The tremors shook the cobbled streets beneath Silas’s feet, each quake a silent warning as he bolted through the mist-laden city. Around him, chaos unfurled. People surged toward the city gates, their faces pale with terror, clutching children, belongings, or nothing at all as they fled. A woman screamed, pulling a limping man along while her wide eyes darted toward the scarlet glow bleeding into the night sky. A cart overturned nearby, spilling crates of grain and sending its panicked driver sprawling. A child cried for their mother amidst the din, their voice swallowed by the cacophony of pounding feet and desperate shouts.
The distant sky glowed with a hazy crimson light, clinging to the clouds like blood smeared across a shroud, and every instinct screamed at him to turn back. But his father, Sullivan, was in that very district, likely attending the gathering near the Royal Palace. Silas pushed himself harder, heart pounding with each step as his mind replayed the moment they parted ways earlier this morning.
His father had been keeping some secrets for a long time, and even now, he wasn’t willing to tell the whole truth. It had stung—more than it should have, really. Silas had swallowed his frustration and isolated himself from Sullivan.
Around him, the exodus of the terrified swelled. A grey-haired man staggered past, shouting for others to hurry as a young soldier barked orders to funnel the crowd through the eastern gates. The acrid scent of smoke grew heavier in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of fear that clung to the fleeing masses.
...And for a while, it had felt satisfying, watching his father falter, helpless to break the silence between them. But that feeling had dulled, fading over the past three months, leaving only the bitter weight of his own stubbornness.
‘What if I end up regretting it forever?’
What if this was his last memory with his father—just cold nods and glares of stifled resentment?
“Damn it! Get a grip,” he muttered, shaking off the creeping dread.
His fists clenched as he ran, guilt gnawing deeper than the fear surging through his veins.
As he neared the marketplace, he saw two familiar figures emerge from the shadows: Rowan and Layla. Their faces mirrored the anxiety that had settled over him. Silas had contacted them and decided to meet here.
“Silas!” Layla’s voice held a tremor of worry, though she tried to steady herself. “Did you feel it too?”
“I did. And look—over there.” Silas pointed toward the western half of the noble district, where the flames climbed higher, casting ominous shadows across the city’s buildings.
Rowan exhaled sharply, his brows furrowing. “It’s... worse than I thought. We have to hurry,” he muttered, determination overtaking his worry.
The trio took off together, cutting through alleys and deserted streets as the warm breath of fire seemed to reach them from afar. Silas felt his stomach twist—this wasn’t just a skirmish. It was as if the entire noble district had been plunged into war, the air heavy with the scent of burning wood and something more acrid, like smouldering metal and flesh.
They were close, so close that they could almost make out the flickering silhouettes of combat in the smoke near the edges of the noble district. But as they rounded a narrow alley, an intense spirit pressure descended upon them, a crushing weight that seemed to press them into the earth itself. It felt like a suffocating blanket, squeezing the breath from their lungs and forcing them to a near halt.
“What... is this?” Layla gasped, clutching her weapon tightly, her knuckles white.
Rowan’s voice was strained, each word forced. “It’s… like nothing I’ve felt before…”
Silas was faring relatively better than Rowan and Layla, but this feeling was still pressing and unpleasant.
This was the first time they bore the full brunt of such a force, which could only be utilised by Tier 4 Soulweavers and above. Layla could feel that their assailant was likely far stronger than her mother.
Silas could feel his legs trembling under the invisible weight until his gaze locked onto a figure present at the other end of the alley. The man wore a wooden mask carved into a twisted smile. Spirit energy radiated from him, dark and thick like a storm, each pulse threatening to drown them.
He gritted his teeth, struggling to steady himself. The crushing weight then increased, forcing Rowan and Layla to their knees, their faces pale and eyes wide, barely able to move under the immense pressure. Silas wasn’t doing much better; each breath felt like he was inhaling smoke, and his limbs shook under the strain. But he couldn’t give in. Not here, not now.
With a flash of determination, Silas extended his hand, summoning Breeze. Though her intangible form rippled in the oppressive atmosphere, the wind spirit spiralled around him, eager to assist. Silas whispered, “Wind Edges.” Breeze responded immediately, sending sharp blades of air toward the masked man, slicing through the misty gloom of the alley. At the same time, Silas slammed his left hand down, activating the Earth Elemental array etched into his arm. The ground around him quaked, spiky rocks rising to attack their assailant from the ground.
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But the masked figure only tilted his head, unconcerned. He leapt onto the nearby building with terrifying speed, his movements fluid as he ricocheted from wall to wall, dodging the Wind Edges effortlessly. Silas barely had a moment to react as the man descended, the dagger in his hand gleaming ominously. Instinct took over, and Silas unsheathed his sword, Ebonheart, slashing upward. Their weapons met with a clash that echoed in the alley, sending a shock through Silas’s arms that nearly made him lose his grip. The man’s strength was unnatural, each parry and deflection growing heavier, more forceful.
Silas’s hand throbbed as the masked man forced him back with a relentless barrage of attacks. But he wouldn’t give up. He mentally willed his Minor Soulbound Spirit to assist him. Desperate, Silas tried using a Spirit Infusion on his body. He had been practising for the past three months, so the surge of power felt familiar.
An intangible power shot through him, doubling his strength and sharpening his senses. His arms steadied, and he met his opponent’s next strike with renewed ferocity, each swing of Ebonheart leaving streaks of spirit energy as he pushed back.
They exchanged blows, the masked man’s attacks unyielding and precise, each one leaving Silas’s hands numb and bleeding from the webs of his fingers. Silas’s focus blurred, his vision narrowing as his body began to reach its limits. In his periphery, he could see Rowan and Layla still motionless, their faces slack as they drifted into unconsciousness under the immense spiritual weight.
Silas bit his tongue hard enough to draw blood as he fought to stay awake. Pain flared through him, jolting his senses, but it only bought him a brief moment. His grip on consciousness faltered, and he barely noticed as the masked man’s hand began to glow with an eerie, ethereal light.
Chains of translucent energy erupted from the masked man’s hand, latching onto Silas’s wrists and ankles. The Soul Shackles bound him in place. Silas struggled, feeling the spectral bonds constrict tighter with every movement, their cold, unforgiving grip searing into his spirit.
Silas strained against the spectral bonds, his limbs aching as he fought for any scrap of power to resist.
The masked man approached slowly, silent and resolute. He raised the hilt of his spirit infused dagger and brought it down against Silas’s temple, which was still covered by a cloth. The world spun, colours dimming as the alley and the flames beyond faded into nothing. The last sensation he felt was the warmth of his blood trickling down, and then, only darkness.
The masked man let out a slow, weary sigh. He knelt beside Silas, his movements calm but heavy with purpose. From within his robes, he drew a small jar, its glass darkened and covered in arcane runes that pulsed faintly in the dim light. A narrow, hollow pipe coiled out from the jar, ending in a thin needle that glinted in his gloved fingers. The masked man lingered, eyes tracing the sharp needle’s point, his hand trembling slightly.
“I’m sorry, young master,” he murmured, his voice low and almost tender, as though speaking to someone he really cared about.
He pressed the needle into Silas’s left arm, drawing it into the vein with precision. Silas’s body gave no reaction, still and oblivious to the pain.
As the crimson liquid seeped into Silas’s veins, the masked man’s gaze softened—a flicker of something unreadable behind the mask.
Once satisfied, he sighed before pulling the needle-free, wiping it, and slipping the jar back into his robes.
Then, closing his eyes in concentration, he gathered his spirit energy and used a Spirit Infusion on his own body, shrouding himself in a cold, spectral glow. He hoisted Silas, Rowan, and Layla with fluid grace, gathering their forms to him. The smoke of the fires wove around them, and as he muttered something about an unfair fate, they disappeared into its dense, curling shadows, leaving the alley empty and silent.
☪︎ ･ﾟ ･ﾟ·:｡･ﾟﾟ･⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆･ﾟ ･ﾟ·:｡･ﾟﾟ･❂
Through the burning remnants of the Noble District, a man walked with a leisurely grace, his steps unhurried and unaffected by the chaos surrounding him. Flames danced along the edges of grand buildings, and the crackling of timber blended with the cries of battle and fear. Blood pooled along the cobblestone paths, staining his footprints, but he moved as if the carnage around him were nothing more than a passing spectacle.
He paused in the middle of the street, the ghostly light of fire illuminating his silhouette against the shadows. With a faint glimmer, a communication stone appeared in his hand as if conjured from thin air. It vibrated slightly, and as he poured his spirit essence into it, a voice crackled to life from the other end.
“Master, I have completed the task as you entrusted,” the voice reported, low and respectful. “The young master has been administered the first dose of refined blood. He will remain weak for a while… but he will become stronger and more resilient afterwards.”
The man in the wooden mask, its carved expression frozen in a cruel smile, let a faint, sad smile slip onto his real lips, hidden behind the mask. “Good. Proceed with the plan,” he replied, his tone smooth and detached.
A brief silence lingered, and then the voice on the other end hesitated. “Master… this is the final moment to reconsider. Are you certain this is the best path for him?”
The man sighed, his fingers tightening around the stone. He gazed through the flames toward the distant palace walls as if seeing far beyond them.
“Yes,” he murmured, after a long pause. Something heavy settled in his voice—regret, maybe… or was it relief? “I’ve thought this through. It’s the last choice I’ll make for Silas.”
Another silence followed, longer and laden with unspoken words. Finally, the voice responded, resigned and unwavering. “Understood, Master.”
The connection cut and the communication stone faded from his hand, vanishing like smoke.
The man lingered a moment longer, staring at the spires against the inferno’s glow, a silent farewell in his eyes. “Goodbye, Silas… forgive me.” Then, with a final breath, he turned and disappeared into the chaos.