she murmured, leaning close.
Her fingers dipped into the salve, gently spreading it across his shoulder. A faint warmth flared, then a sharp sting—followed by soothing numbness.
Watching her work, Sylvan muttered, "Vitalis Circle healing ointment. Didn't think you'd have that... Were you prepared?"
Without looking up, she replied, "Not exactly. I bought it with the five gold coins Varik gave us before the mission. Figured it's better to be ready."
He let out a soft chuckle that turned into a wince. "A wise choice..."
For a moment, she glanced up—enough for a small smile to break through the exhaustion.
"Doesn't seem like you brought any yourself. What'd you do with your five gold?"
He didn't answer. Just stared into the distance.
The clearing had gone eerily quiet.
Dust and rubble blanketed the ground, scars of the battle etched deep into stone. The Rust Shadows had been either slain or scattered—some reduced to black lumps, others leaving behind what they'd devoured. Corpses of mercenaries lay strewn across the field, blood pooling thick and dark, already turning foul with unnatural speed.
The air hung heavy with iron, rust, and decay—breath grew heavy.
Through it all, Varik's squad moved with mechanical precision—each member acting in perfect rhythm, no words exchanged.
Marissa scanned the perimeter, eyes half-lidded, hunting lingering traces of shadow.
Ryn gathered his metal discs, instruments for sensing corruption, wiping them clean of gore.
Orin lowered his bow, satisfied his final arrow had found its mark.
And Lira... she moved like a blade herself, her blue sword cutting through the remaining wraiths as light cleaves through fog.
Sylvan watched with weary awe. He had seen countless adventurers in the Grey Strip—but none like them. These weren't adventurers. They were a unit. One mind, many bodies.
He murmured, almost to himself, "Varik's squad... they are extraordinary."
Then quieter still, "They could enter the Forgotten Valleys... and survive."
A thunderous impact broke the stillness. Sylvan turned just in time to see Darius crush the last Rust Shadow with a single, bare-fisted blow. The earth trembled. The creature exploded into black ash as a pulse of compressed darkness tore through the air, snuffing out both light and life-force alike. A dull glow still flickered in the cannon embedded in his palm.
Darius stood there, chest heaving like a forge, scanning the ruins until he was sure nothing remained. Then, slowly, he turned toward Varik.
Varik hadn't moved. Not once.
He had stood watching the entire time, hands clasped behind his back, eyes calm, expression unreadable. The battle seemed, to him, little more than a demonstration.
Sylvan felt something coil in his chest—part awe, part fear.
This man... was something else entirely.
Why didn't he fight?
Was it too easy for him? Or did he simply not need to?
But before the thought could root itself, Sylvan's eyes dropped to the faintly glowing threads still dancing around him.
Unfinished.
As if what he'd seen—what the memory had shown him—wasn't the end.
But the beginning of something far larger.
And far darker.