"Aaahh."
Zen jolted upright, a scream tearing from his throat.
"huff""huff"
His chest heaved. Cold sweat clung to his skin. The air in the slave quarters was stale, thick with the scent of damp stone and rot—but all he could smell was fire. The echoes of his dream clung to him like smoke.
His heart pounded like a war drum, loud in his ears.
It took a moment before he realized he was awake.
Just another nightmare.
He groaned and ran a shaking hand through his sweat-matted hair. Every muscle in his body ached—shoulders heavy, back stiff, legs sore. The journey to Nitya, the fight for the orb, the return... the cost. It had taken everything from him.
And even now, rest betrayed him.
He swung his legs over the edge of the cot. The stone floor was cold beneath his feet. His breath came in ragged gasps as he buried his face in his hands.
He wanted to sleep. Gods, he was so tired.
But rest had become a battlefield.
His body trembled—not from fear, but from the weight of memory. The scent of blood. The sound of whispers. The feeling of being swallowed by a darkness that didn't end.
Then the silence hit.
And it wasn't just silence.
It was absence.
She wasn't there.
His sister—her tiny hands always clinging to his sleeve. Her sleepy voice whispering his name when he cried out in the night. She used to sit beside him until the fear passed, even when her own eyes were heavy with sleep.
She used to wipe away his tears without a word.
Now... she was gone.
He had chosen this. Chosen to give her a new life. Far from this nightmare. Somewhere bright. Somewhere safe. A future without chains or monsters.
But right now, in the dark, with the phantom weight of her hand no longer beside him—
It hurt.
A lump rose in his throat. He didn't cry. Not fully.
But his hands clenched into fists.
His heart ached—not from weakness.
From love.
From loss.
Suddenly, the air chilled.
A low hum pulsed through the stone walls, and the shadows began to shift. From the corner of the dim chamber, something unfurled, peeling away from the darkness like smoke gaining form.
It floated.
Thin and long. Corpse-like. A body stretched beyond reason. Pale, semi-transparent skin sagged over a skeletal frame. Its arms were too long, ending in clawed fingers that moved with slow, deliberate grace. In the center of its chest, a single vertical eye glowed with faint green light—unblinking, watchful.
It had no mouth.
Yet its voice echoed inside Zen's mind, scraping like glass.
"You're awake."
It raised one clawed hand and tossed a vial toward him. Zen caught it clumsily. Inside, the liquid swirled—thick, luminous, colored like molten fire and venom. Red and green.
"Drink. Now."
Zen hesitated—but drank.
The moment it touched his throat; something surged through him. First a sting. Then warmth. Then… light. Heat flooded his limbs. Pain vanished. Cuts closed. His muscles loosened. The exhaustion ebbed, if only slightly.
He stared at his hands—still shaking, but no longer from weakness.
"Get up," the demon rasped. "Follow me."
It turned without waiting and drifted through the stone wall like smoke.
Zen stood. His body ached, but it was bearable now. His mind, though fractured. Shaken.
He took a breath and followed.
The stale air of the slave quarters gave way to the stillness of the outer halls. Torches flickered along the jagged walls, casting uneven shadows that danced like specters. The ceilings stretched unnaturally high, and the walls seemed to breathe. A low vibration ran through them—like something massive, sleeping just beneath the surface.
Outside, the world was crimson twilight—neither night nor day. Towering black spires rose in the distance, cloaked in mist. Strange creatures moved along the ridgelines, their crawling silhouettes casting long, twitching shadows against the sky.
The ghostly demon—Veyrax, he called himself—glided ahead, silent and fluid.
They passed through a rusted gate, descending into a tunnel carved deep into the mountain's heart. Cold seeped into his bones. Whispers echoed from the stone, though Zen couldn't tell if they were real or just remnants of the dream.
Eventually, they emerged into a wide, dim chamber.
The air smelled of metal, ink, and burning bone.
An experimental facility.
Crimson glass tanks lined the walls; each filled with grotesque forms suspended in fluid. Runes etched into the floor pulsed with light—feeding energy into ancient machines that hissed and clicked softly.
Veyrax led him deeper, toward the central chamber.
There, the atmosphere changed.
The air thickened. Colder and Heavier.
Strange devices dangled from the ceiling—like mechanical spiders, dripping fluid, twitching as if half alive. Pipes slithered into the walls. Tables lined with stains. Cages. Jars filled with twitching limbs and blinking eyes.
At the center: a raised platform, surrounded by tall, red-lit tubes. Inside them, shadows writhed. Failures, or things not yet born.
Veyrax bowed low.
His voice was barely a breath.
"Master, I brought him."