Zachary felt like shit.
To be honest, as a philosophy student and someone with ample experience with the pen, there were a thousand flowery ways he could have described his current situation. And yet, "feeling like shit" remained the most linguistically accurate. It had that personal, gritty aftertaste; it reflected perfectly the miserable trail of his existence and the grounded, heavy pessimism of the now.
Have you ever gotten so pathetically drunk that you wake up feeling worse than when you started? The lights are too loud, the noises are too bright, and the flashing, regretful memories of the previous night drill through your skull like a clear reminder that the pathetic excuse of what you called a reputation is dead—and everyone knows it.
"Shut up..." Zachary groaned as he felt the cold stone floor against his face.
How could his own Mind be this hostile?
With half-formed curses trapped in his throat, his body began to twitch and twist on the stone as his surroundings slowly regained their edges. He lay naked on the floor of the Priestess's room, directly in front of the bronze mirror. As he rolled weakly onto his left side, a sharp burst of agony flared through his hip—a jagged reminder that his nerves were finally back online.
Everything was itchy. Hellishly so.
Zachary groaned as he began to push himself up. The unbearable, crawling sensation of his skin brought the memories of the "procedure" screaming back to the forefront. He tried to stand, but his left leg buckled immediately. He only managed to stay upright by digging his fingers into the cracks of the wall.
It was proof enough: he was alive, but he was still a ruin.
With a heavy sigh, Zachary finally faced the mirror. A defeated wince adorned his marred features.
"Not only do I feel like shit... I look like it," he muttered. A reluctant hand climbed toward the left side of his face. He touched it lightly, and the sharp, hot spark of pain brought back the lowest moment of his week—the parietal, the zygomatic, the nasal, the lacrimal.
He had rearranged the shards of those bones himself, cutting and intruding into his own face while bloody tears flowed from an empty socket. When the work was done, he hadn't hesitated. He had sealed the tragedy with the blazing edge of Midnight Shard. There was no going back to the way he used to look, and he had accepted that with the finality of a cauterized wound.
The smell of the room—stale blood, burnt fat, and old smoke—was nearly unbearable. He collapsed after that.
"How much time?" Zachary asked aloud, his voice sounding like gravel being ground in a mortar.
His biological clock was more precise now, sharpened by his enhanced senses, but there was still a fog in his awareness. He ran the numbers, checking the state of the scabs and the stiffness of his joints.
'At least a week...'
He nodded slowly as he studied his scarred left arm. The bone was in place, but it felt brittle, the marrow still knitting. His shoulder was a tight knot of trauma and his lungs were still carrying some damage. He was out of the immediate danger zone, but he was a long way from "perfect."
His eyes trailed down to his hand. It was a sick, necrotic shade of purple. The fingers were no longer pointing in impossible directions, but the limb was curled like a piece of dried, weathered wood. He tried to extend his fingers, but a white-hot burst of pain forced him to stop.
He looked at his body in all its bruised unglory. His athletic, muscular frame—once the unyielding proof of his martial path—was now a map of burns and gruesome, puckered scars. Some men would have worn them as trophies, marks of glory to be boasted about in a mead hall.
To Zachary, it was just disgusting.
With a mental command, the Witness's Testament manifested. The holy mantle draped itself over his ruined form, the dark blue fabric and sacred embroidery providing a solemn, mocking contrast to the man beneath. He looked at the fine, hanging dark threads and the belt's ornaments for a second before clicking his tongue with spite.
'Why is this even labeled as Armor? It's a garment with a couple of enchantments.' He sighed in quiet acceptance.
Zachary knew the situation after all. Most of the horrors on the Forgotten Shore relied on physical brutality, with only a few numbered creatures doing otherwise. but as Ranks and Classes increased, the powers of Nightmare Creatures would become bizarre and deadly. Against the Soul Devourer, this mantle had been irreplaceable. In the future, its true strength would shine.
'But for now...' Zachary checked the runes of the Memory, his eyes narrowing. 'I need another armor.'
Enchantment: [Mantle of Duty].
Enchantment Description: [This mantle can be worn over a different armor].
'And unfortunately, I know where to find one.' He dismissed the runes with a tired sigh. '...I guess I'll have to return to the Castle sooner than I thought.'
With a shake of his head, Zachary unfastened the bands tying his left wrist. With a controlled wince, he pulled his arm out of the sleeve, leaving it hanging empty at his side. He then tucked the mangled limb into the folds of the mantle, using the sacred fabric as a makeshift sling.
Without waiting another moment, he began the climb out of the Cathedral. It was a feat of difficult ease; as he gripped a loose stone with his good arm, he wondered how he had managed to traverse this path in his delirium a week ago. The Nameless Sun was just beginning to crest over the Crimson Spire, coloring the starless sky a pale, sickly orange. A soft, fresh breeze licked his charred cheek as he descended the side of the great ebony structure.
As he limped toward the front of the Cathedral, something caught his eye—a pile of human-shaped rubble near the corner of the tall doors. It was the Stone Saint he had shattered at the start of the massacre. Something glinted within the dust.
With a quiet smile, Zachary leaned down. His ribs groaned in protest, but he managed to pluck two Soul Shards from the debris. He rolled them in his hand, feeling their cold weight, before turning his gaze toward the plaza and the ruins beyond.
"It's still early," Zachary muttered to the silence. "I don't lose anything by checking."
Sparks erupted at his side. Pepe Silvia appeared in all its chitinous, skittering glory. Zachary glared at his "intern" with mock disgust for a few seconds before letting out a defeated laugh.
"You missed all the fun, man. What kind of intern leaves his boss with all the work?" Zachary pointed a reprimanding finger at the Echo before delivering a few playful slaps to its leg. "But oh well. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't moved by your courageous sacrifice the other day. I've decided it's time to officially promote you. Congratulations, you're a full-time employee."
Was it his imagination, or was the scavenger trembling?
He brushed it off—likely a side effect of the trauma. He turned to his left, where the female Stone Saint manifested amidst a cloud of sparks.
"Now, let me introduce you to the new intern—" Zachary paused, rubbing his chin in genuine thought. He remained there for a few seconds before ruffling his hair in annoyance. "Call her Saint. I'd love to give her a more creative name, but I'm a conservative man at heart. It would feel wrong to call her anything else."
Pepe Silvia turned to look at Saint. There was a strange glow in the scanvenger's eyes as it contemplated the new recruit—an almost smug vibration of its pincers. The look vanished immediately, however, as Zachary used the edge of Saint's stone sword to nick his palm, coating the Scavenger's carapace in his blood.
"Don't look at me that way, lad," Zachary said, catching the Scavenger's look of betrayal. "Being promoted doesn't change your job description. You're still bait. What changes, you ask? You're getting paid now! And what are you getting paid? Well my eternal gratitude, of course. Now come on, the morning is short and we need to move."
Without waiting for the Echo to process its benefits package, Zachary and Saint began walking through the plaza. After a few seconds of indignant clicking, Pepe Silvia scurried ahead to take point. Zachary's objective was simple: scavenge the battlefield for the Soul Shards he had left behind.
With pained, measured steps, he limped through the traces of his battle, tracing the same path the Stone Saints had used to herd him away from the Cathedral. He looked at the deep fissures and shattered masonry left behind by Antlered Wrath; the scale of the destruction was a sober reminder of how close he had come to being a permanent fixture of these ruins.
Strangely, there were no Nightmare Creatures in sight. The silence of the Dark City was often more predatory than its screams.
'Flow Control improved tremendously,' Zachary mused, feeling the core humming in his chest like a well-tuned engine. 'At the end of the fight, I was able to reinforce my whole body. I used the main arteries as highways, but there's still room for refinement.'
He passed a pile of rubble and crimson dust—the remains of a Stone Saint's arm. He glanced at his new intern to see if she showed any reaction to the remains of her kin, but Saint remained as aloof and stony as ever.
'I have paved the main roads. Now I need the back alleys,' he continued, focusing on the heat traveling through his mangled frame. 'Precision requires auxiliary routes. The problem is the return trip.'
He hit a mental wall when considering the veins. Arterial flow followed the rhythmic, forceful beat of the heart—an easy current to ride. But the venular flow was a counter-current, a steady, low-pressure stream. Zachary felt instinctively that if he tried to force essence through the veins, he'd experience a spiritual reflux that would likely rupture his heart or shatter his core.
Yet, the idea of a closed-loop system—recycling essence rather than letting it bleed away—was too tempting to abandon.
His train of thought was derailed as his bad leg caught on a splintered joist in the ruins of the house he'd been thrown into when he had been disarmed. With a hiss of pain, he stabilized himself against a crumbling wall.
'First the Carapace Centurion, then Effie, and now this,' he thought with a dark scowl. 'Getting thrown through walls is becoming a personality trait.'
His internal complaining stopped short as he reached the corner of the room. There, bathed in the pale, rising light, sat a human skeleton.
Pepe Silvia was too large to squeeze through the aperture, so Zachary dismissed the Echo in a flurry of sparks. He approached the remains with careful, respectful steps, Saint trailing behind him like a silent bodyguard. Finding bones wasn't rare here, but the age of these was specific. They weren't bleached white like the ancient inhabitants hiding in the Cathacombs, nor fresh like a recent Sleeper. They were decades old.
On the wall, written in faded brown letters—dried blood—was a message he could read without the help of the Spell. English.
"For those who come after," Zachary whispered.
His heart gave a pained throb of recognition. He could see it: a Sleeper—abandoned and broken—dying in a corner of the Dark City, alone, cold. And yet, choosing to spend their final moments thinking of the future rather than cursing their fate. Unlike Zachary, who had met his lowest moment with a "blasphemous glow" and spiteful prayers, this person had died with a quiet, selfless grace.
"Your Nightmare is over... I guess," Zachary said, his voice scratching against the quiet. He ruffled his hair awkwardly, feeling the weight of the moment. "I'm probably the worst person to say those words. But rest easy."
Behind the ribcage, tucked into a shadow, was a large pouch. Zachary reached in with some difficulty, his fingers brushing against the cold bone, and retrieved it. It was brownish and stiff with age, but surprisingly light.
He wanted to check the contents, but the silence of the plaza was beginning to feel heavy. He tied the pouch to his waist and moved toward the hole in the wall he had used to escape the battle. He attempted to drop down to the street level, but his injured leg betrayed him.
"Fuck."
He hit the ground in a messy heap, a groan escaping his teeth as the impact vibrated through his healing fractures. He scrambled to his feet, patting the dust from the Witness's Testament and looking around frantically.
No one saw. Not even a stray monster.
The lack of predators was becoming a statistical anomaly. With increased wariness, he summoned Pepe Silvia back to his side. The Scavenger appeared, clicking its pincers in what Zachary chose to interpret as a critique of his landing.
He continued through the traces of the battle, watching the scars on the ground and walls. The sight made something inside him crawl upward—a premature idea, a vague possibility that was still too young to receive a name, yet remained at the back of his head as a quiet, enlightened reminder.
Finally, he arrived at the shattered plaza where he had defied his sentence, and he finally understood why the path had been empty of Nightmare Creatures.
A dozen monsters and beasts were currently clawing at the blackened stone, desperate to reach the spot baptized by his blasphemous blood. He watched from a safe distance as a Fallen Beast struck angrily at a piece of tile; the stone seemed almost enchanted, resisting the onslaught with stubborn silence.
Zachary nodded to himself, offering a silent prayer of thanks to his own indomitable mind and body. If he had remained in that square for even a few minutes after the battle, he would have been torn apart by these scavengers.
'A week later and the Blasphemer's aura still remains,' Zachary mused, a whistle of dread escaping his teeth. 'I need to be careful when I bleed from now on. If the Stone Saints tracked me from a few drops, something far worse could follow the trail I leave now.'
But with that dread came a tactical realization. 'This means no Hunters from the Host or the Outer Settlement know about the fight. They wouldn't be mad enough to step into this pandemonium.'
"Too bad they don't know the actual effects of my blood," Zachary whispered, turning to his new intern. "If they did, they wouldn't be afraid. Under the weight of a blasphemous presence, these things lose all self-preservation. They won't even defend themselves."
He smiled, a cold, predatory expression that didn't reach his lone eye. "Bad for them... but perfect for me. Come on, lass. This is your first task as an intern. Go make me proud."
Without a word, Saint walked past him, her stone shield and sword held with effortless grace. Zachary watched her steadfast back, an incredulous laugh escaping his lips.
"I'm just farming shards at this point," he chuckled, before sharply slapping his own cheek. 'What are you thinking, fool? You just admitted you can be tracked.'
He took a deep breath to collect himself. It was a one-time exploit. He couldn't afford to make this a strategy; eventually, something truly ancient would feel the "mistake" of his existence and come to correct it.
For the next few minutes, he watched with clinical admiration as Saint moved with surgical efficiency. She cleaved heads and dismantled bodies without hesitation. The monsters were oblivious, their focus entirely consumed by the blood-stained earth beneath them. Only the Fallen Beast noticed its situation at the last second, but by then, Saint's blade was already through its throat.
When the massacre was over, Saint flicked her sword down, cleaning the edge of its stone blade in one sharp motion. The putrid blood now flooding the square was hopefully enough to mask Zachary's own ichor.
"Help me with the shards, Pepe," Zachary said, kicking a severed tentacle out of his path.
A sharp, indignant click made him turn. Pepe Silvia stood awkwardly, looking between its massive pincers and the mangled heaps of meat. Zachary clicked his tongue in distaste.
"You don't really expect me to dig through this mess myself, do you? Look at me! I'm held together by spite and magical duct tape." He pointed a thumb back at Saint, who stood in her usual, aloof silence. "She did the heavy lifting as an intern. If you think the task is beneath you, maybe she should be promoted to employee and you can go back to being an intern. Fastest demotion in history, man. I'd be jealous if I were you..."
Pepe Silvia's pincers trembled for a second before the Echo slumped in visible defeat. Without waiting for further threats of a performance review, the Scavenger began picking messily through the corpses.
"Just free the shards; I'll do the picking," Zachary added, signaling for Saint to assist. "Thanks, man. See? I'm even saying thank you."
The Carapace Echo didn't answer. It just stabbed a corpse with a particularly aggressive click. While the Echoes picked through the viscera, Zachary surveyed the plaza. The last traces of his struggle were now drowned in the gore and putrid ichor of a dozen lesser monsters, the history of his feat buried under the scavengers he had tricked.
Still, a soft, weary smile adorned his lips.
'Aspect Legacy as a Sleeper... aren't I talented?' An incredulous laugh escaped him as the full weight of his situation settled. 'Not only that, I helped Kido discover hers. I must admit, sometimes my genius... it's almost frightening.'
There was still a mountain of mystery to unveil regarding the Repentant Paths, his own Aspect, and the void that loomed at the edges of his existence. But a broken plaza surrounded by entrails and exploited interns wasn't the place for a lecture.
For half an hour, the group moved through the carnage with surgical precision. By the time they were done, including the shards collected at the Cathedral, Zachary possessed eighteen Awakened Soul Shards and one Ascended shard.
He stowed them in the leather pouch he'd received from Lester and nodded, retracing the battle had been the right call. He checked the sky, noting the position of the Nameless Sun, then looked south. Toward the Castle. Toward the broken armor waiting for him.
"Lead the way, Pepe," he said, giving the Scavenger a solid slap on its rear leg.
The Echo regarded him with a long, mournful look before turning to lead the way with heavy, unappreciated steps. Saint followed behind with the confident, silent gait of a professional. Zachary snorted; the Spell insisted Echoes were merely mindless copies, yet these two felt more expressive than half the people he'd met in the real world.
He limped behind them, the two capable interns paving a safe road. They arrived at the base of the white hill within a couple of hours.
Unsummoning the Echoes, Zachary climbed a nearby empty building with jagged, difficult movements. He needed to scout. It was too early to meet Nephis and the cohort; besides, if they saw the absolute ruin of his body only two weeks after he'd left, it would be bad for his brand.
As he watched the Outer Settlement through his enhanced sight, he noticed a shift in the atmosphere. It was subtle—the alleys looked the same, and the Host wasn't marching in the streets—but the air around the slum dwellers was electric. Restless.
Then he saw him: the nameless Hunter he'd encountered on that gruesome night in the ruins. The man and several others were excessively attentive, their eyes scanning the crowds with a hunger that wasn't about food.
"Are they... expecting me?" Zachary asked the wind.
The idea was plausible. The hunter must have told Nephis about their encounter. Even in the dark, they would have seen a man who should have been dead. If he hadn't died in the ruins, he'd eventually have to crawl back to the Castle for a healer. They were waiting to intercept him.
'Too bad for them,' Zachary thought, descending from his perch. 'With Danger Sense, I'm a professional at being invisible.'
He entered the Outer Settlement with a steady, quiet limp. He sharpened Cinder Eyes, feeling the weight of the attention around him like a physical pressure, and began weaving through the side-streets. He moved like a shadow, slipping through the gaps in their perception just as he had during his midnight explorations of the Castle.
A few minutes later, he climbed the white stone steps and stood before the massive gates of the Castle itself.
Two guards regarded him, their initial annoyance shifting into naked fear as they took in his destroyed face and the charred skin of his cheek. They opened their mouths to demand his business, but the sudden spark of a Soul Shard held between Zachary's fingers silenced them.
The guard on the right hesitated, studying Zachary's good side for a moment longer than necessary.
"Aren't you... Zachary?" he asked, his voice trailing off in doubt.
"Noup," Zachary answered instantly, flicking the shard toward the man.
The guard caught it with a frantic grab, his focus entirely consumed by the shiny rock. Zachary walked past him into the Castle before the man could process the half-truth.
'I may be Zachary at the moment, but I used to go by another name,' he whistled to himself, a silent excuse for the deception.
He entered the main hall with a grim, lopsided smile. There, sitting behind a desk and working with his usual, frantic nervousness, was Harper. The boy looked up, feeling the shift in the room's energy. He recognized the Witness's Testament immediately, and a wide, relieved smile broke across his face—only to turn into pale, stuttering terror as he took in the ruin of Zachary's head. He started to stand, but a flash of sharp worry crossed his features, anchoring him to his seat.
Cinder Eyes didn't miss a thing.
Zachary noticed the observer immediately—a heavy, silent gaze watching their interaction from the shadows of the hall. It didn't take a genius to understand the play. He had sent Harper back to the Castle with a clear role, and in doing so, he'd turned the boy into a lighthouse. Harper was Zachary's only known associate, the only point of contact the Host had for their slippery, missing Sleeper.
'Thank god being bright isn't a requirement for the Guard,' Zachary lampooned internally. He reached the desk, where Harper was currently sweating buckets.
"Hello, friendly stranger," Zachary said amicably, tapping the wood with his good hand. "No need to register my name. I'm not here to stay. Just procuring some goods before I go back to the ruins."
Harper stared at him, his eyes darting toward the empty socket and the charred cheekbone, before snapping back into focus. He nodded feverishly. "Y-Yes! Have a... a good visit, sir."
The feeling of being watched intensified as he leaned over the desk, but as Zachary turned and vanished into the inner hallways, the pressure dissipated. He didn't know if he should be thanking the Stone Saints; his face was so unrecognizable now that he didn't even need a hood.
Zachary felt the Shard pouch on his bossom and shook his head with a light smile. Before looking for his new armor he would have to make a quick stop, it was time to receive his share of Shards from Aiko.
He moved through the marble hallways and unkept courtyards from memory, retracing the path he took with the Artisans. Finally, he stood before the doors of the Gambling Den. He frowned. The doors were shut tight, with a sign hanging prominently over the handle.
"Closed for renovations?" Zachary read aloud, raising a brow. He shrugged. "That sign won't stop me because I can't read."
He began to knock.
The first was gentle. The second was louder. By the third, the wood was trembling under his heavy, rhythmic pounding. Finally, a sharp, annoyed voice shrieked from the other side.
"It's not ready yet, for Spell's sake! If you want to play, go bother the Artisans! Why do you keep bothering me?"
Zachary smiled and knocked one last time, even harder.
"Fuck!" Aiko screamed. Tiny, furious steps stomped toward the door. "I swear by everything that is worth money, if you—"
The door yanked open. Aiko's tirade died in her throat as she came face-to-face with Zachary's smiling, mutilated face. She paled instantly, her eyes going wide as she tried to slam the door shut. Zachary caught it at the last second, his fingers gripping the edge with terrifying strength.
He leaned into the gap, locking his lone crimson eye with her shivering gaze. "Here's Johnny!"
He had forgotten, perhaps, that he was missing an eye and his empty socket was still fresh with jagged burns. It was a hideous, nightmarish sight. Aiko's legs gave out; she hit the floor on her buttocks and scrambled backward like a panicked crab.
"Z-Zach!" she stuttered, shielding her eyes. "H-How's life treating you?"
"Like I ran over its puppy. Thanks for asking," Zachary answered calmly, stepping into the Den. "Now, Aiko. Where's my money?"
"What!?" Aiko's fear vanished instantly, replaced by the sharp, defensive instinct of a merchant. She glared up at him, her brow furrowing. "Money? Now?"
"Yes, money." He followed after her, his limp adding a rhythmic, menacing thud to his steps. "Where's the money, Lebowski?"
"What?" Aiko deflected again, her back hitting the floor as she continued her pathetic retreat.
Zachary raised an eyebrow in a mix of amusement and annoyance. "What country are you from?"
Aiko's face twisted in genuine confusion. "What?"
"'What' ain't no country I've ever heard of! Do they speak English in What?" He quoted with a jagged smile, looming over her like a predator eyeing a particularly loud squirrel.
"What?!" Aiko shrieked, her face turning paper-white as her back finally met the cold stone wall.
"English, Aiko! Do you speak it?" He grabbed a nearby chair and spun it around, sitting backward in front of her. She just nodded frantically, her eyes glued to his scarred chin.
"Okay, that's enough with the references," Zachary sighed, his tone turning clinical as he leaned toward her. "Now tell me: where is my share of the matchmaking profits, Aiko?"
The petite entrepreneur looked at him with a trembling lip before desperate tears began to leak from her eyes. Zachary recognized that look immediately. He passed his healthy hand over his face, a wave of sudden, bone-deep tiredness washing over him.
"Jesus Christ... what have you done?"
***
The Nameless Sun was at its zenith, and life moved with its usual brutal normalcy within the Bright Castle. But inside the closed and "renovating" Gambling Den, Aiko was kneeling in a full dogeza, arms raised over her head in a posture of ultimate apology. Zachary sat across from her, sipping a cup of cold tea. His expression was calm, but the faint, rhythmic rattling of the cup against the saucer betrayed his true emotions.
"So, let me get this straight," he finally said, placing the cup on the table with a soft clack. "You lost my share?"
"I—it's not lost!" Aiko squeaked, her voice muffled by the floor. "It's in—"
"Invested. I know. But why would you do that with my money? Use your own!" Zachary snapped. Aiko flinched, her raised arms shaking.
He thought over what she'd blurted out between sobs. Apparently, the vague comment he'd made about "entertainment" had taken root with the Artisans. After he'd vanished into the ruins, Kaor and a few others had actually managed to craft a functional billiard table. It had been an overnight sensation. Sensing a monopoly, Aiko had "reinvested" every shard of Zachary's profit into expanding the den and funding a new project.
Zachary looked around the room, noticing the new partitions and the smell of fresh sawdust. A slow, shark-like smile began to form. He turned back to Aiko, who was tentatively trying to raise her head.
"So, you invested with my money, right?"
Hearing his voice, Aiko lowered her forehead back to the floor and nodded.
"Which means I'm a shareholder, don't I?"
A flash of recognition crossed her teary eyes—one that instantly transformed into pure, unadulterated dread. "Wait—"
"And since the majority of the initial capital was mine, that means I am, theoretically, the owner. Isn't that right?" He interrupted, his grin widening until it tugged at his scorched skin.
"No! Listen to m—"
"But oh my! I can't really administer a business in my current condition, can I?" Zachary feigned a pained expression, leaning back and gesturing to his sling. "If only I could sell this rising business to a good, trusted partner..."
Aiko's tears returned with a vengeance, snot flowing freely from her nose. She could see the trap closing. She could feel the predatory weight of the "merger."
"Oh, but isn't this a great opportunity for you, Aiko?" Zachary added, slapping his leg as if he'd just had a brilliant epiphany.
"...How much?" Her voice came through clenched teeth, vibrating with pure hatred.
"Hmmm?" he asked, tilting his head with feigned obliviousness.
"How much do you want, you bastard!?" Aiko screamed finally looking up, her face red with a mix of fury and grief.
Zachary immediately adopted a dejected expression, resting a hand over his heart in mock offense. "What are you insinuating, Aiko? You make it look like I'm extorting you. How could I even try to put a price on such a visionary project? I'm just a man with no foresight in these matters. Whatever you think my shares are worth, I'll take it... I trust your good judgment."
The last words carried a razor-sharp double meaning that Aiko caught instantly. The petite girl smiled—a shaky, terrified thing—as tears continued to stream down her cheeks.
A few minutes later, Zachary stepped out of the Gambling Den with a happy whistle leaving his lips. His shard pouch now carried an additional fifty shards. He was well aware of Aiko's greed, but he had been honest about trusting her judgment; her self-preservation instinct was currently much stronger than her love of coin. She wouldn't dare swindle him now, and he suspected he'd walked away with even more than his fair share.
Tucking the pouch into his bosom, he took a sip from a bottle of sweet tea he'd "acquired" on his way out. But just as he was about to close the door, a familiar voice cut through the hallway.
"Well, well, well. Look who decided to honor us with his presence."
Zachary flinched slightly before sighing and turning back to meet three pairs of eyes burning with a mix of anger and relief. Lester, Arlo, and Mauro stood there, their faces tight. They looked ready to berate him, to demand where the hell he'd been—until they actually saw the state of him.
The arm hanging in a makeshift sling. The brutal, scorched architecture of his face.
The trio stared in a heavy, complicated silence. Finally, it was Lester who spoke, his voice grave.
"You look like shit."
"My exact words," Zachary shrugged, the movement pulling at his scars.
"Not so handsome anymore, huh?" Mauro added with a snarky scoff. Lester glanced at him but didn't offer a reprimand.
Zachary smirked, the expression twisted by his scarred cheekbone. "Mauro, you know that even looking like this, I've still got more game than you, right?"
Arlo scoffed, and Mauro tried to think of a witty retort, but his Flaw betrayed him first. "Handsome motherfucker..."
"A monster?" Arlo asked, gesturing to the wounds.
"What else?" Zachary answered casually.
Arlo nodded slowly before adding, "You should have let it finish the job."
"I tried. Turns out I'm not that good at dying."
"Can't even do that right, huh?"
"You talk just like my mother," Zachary shot back. Mauro choked on a laugh while Arlo clicked his tongue in annoyance.
Lester sighed, ruffling his messy hair before stepping forward and pulling Zachary into a sudden, fraternal hug. Zachary froze, surprised by the gesture, as did the others. Lester pulled back, keeping a hand on Zachary's good shoulder.
"Nice to see you, dickhead. What in the Spell happened to you?"
Zachary considered sharing the truth—the Cathedral, the Stone Saints, the enlightenment—but ultimately decided against it. Instead, he leaned into the easy corner of comedy.
"Divorce."
Instead of laughing, the trio nodded in solemn understanding. "We've heard the rumors," Lester said. "Must've been hard, eh?"
Zachary frowned, his lone eye narrowing. 'Rumors?' Harper's face flashed through his mind, followed by a cold, sinking feeling. What kind of story had been told to explain the breach in Nephis's cohort?
Lester continued, oblivious to Zachary's internal gears. "You can always come back, you know? Gemma—"
"I know, I know..." Zachary trailed off, his gaze drifting toward the white stone walls of the Castle. "But I don't think I can. You have to understand... things are complicated."
The trio stood in a heavy, calm silence for a moment, eventually broken by Lester's deep sigh. "You know Kido has to hear about this, right?"
Zachary shrugged, the fabric of the Witness's Mantle shifting over his shoulder. "I know."
The Artisans exchanged looks—a silent conversation held in the language of men who had experienced too much together. Finally, Lester ruffled his messy hair. "I don't know if you've heard, but we're working with Aiko on a new project. Something about those billiards you mentioned."
"I've heard," Zachary admitted, his voice low.
"Turns out, that's why we're here," Lester continued, his gaze drifting toward the closed doors of the Gambling Den. "We came to discuss the finishing details with Aiko. Unfortunately... she wasn't home."
Zachary arched an eyebrow. Mauro, meanwhile, wasn't quite as sharp. "Hey, but we haven't even trie—"
A sharp slap to the back of Mauro's head cut the nonsense short. Zachary felt a rare spark of warmth in his chest as he realized the game they were playing.
"That's really unfortunate," Zachary said reluctantly.
"It is," Lester agreed, his face a mask of solemn conviction. "So, we decided to wait here for an hour to see if she'd show up. She never did. So after waiting a bit longer we decided to return to the garden."
A soft, honest smile tugged at Zachary's scarred lips. He nodded in understanding. There was no need for further words; they just gave him the window of time he needed.
Turning, he began to limp down the hallway, the rhythmic thud of his steps echoing against the marble. He stopped for a split second, looking back over his shoulder. "I'll be seeing you, then. Tell Kido to have a bottle ready."
"Bastard," Mauro muttered with a scoff, though there was no heat in it.
They watched his retreating, limping form until he vanished around the corner. They didn't say goodbye.
His heart felt calm as he continued through the hallways. His destination was a place he knew well by reputation but had never felt the need to visit.
The Memory Market.
Aiko, too kind and with a big heart had written him an invitation for him, he hadn't even needed to convince her. It was located in a wing of the Castle usually reserved for the Host, but Zachary didn't plan on staying long enough to be questioned.
He moved with as much haste as his mangled frame could muster, keeping a sharp eye on the shadows. Finally, he pushed open a heavy wooden door marked with the symbol of a sword and shield.
"Are you lost, friend?" A rough voice rumbled from behind a counter.
A tall, heavy-set man stood there, eyeing him with clinical precision. His gaze flicked from Zachary's heels to his ruined face. If the injury disgusted him, he was too professional to show it; instead, his eyes lingered on the Witness's Testament, sparked with a mix of interest and wariness.
"You must be Stev," Zachary said, his voice a low rasp as he limped forward. His gaze wandered across the hall, taking in the array of weapons and artifacts. "I'm looking for a Memory. Aiko wrote me an invitation."
"That girl did?" Stev asked, his wariness instantly melting into the oily smile of a businessman who smelled shards. "Well, Memories are what I have. Feel free to look around."
"I don't need to look. I'm looking for a sword," Zachary said simply.
Truthfully, he wasn't interested in the clutter of Memories. With Ender's Solace and his Mantle promised to grow alongside him, he didn't really feel the need for more. But a man with a hidden agenda must always have a visible one.
"Straight to business. I like it." Stev nodded, leading him toward a stand where a myriad of blades rested.
Zachary followed, but as they rounded a display table, his eye caught something that made his breath hitch for a fraction of a second. In a forgotten corner, buried under a thick layer of dust, lay a broken piece of stone. Its fine details and vague, hollow shape betrayed its original purpose: a set of armor.
The Mantle of the Underworld.
He forced his gaze away, ignoring the relic for now, and turned his focus to the weapons. It was a fine collection. Gladii, cutlasses, rapiers, and even a pair of jians that were far more decorative than his own. Each one vibrated with the distinct, glowing weave of Enchantments that only his eye—reinforced by Blood Weave—could truly perceive.
But he wasn't looking for enchantments. He was looking for mass.
He hadn't been lying about the sword. After clashing against Saint and her brothers and observing their surgical, indomitable style, he recognized in it a foundation on the Heavy and Righteous Sword. If he wanted to continue improving the Simple Sword, it would be a grave mistake to let a chance to learn from her pass by.
Unfortunately, during their fight Zachary had also realized something else: a jian lacked the true weight needed to wield the Heavy Sword in all its might. The eastern blade was gentle, agile, and extremely adaptable, but its straight, light edge lacked weight behind it.
He needed a longsword.
"Hoh, you have a good eye," Stev said, stepping closer as Zachary stopped before a specific blade. "The Flame of the West. One of the crown jewels of my collection! With this in your hand, no creature in the Dark City will stand in your way. It can cut through anything!"
Zachary raised an eyebrow, reaching out to touch the cold steel. He had to exert every ounce of self-control to keep from laughing in the man's face.
Memory: [Flame of the West].
Memory Rank: Awakened.
Memory Tier: I
Memory Type: Weapon.
Description: [Once broken, it still kept it's covenant. Very bright was that sword when it was made whole again; the light of the sun shone redly in it, and the light of the moon shone cold, and its edge was hard and keen.]
Enchantments: [First Morning].
Enchantment Description: This sword drinks strenght from the sun and the moon only to declare it's right in a powerful cry.
'So absorb and release light?' Zachary mused with a raised eyebrow. He was about to consider the rest of the description when Stev continued talking.
"While it's a shame to part with it, I'll give you a special discount. You really look like you need a weapon," the big man said, eyeing him carefully before stating confidently, "Twenty-five shards."
Zachary immediately snapped his head toward Stev, pulling his hand away from the sword as if the steel had suddenly turned white-hot.
"Twenty-five shards?! Before taxes? God damn," Zachary exclaimed in genuine offense, looking at Stev with accusation. "I didn't know you were jew. You're ripping me off!"
"Ripping you off?" Stev looked equally offended. "I'm doing an honest job here!"
"Honest job pulling people's legs, that's what this is." He clicked his tongue and pointed at the longsword. "This lump of metal you dare to call a Memory can, at most, shine or something like that. Who would even need that type of sword?"
Stev flinched. Zachary was telling the truth, after all.
"Look, I'll give you scrap value, man. Five shards." Stev looked genuinely insulted at the preposterous offer, but before he could argue, Zachary continued. "I'll even throw in my bitch of a sister. She likes to throw hands, so maybe you can slap some sense into each other."
Stev stared at him for a few seconds, his mouth hanging open in shock, before erupting into a fit of thunderous laughter.
"Hahaha! You cursed bastard!" He slapped his leg, wiping an invisible tear from the corner of his eye. "I see now how you managed to get that girl to write an invitation for you."
"What can I say? I'm a charming guy," Zachary said, the laughter momentarily infectious.
Stev sighed and shook his head. "Okay, I'll apologize first. I did try to pull something on you, but can you blame me? I hardly sell anything these days. And let's be honest—despite the sword having a less-than-useful enchantment, it's still a nice piece. I'll give it to you for twenty shards."
"Twenty shards? Where's the hidden camera? I know when someone's trying to pull a prank on me, man." Zachary looked under the counters and behind him. "Look, I appreciate your honesty, but this piece of iron doesn't cost that much. Ten."
"Ten!? You're stealing from me!" Stev argued. "A man still needs to eat! Nineteen."
"Eat? That's the last thing you need, man. Have you looked in a mirror lately? Eleven."
Stev was about to argue the price when Zachary stopped him with a raised palm. While he was enjoying the bit, his time was limited. He couldn't remain in the Castle much longer. Passing his hand over his face, his tone suddenly sharpened.
"Look, Stev, we're not going anywhere at this pace. I'm willing to yield this once. I'll meet you in the middle: Fifteen shards."
Stev's eyes glowed. He was about to accept, but Zachary wasn't finished.
"But you'll have to throw in that dusty piece of stone in the corner." He pointed toward the Mantle of the Underworld.
The greedy glow in Stev's eyes shifted into a calculative one. After all, Zachary had thrown the request out of nowhere. With a careful, measured voice, Stev said, "I can't really just give it to you, you know? Do you even know the history of that arm—"
"I don't care about history, man," Zachary cut him off immediately. "We're talking business right now. Present. Fast and immediate. And please, look at it again. That piece of crap is gathering dust in your corner; don't come here talking about history when you're treating it that way."
Stev remained silent for a second, and Zachary pressed the advantage. He knew he was winning.
"I'm doing you a favor at this point. I'm willing to take that piece of junk with me for fifteen shards. Other people would demand a fee for taking the trash out. Me? I'm even buying another Memory. So, what do you say?"
He extended his hand, ready to finish the deal. Stev looked at him with wariness, then at the stone mantle, and finally at the longsword between them. He was putting on a show of doubt, but Zachary knew it was just that—a performance. Stev had already accepted.
He wasn't surprised when the big man gripped his hand in a vigorous shake, a massive smile plastered across his face. Zachary recognized the expression immediately because he was wearing the exact same one. It was the smile that said, 'Fucking dumbass.'
Zachary paid the shards, and after exchanging a final couple of insults with the vendor, he exited the Memory Market. His good mood soured instantly.
"Good to see you, Zach. Lady Seishan is waiting for you."
The Handmaiden Madi spoke with a professional tone, her eyes studying his ruined face carefully. There was no mockery or disgust in her gaze—only sheer, cold practicality. His mind began turning immediately, countless scenarios playing out before him in a flash. Finally, he nodded quietly.
"I see," he said.
He walked past her in an olympic display of disinterest, his heart already bracing for the next move in this political game. But just as he was about to take another step, Madi's small but deceptively strong hand clamped onto his good arm.
"We're not asking, Zach," she said, her voice carrying a sweet, practiced smile that didn't reach her eyes. Her grip remained firm. "Lady Seishan insisted on your company for dinner. She wants to talk to you about a topic that might interest you."
"Release me," Zachary said, his voice dropping into a low, jagged rasp. He pulled his arm back, the movement sharp and final. "I'm not in the mood, Madi. And I'm sure that whatever Seishan wants goes against what I do, so I'll appreciate it if you can let me go."
The Handmaiden's smile vanished. "I'll say it again, Zachary: we're not asking. It would be in your best interest to—"
"Unless your so-called Lady Seishan is coming down here to meet me on her own, I'd rather get the hell out of this Castle." He leaned down toward the Handmaiden, his voice dripping with mocking irony. "Or what? Do you actually think you're capable of moving me?"
Madi's eyes narrowed. Her left hand sharpened, a soft, predatory hum escaping from her skin. Her brown eyes began studying Zachary with cautious intensity. She saw the way he favored his right side, his left leg clearly unable to hold his full weight. She saw the subtle curl of his torso—a clear sign of internal trauma. She tracked the makeshift sling and the purple, mangled hand, noting how his shoulder slumped in a constant battle with pain.
Her gaze drifted higher, catching a glimpse of a raw cut peeking from his high-neck compression shirt, barely cauterized. Finally, her eyes trailed up to his destroyed face. She felt no disgust, only a cold tally of his missing ear and eye—it was proof his spatial awareness had to be compromised.
If she moved now, she could—
Her focus shifted a final degree, and she finally locked onto his remaining eye. That burning jewel, shining with a savage, crimson light, pinned her in place. Every ounce of confidence she had gathered evaporated like a desert mirage. Despite his ruins, she knew instinctively: she wouldn't win. Her hand relaxed, and she stepped back, creating distance.
"That's what I thought," Zachary said, a calm smile playing on his lips that threw her heart into chaos.
It wasn't a look of mockery, but one of knowing amusement—as if he had watched her internal struggle and found it adorable. Madi hated the way her face flushed, her voice betraying her as it came out in a trembling whisper.
"You'll regret this..."
"Regret? You girls really like to throw that word around these days." Zachary shook his head with a scoff, limping past her into the marble depths of the Bright Castle. "So be it, then."
As he walked through the hallways, he sighed, weighing the consequences of his actions. Refusing Seishan's invitation would certainly come back to bite him, but it was the pragmatic choice. In his current state, he lacked the mental and physical bandwidth to resist whatever silver-tongued ploy she had prepared. Next time they met, they would do so as equals—or not at all.
He finally reached the main hall. Once again, Harper raised his eyes, but this time the timid young man found his voice. "Zach! Are you okay?"
"Worry about yourself first, fool," Zachary scoffed, his lone eye scanning the perimeter. "Is no one observing us?"
"So you noticed," Harper said, ducking to search for something beneath his desk. "And no, they left a few minutes ago. Something about an incident at the Memory Market."
Zachary swallowed a string of curses as Harper hauled a thick, heavy bundle onto the counter. "Some Artisans came by and asked me to deliver this to you." He looked at Zachary's face again and paled. "A-Are you sure you're okay?"
"More or less," Zachary deflected, grunting as he took the weight of the bundle. "What about you? How's the work going?"
Harper lowered his eyes in shame. "I-I'm... not that good. I'm not you, you know? I don't have that facility for making people open up. I'm listening more than I talk, but I always feel like I don't achieve as much as you want."
Zachary nodded seriously, refusing to dismiss the kid's worries. "Remember what I told you. You're just yourself. That's enough for me. Keep your work constant; sooner or later, you'll see the fruit of your actions. I have high hopes for you, man."
Harper nodded solemnly before rummaging through a stack of papers and parchments. He produced a crumbled, slightly damp letter—clearly written in a frantic hurry.
"Here. I want you to read this," he said, adding hurriedly, "But do it later! When you're outside. I'll die of shame if you do it in front of me."
Zachary laughed, tucking the letter into his bosom alongside the shards. "I'd better be leaving. Take care, dude."
He extended a fist toward Harper, aiming for a fistbump, but the awkward boy simply enveloped Zachary's fist with his own hand and shook it vigorously up and down.
Zachary raised an eyebrow, his face eventually turning dead serious. "Be wary of the Handmaidens, Harper."
He descended the white steps and slipped into the labyrinthine alleys of the slums, a ghost weaving through the shadows. He avoided the main thoroughfares, aiming for a secondary exit into the ruins that would lead him back toward the Cathedral by a circuitous route.
He turned the corner of a stone road leading out of the settlement, but just as the jagged skyline of the Dark City came into view, a shock of blonde hair made him stop dead. He swallowed a curse.
Cassie stood there, her hair dancing in the soft breeze, her robe trailing elegantly at her shins. A silver, slender rapier hung at her waist. She didn't turn, didn't make a sound, but Zachary knew she was waiting. She probably knew he'd take this exact path before he'd even decided on it.
'What is it with these encounters today?' Zachary asked the silence, briefly considering another detour. With a sigh of resignation, he adjusted the heavy bundle in his arms and began to limp toward her.
As he approached, he studied her. She had shed the awkwardness of a girl; she stood tall now, a woman grown into her burden. Yet, Cinder Eyes caught the micro-tensions—the slight fidget of her leg, the way her fingers ghosted over the hilt of her blade. Her mind was a storm of practiced speeches and desperate words.
Zachary reached her, his breath hitching slightly from the exertion.
"Hello, Cassie. What a coincidence to find you here."
She turned. Her beautiful blue eyes were hidden behind a blindfold, but the tightness of her jaw told the story. And behind that... after his own dance with the Fate, Zachary could finally see it. The crushing weight of the future. He took another step, his injured leg dragging through the gravel with a harsh, metallic scrape. At the sound, Cassie's shoulders suddenly dropped. The practiced speech in her mouth vanished, replaced by a raw, immediate terror.
"You're hurt..." she whispered, her voice trembling with genuine worry.
Zachary shook his head, though he knew she couldn't see the gesture. "In more ways than you can imagine."
Cassie flinched as if he'd struck her, likely reading a deeper accusation into his words than he'd intended. He felt a pang of complexity in his heart, but he had already made his peace with the past.
"But don't worry too much... I'll heal," Zachary said, limping past her. He heard her let out a sharp, shaky breath of relief.
"I'm glad," she prayed quietly behind him. Then, she raised her voice, a final question catching him. "Will you come back?"
Zachary didn't stop. He didn't turn around. "You should already know the answer to that."
He disappeared into the ruins, leaving the blind seer alone on the path. Her hand clenched softly against her rapier, her mouth opening to speak words that the wind carried away unheard.
Meanwhile, deep within the Bright Castle, in a room draped in fine tapestries and dark, heavy furniture, Madi knelt patiently. Before her, Seishan sat at a bronze mirror, brushing her long black hair and watching her attendant's reflection.
"So, he just left?" Seishan asked, her voice light with amusement.
"I'm so sorry, my lady," Madi answered with a tight voice. "I should have tried to convince him further."
"Don't apologize," the Song princess said, turning to the Handmaiden. "I should have expected some resistance... I'm actually more surprised by you thinking you would actually lose against him."
Madi bit her lips as rubor crept up her face again, but she refused to defend herself in front of her Lady. Instead, she said with a firm voice, "He should be punished for disrespecting you. He can't—"
"It's not the right time, dear. Stand up and help me with this." Seishan grabbed a fine set of clothes as Madi rose to her feet. "The Bright Lord is growing a little restless with Changing Star's rising figure. Gemma and Kido are trying to get a hold of her runaway cohort member. And Tessai keeps trying his best to keep them in check."
She sighed with emotion as Madi helped her change clothes. "If his stock keeps rising at this pace, then when I cash him out, I'll be the biggest winner."
Madi refused to voice her thoughts as she continued to work. Meanwhile, a hungry glow appeared in Seishan's dark eyes.
"And yet, I have to say that I didn't really expect him to grow so much and so fast." She looked at her reflection in the mirror, a cold smile appearing on her red lips and revealing her sharp white fangs.
"Ahh, what I would give to see his missing eye."