Sunny shrugged, giving her a wry smile. "Could be just a coincidence. I mean, the cross is just a horizontal line drawn over a vertical one. Not like it's difficult to come up with independently. Maybe crucifixion was also used as a form of execution here. Or maybe it represents… authority. Or divinity. Who knows?"
Cassie frowned, unsure, but realized there was no way to deduce its meaning here. She let the thought drop, and after a pause, asked another question. "So… that's it? That's everything in this… place? We just leave now?"
"Yeah," Nephis said with a long sigh, finally stepping away from the wall and grabbing the golden rope tied around Cassie's waist. She led the blind girl back toward the tunnel that had brought them down. "Let's get back to the surface. There's nothing else to see here, at least not that we can safely explore."
Sunny followed, his boots crunching softly over the scattered bones, his shadow flicking in the dim light. He stole one last look over his shoulder at the murals. Despite the overwhelming amount of information they conveyed, the meaning was hazy, fragmented—some truths, some speculation, some perhaps outright lies or exaggerations. Still, the images had a weight to them, a message conveyed in color, shape, and form. Ominous, grand, and relentless in its silent warning.
As he closed the distance to Nephis and Cassie, he felt a shiver run down his spine. 'And this is only our first bloody day,' he thought grimly. 'What else does this City have in store.?'
Even as they climbed back toward the surface, each step stirring dust and fragments of bone, Sunny's mind lingered on the figures in the murals: the golden cross, the central trio, the strange combinations of bodies and powers.
Cassie's soft voice broke his thoughts. "Do you think… anyone's still alive here?"
Sunny hesitated, glancing at Nephis for guidance. Changing Star's expression remained unreadable, though her grip on the golden rope tightened slightly. "Maybe," he said finally, voice low, "after all, Soul Shards don't fall from the sky, and someone had to draw that other doodle. It was way fresher than the murals too. Still...whether they exist is lss important than whether or not they are friendly."
Cassie shivered, instinctively pulling closer to the rope that tethered her to Nephis. Sunny kept one hand near the hilt of the Midnight Shard, re-summoned when they reached the surface. His shadow was absent, scouting the path ahead to alert them of any obstacles.
"I hope there are people," Nephis said suddenly. "Claiming a Citadel with just three three of us will be extremely difficult."
"What, impossible even for the amazing Changing Star?" Sunny teased. ephis looked at him, her grey eyes still as the sky. "Impossible? No Sunny, not impossible."
"After all, it's only a Citadel."
________________________
Seishan looked at the young man in front of her and, for the third time today, felt the urge to sigh.
In the back of her mind, she recalled an old saying that claimed women who sighed too often would earn wrinkles before their time. She had always found that proverb laughable. Her mother had been plagued by Anvil's shadow for years—decades, even—and yet a single line had not dared etch itself upon Lady Song's face. If stress truly aged a woman, her mother should have long since turned to dust. The saying, like many others, was nonsense.
Still, habit and discipline prevailed. Seishan maintained strict control over her expression, smoothing her features into an icy calm. One never knew which superstitions hid uncomfortable truths.
Before her knelt a young man.
He was handsome in a clean, orthodox way—brown hair neatly bound, a gentle face sculpted by careful breeding rather than hardship. His green eyes held a trace of friendly humor, the sort cultivated in courtly halls, though it had been thoroughly suppressed under the present circumstances. His posture was impeccable, back straight even in submission, knees set with the precision of someone drilled mercilessly in etiquette and combat alike.
Everything about him spoke of nobility and strength. Not raw, brutal power—but the refined, measured force of a Legacy raised for war.
He wore tight-fitting leather armor reinforced with metal plating along the arms, chest, and legs, each piece polished to near ceremonial brilliance. Strapped across his back was a jian of unmistakable craftsmanship. Its emerald blade caught the light and seemed to glow faintly, as though breathing. A powerful Memory, no doubt. An expensive one, too.
Sensing her gaze lingering, the young man glanced up briefly before lowering his head once more, resuming his kneeling posture.
"Lady Seishan," he said, voice respectful, controlled. "I understand the presumptuousness of my request. Still, I ask that you consider it carefully. For the betterment of every Legacy, Changing Star and the Immortal Flame Clan must be wiped out. This is the will of the Sovereigns—something you, of all people, should be aware of."
The audacity of it was almost impressive.
Seishan's lips curved—not into a smile, but into something colder.
"But is your being here," she asked quietly, "the will of my mother?"
The temperature of the room seemed to drop.
Seishan spoke without raising her voice, yet her words carried the chill of deep waters. Her eyes, moments ago merely calm, turned utterly lightless—predatory, patient, merciless. Like a shark that had scented blood but had not yet chosen to strike.
Caster stiffened. His muscles tensed reflexively, and he lowered himself further, palms pressed flat against the cold floor.
"…Lady Song did not personally assign me this mission," he admitted after a brief pause. Then, as if bracing himself, his tone strengthened. "However, Lord Anvil did not deceive my Han Li Clan. Your mother stands to benefit greatly from the success of this endeavor—"
"You dare," Seishan interrupted, her voice dropping several degrees, "presume to know what my mother will benefit from?"
The pressure descended instantly.
It was not an Aspect. Not an ability. There was no mystic aura, no visible distortion of reality. It was something far worse—pure intent, honed and sharpened by ten relentless years in the Dream Realm. Murderous will, accumulated through survival, betrayal, and blood.
The air felt heavier. Breathing became difficult.
Caster's heart slammed violently against his ribs. Sweat beaded along his temples and trickled down his jaw, soaking into the collar of his armor. His instincts screamed at him to flee, to prostrate himself further, to do anything to escape the invisible blade poised at his throat.
He barely endured it.
"Tell me," Seishan continued calmly, taking a slow step closer, her footsteps echoing far too loudly in Caster's ears. "Do you believe you know my mother's plans? Her thoughts? Her motivations? Her schemes?"
She stopped directly in front of him.
"No," she said flatly. "You know nothing, Caster Han Li. Nothing at all."
Her gaze bored into him, stripping away every layer of inherited confidence, every illusion of importance his clan had wrapped him in since birth.
"And should you ever pretend otherwise in my presence again," she said softly, "I will personally throw you into the Dark Sea."
A pause.
"Do I make myself clear?"
Caster's lips parted, but no sound came out at first. His throat was dry, his hands trembling despite his best efforts to still them.
"Yes, Lady Seishan," he finally managed, voice hoarse.
A harsh snort broke the tension.
"Do not call me by my first name, whelp," Seishan said coldly. "If you must address me, call me Lady Song."
Caster bowed his head until it nearly touched the floor.
"Yes," he said immediately. "Lady Song."
Seishan turned away without another glance, the emerald glow of his blade reflecting briefly in her dark eyes before vanishing behind her lashes.
This audience was over.
Caster watched her leave without a word, his eyes remaining downcast, his body utterly still.
Even after Seishan's footsteps faded and her presence withdrew completely, he did not move. He remained kneeling, spine straight, hands resting exactly where they had been, breath measured and shallow. Five full minutes passed in silence. Only then did his fingers twitch. Slowly, deliberately, he straightened his back and lifted his head.
When he finally looked up, whatever warmth or uncertainty had once lingered in his expression had been hammered flat. His face was rigid, hardened into stone.
Caster had considered himself lucky.
He had entered the Dream Realm naked, as most did, and had dropped straight into a jungle of bleached white bones—jagged ridges formed from colossal remains, some ancient and some disturbingly fresh. Yet fortune, fickle as it was, had granted him several Memories from the outset. His current armor had been one of them. That alone had likely saved his life.
It had taken him two days.
Two days of fighting, running, hiding, and bleeding to escape the bone ridge. Nightmares had prowled between the skeletal arches, and more than once he had felt unseen eyes tracking him through the fog. By the time he reached the Dark City, exhaustion had settled deep into his bones.
There, he had been found by four other Sleepers.
They called themselves Hunters.
They recognized him as new immediately. Before he could speak, they had surrounded him, blades drawn—not aggressively, but not passively either. Their expressions were neutral, flat, practiced. He had answered their questions under the edge of steel, each response measured, each omission carefully chosen.
The interrogation had been brief.
And humiliating.
He had endured it in silence, carving every slight into memory and vowing repayment at a later date. Afterward, they had escorted him through the city to their base of operations: the Bright Castle.
At first, the sight of it had filled him with exhilaration. Pale stone walls rose proudly against the darkened sky, lanterns glowing warmly along its battlements. For a fleeting moment, he had allowed himself to hope.
That hope was swiftly extinguished.
One of the Hunters had laughed and explained that the Bright Castle was not their Citadel—merely a place of shelter, a waystation for the living. The true Citadel lay to the west: a colossal crimson tower that pierced the clouds like a blade driven into the sky.
No one went there.
No one returned.
Except, apparently, a small group of ancient survivors led by someone known only as the First Lord.
Caster had expected his fortunes to change once he revealed his heritage.
They did not.
If anything, the mockery had intensified. The Sleepers around him sneered openly at the mention of a Legacy, dismissing his status as irrelevant within the Dream Realm. Still, one of them—clearly more curious than respectful—had asked which Great Clan he served.
When Caster answered Song, the atmosphere had shifted instantly.
The four Hunters had fallen silent.