The obsidian seal snapped between Valerian's fingers like brittle bone. Red wax flaked onto his desk, the letter curling at the corners, as if recoiling from its own message.
The Obsidian Conclave.
A name that crawled through noble courts like a rumor with teeth. A place where power converged, where the oldest magics and forbidden doctrines mingled. The conclave was not a council—it was a crucible. And those summoned were either tempered by flame or shattered entirely.
Valerian stood still for a long time, the silence of the room pressing in around him. Then, with slow deliberation, he folded the letter and slid it into the hidden pocket inside his coat.
"Umbra," he called.
From the farthest shadow, the horned knight stepped forth, cloaked in obsidian mist. No words passed between them. There was no need.
"We ride tonight."
> [Quest Activated: "Summons of the Deep Court"] Objective: Reach the Obsidian Conclave alive. Warning: All transport sigils denied. You must travel through the Vale of Lost Names. Recommended Level: 35+ Penalty: Death and soul fragmentation. Reward: Access to Forbidden Lore and Class Upgrade Opportunity.
A sharp breath escaped Valerian's lips. No hesitation. The deeper he sank into this world, the more he realized one truth: comfort was the mask of death.
---
By dusk, the academy lay behind him like a memory half-forgotten. Only Mila stood at the gates, arms crossed, expression tight.
"You're actually going?" she asked.
Valerian adjusted his gloves, nodding once. "It's not a choice."
She stepped closer, voice trembling slightly. "They say no one comes back the same. Or at all."
"I won't come back the same," he said. "But I will return."
Her gaze flicked toward Umbra, then back. "If they hurt you—"
"They won't." He paused, silver eyes meeting hers. "Because I'll kill them first."
The coldness in his tone was real. It wasn't bravado—it was inevitability. Mila flinched but didn't look away.
"Come back alive, Valerian. The story doesn't end without you."
He gave her a half-smile. "The story's only just begun."
---
The Vale of Lost Names was a wound in the world.
Rain pounded down as Valerian and Umbra entered the canyon's maw. The cliffs loomed like petrified gods, and the path twisted underfoot, alive with whispers. Lightning carved jagged scars into the sky. Every step sent shivers through Valerian's soul.
They pressed forward. There were no monsters—only echoes.
"You were never meant to be."
"They will all betray you."
"You will be the end."
But the worst was his own voice—older, colder—cutting through the storm.
"You were me. And I left you behind."
> [Mental Fortitude Check… Passed.] [Corruption Level: Stable.]
---
On the third night, the world cracked.
A fissure split the path, black mist spiraling out. From the chasm rose figures cloaked in shadow, each armored in twisted remnants of once-noble regalia.
> [Field Boss Encounter: "The Name-Eaters" (Level 38 Elite)]
Umbra stepped forward. Valerian unsheathed his blade, forged in the Hollow Flame, black as sin and twice as hot.
The first shadow knight lunged. Valerian met the attack head-on, slicing it through with one sweeping arc. Its body turned to dust, but more followed—dozens of them, maybe more.
Umbra held the flank, defending against a tide of foes. Magic sizzled in the air, runes sparking as Valerian moved through them like a dancer of death. Blood. Flame. Steel.
He moved with purpose, cutting them down, eyes burning silver beneath his hood. Yet with each strike, a weight grew heavier on his chest—as if the world resented his existence.
Then, it changed.
One of the Name-Eaters halted. It looked at him—not with rage, but recognition.
"You," it said, voice gravel and ruin. "Are the key."
Valerian froze. "What?"
The creature dropped its blade.
"You're not summoned. You're released."
Suddenly—
> [System Interruption Detected.] [ERROR: Access Conflict—Multiple Hosts Detected.]
"What…?"
Reality flickered. The other enemies disintegrated like mirages. Only the one that spoke remained—and then, it changed.
Its armor fused. Its posture straightened. Its face…
His face.
But older. Hardened. Silver eyes glowing like molten steel. Uniform blackened. A jagged Blackthorn crest etched over his heart. His body pulsed with system runes branded into skin like cruel circuitry.
"Hello, Valerian," the figure said.
Valerian stared. "Who are you?"
The man smiled. "I'm the original. You're the copy."
> [System Override Protocol Initiated.] [Splinter Host Confirmed.] [Warning: Primary Host Approaching.]
Valerian staggered back, blade rising. "What the hell does that mean?"
"You weren't supposed to exist," the original said, unsheathing his own weapon—a mirror of Valerian's, but rimmed in crimson fire. "You're the failsafe. A contingency. The System made you in case I failed."
Valerian's blood ran cold. "I'm… a backup?"
"Yes."
"And the Conclave?"
"A trigger. They're not testing you—they're activating you."
It hit Valerian like a hammer. The summons. The path through the Vale. The whispers. The battles. All of it orchestrated to prepare him—not for ascension, but for ignition.
"When the Conclave completes the ritual," the original said, "you open the Final Gate. And when that gate opens, the old gods return. And the world burns."
Valerian clenched his jaw. "I won't let that happen."
"You don't have a choice," the original said, stepping forward. "But if you want to pretend you do…"
He raised his blade. "Then fight me."
Valerian tightened his grip.
"I'm not your pawn."
"No," the original said. "You're my shadow."
They lunged.
Blades collided in an explosion of obsidian and fire. The clash echoed through the Vale, splitting the sky.
And far above them, something ancient stirred.
The obsidian seal snapped between Valerian's fingers like dry bone. Red wax flaked onto his desk, the letter curling slightly under the weight of what it meant.
The Obsidian Conclave.
A place whispered about in the corridors of power, where ancient magic and forbidden knowledge met. Where nobles vanished and monsters were legitimized. Few returned from it unchanged.
He didn't hesitate.
He folded the letter, tucked it into the lining of his coat, and turned to Umbra, who lingered like a gargoyle at the edge of the shadows. The silent knight bowed its horned head slightly, awaiting command.