"Now what's next?" Zola asked, her curiosity piqued as she looked at Vas.

"Technically, we're set to go after another spirit, this time a Specter," Vas replied, glancing at her.

"True," Morrigan's voice echoed in Vas's mind, her calm, ever-watchful presence there as usual. "But we're going to need a trusted tattoo artist as well."

Vas nodded slightly to himself, his thoughts already turning to the task at hand. He proceeded to call Anya, knowing she had connections. She had been the one to find the tattoo artist for his last work, a master who specialized in nanobyte tattoos—a rare skill and one that wasn't easy to come by. The intricate process required not only precise artistry but an understanding of how the nanobytes would interact with Anima energy. And just as he had hoped, the artist was willing to help again.

"That's good news," Vas said, relieved. "Nanobyte tattooing isn't easy, and finding someone who's both skilled and knows how to keep things quiet? That's even harder." He wasn't ready to reveal the full extent of his abilities to the world just yet.

"The artist is sorted," Morrigan chimed in once more in his thoughts, "now we just need the spirit."

Vas turned to Zola, "Already got someone lined up for the tattoo. Now, it's just a matter of finding the spirit."

"No problem there," Morrigan said smoothly, her voice like a cool breeze in his mind. "We're headed to the cemetery."

Vas repeated aloud, "Apparently, we're going to a cemetery."

Zola raised an eyebrow, smirking. "A cemetery? You really know how to show a girl a good time."

"I do my best," Vas responded with a grin, though his mind was already focusing on what lay ahead.

Cemeteries were rare in this time, a luxury reserved only for the wealthy. Humanity had expanded far beyond Gaia, but land was still precious. On Gaia, many regions remained unexplored, dense with jungle and untamed wilds. The thought of wasting such valuable land on burial grounds was almost unthinkable. Most now preferred alternative methods of remembrance, leaving cemeteries to be places of quiet, haunting prestige.

As they neared the cemetery, its imposing gates loomed before them, jet-black and adorned with intricate carvings that told forgotten stories of long-dead souls. The gates slowly creaked open, revealing a place that was as much a display of wealth as it was a resting place for the dead. The cemetery sprawled out like a small town, silent and vast. Tall, obsidian structures, polished to a flawless sheen, stood like sentinels under the pale moonlight. Each one was smooth and featureless at a distance, but as they walked closer, neon lights flickered to life across the black surfaces, illuminating the names of those interred within, glowing softly like ghostly echoes of the people they once were.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Rows upon rows of these monolithic structures stretched endlessly before them, connected by wide stone paths that wound their way through the grounds like veins through a body. The air was still, unnaturally so, and carried with it an unsettling chill. Each tombstone seemed to pulse faintly with energy, as if the spirits buried there were not entirely at rest.

Morrigan's voice stirred in Vas's mind, her usual calm, analytical tone cutting through the eerie silence. "There's a Specter here," she said. "Strong enough to be of help to you."

Vas scanned the cemetery, the atmosphere thick with the weight of forgotten souls. It wasn't long before he spotted the Specter. The wraith-like figure drifted among the tombs, its form ethereal and intangible, like a shadow made of mist and flickering light. Its body pulsed faintly, glowing with an eerie rhythm, like the faint heartbeat of something not entirely dead.

The Specter's form shifted, a constantly moving blur of translucent energy that glowed faintly from within. It was almost as if it barely existed in this world, its edges fading into nothingness before reappearing again. Its presence seemed to distort the air around it, like a ripple moving through a still pond. Neon-blue tendrils of light trailed behind it, connecting it to the digital pulses embedded in the cemetery's stones, as if drawing power from the very technology keeping the cemetery alive.

Without hesitation, Vas extended an Anima thread. The Specter responded immediately, as if it had been waiting for him. It glided toward him, drawn by the connection, its faint glow intensifying as it neared. There was a sense of eerie calm as the spirit reached him, no resistance, only silent acceptance.

"Take him to the forge and leave it there for now," Morrigan instructed, her voice clear in his mind.

Zola, standing beside him, looked around the cemetery, her gaze following the path of the spirit. "This place... it's hauntingly beautiful," she murmured. Then, glancing at Vas, she added with a smirk, "I mean, for a first date, it's not bad."

Vas chuckled, feeling a mix of relief and tension. "Well, I do aim to impress."

Zola's expression softened for a moment, her eyes lingering on Vas. The subtle humor between them didn't erase the reality of what he was about to do—the responsibility of taming such a powerful spirit, the weight of everything he carried. The quiet tension between them wasn't just from the spirits or the cemetery, but from something deeper, an unspoken connection that seemed to grow stronger with every shared experience.

"Oh, hey!" Sarah looked up, clearly surprised to see him. "Didn't think I'd run into you here. You getting some ink?"

Vas blinked, thrown off by the sight of her in this context. "What else would I be doing here? But… weren't you a DJ?"

Sarah chuckled and shrugged. "I do more things than just spin tracks."

"Okay…" Vas replied, still processing the situation.

Zola, standing just behind him, watched the exchange with a growing sense of unease. There was something about the way they were talking—so casual, so familiar—that stirred a strange feeling inside her. She couldn't quite put her finger on it, but it left her unsettled.

Just then, the tattoo artist Vas had met before emerged from a side room. His body was a canvas of intricate tattoos, from his neck to his hands. He was lean, with a shaved head and thick-framed glasses, giving him an air of meticulousness.

"Nice to see you again, man," the tattoo artist said, his tone friendly but with a hint of curiosity. "So, what happened to the last tattoo I did for you?"