Chapter 12 Shadows of the Sunken City

Scorn stepped forward, his whip-like arm snapping out with unnerving speed. The two thugs turned to run, but before they could take another step, they were yanked back and held firm in his grip.

“I’ll never understand how people get desperate enough to think they can outrun me,” Scorn muttered, his tone cold and detached.

With a swift motion, he hurled them into a nearby pile of trash. The impact sent garbage flying, and the two landed with a groan, sprawled on the filthy pavement.

“Ugh!” one of them grunted, clutching his side.

Scorn’s arm retracted, morphing seamlessly back into its human form. He approached the fallen men, his steps deliberate. Mifa followed silently behind him, her face unreadable.

Reaching into his pocket, Scorn pulled out the severed finger and crouched low, holding it up to their faces. “Now,” he began, his voice laced with menace, “would you two be so kind as to tell me what this is?”

The thugs’ eyes widened in terror. One of them squealed, his voice trembling. “H-HIEEE! I… I WON’T TALK!”

Scorn sighed. “That’s a shame.” Without hesitation, his spear flashed, whistling through the air as it cleaved the thug’s body clean in two. Blood splattered across the ground, painting the scene in crimson.

“Eeeek!” the remaining thug shrieked, shrinking away from his companion’s lifeless body.

Scorn turned his gaze to the survivor, his crimson eyes glowing with killing intent. “I don’t have time for this,” he said sharply. “My patience is running thin.”

“I’LL TALK! I’LL TELL YOU EVERYTHING! Just… please don’t kill me!” the thug begged, tears streaming down his face.

“Good,” Scorn replied, his voice steady. “First question: Who are you people?”

The thug swallowed hard, his voice shaking. “We’re… we’re villagers from Morles. We were promised wealth and protection by a group… a group that worships the Witch of the End.”

Scorn’s expression darkened. “The cult,” he muttered under his breath. His thoughts raced. Morles… one of the villages hit hard by last year’s drought. Easy targets for manipulation—desperate, disposable, and insignificant enough to serve as pawns.

“And what does the cult demand in return for this… protection and wealth?” Scorn pressed.

“They… they make us renounce our beliefs and religion. And they force us to do missions when ordered,” the thug explained, trembling.

Scorn’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve been watching us ever since we left the guild earlier, haven’t you? Why? And why attack us?”

“You… you looked suspicious,” the thug stammered. “And… and you were asking about the bandit raid. They told us to deal with anyone investigating.”

Scorn motioned for him to continue. “The raid—what do you know?”

“It… it was orchestrated by the cult,” the thug admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “They used it to test a new drug… one they gave to the bandits. They told us to eliminate anyone who might dig too deep.”

Scorn tilted his head, his tone darkening. “So they have this much influence in the town. Interesting. But that’s not all, is it? The reports of missing people—what do you know about those?”

The thug froze, panic flooding his face. “I-I can’t! They’ll kill me if I—”

Before he could finish, his left arm was severed in a single, brutal slash. “GUAAAAAH!” he screamed, clutching the bleeding stump.

Mifa recoiled in shock, taking a step back. “Scorn—”

“Quiet,” Scorn snapped, his patience visibly fraying. He grabbed the thug by the collar and hauled him up. “Let me make something clear: I don’t have the time for cowardice. The city guards will be here soon, and I won’t let this situation get any more complicated than it already is.”

The thug whimpered, his entire body shaking. “I’ll talk! I’ll talk!”

“Good.” Scorn turned to Mifa. “Heal him.”

Mifa hesitated, glancing between Scorn and the injured man. After a moment, she stepped forward, picking up the severed arm. Holding it carefully, she began chanting, her hands glowing with a soft light. “Oh light of existence, who birthed life, give this child the power to restore what once was. High Heal.”

The magic worked quickly, reattaching the arm as the thug whimpered in pain.

Scorn crouched down again, his tone sharp. “Let me remind you—this can happen as many times as it takes. Talk.”

Tears streamed down the thug’s face as he nodded frantically. “P-please… I’ll tell you everything…”

-Break-

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“Hah… hah…” Victor stumbled into a narrow alley, clutching his side as he struggled to catch his breath. The rain poured under the pale moonlight, soaking his thin frame. Thunder rumbled in the distance, echoing the dread in his heart.

His hand pressed against his side, trying in vain to stem the bleeding from the shallow but persistent wound. Every step sent jolts of pain through his body. His chest heaved as he muttered to himself, “Who… who were those people?”

He glanced over his shoulder, half-expecting to see them emerge from the shadows. His mind raced, replaying the events that had brought him here. It was supposed to be a simple trip to post an expedition request for Thalmyra’s sunken city. But somewhere along the way, they began following him—at first subtle, then increasingly aggressive.

When he tried to lose them in the maze of alleyways, they cornered him. He remembered the blade flashing in the dim light and the searing pain as it sliced into his side. Somehow, he’d fought back and escaped. Maybe it was luck. Or maybe it was his knowledge of the city. Either way, he wasn’t safe yet.

Victor slumped against a dumpster, gripping his leather briefcase like a lifeline. “I can’t die here…” he whispered, his voice shaking. “Not before I find the truth.”

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His legs wobbled as he pushed himself forward, blood dripping onto the wet cobblestones. His vision blurred, the world around him fading into a haze of pain and exhaustion.

Then he saw them. Two figures at the end of the alley.

He turned, only to find three more blocking his retreat.

“Shit…” he muttered, clutching the briefcase tighter. He screamed, his voice raw with desperation. “Somebody! Guards! Help me!” But the storm swallowed his cries.

His knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the wet ground, the rain mingling with the blood pooling around him. “Am I… going to die here?”

A wave of regret washed over him as his strength gave out. “Professor… I’m sorry… I couldn’t live up to your expectations…” Tears welled in his eyes, only to be carried away by the rain.

Just as his vision dimmed, a soft light pierced the darkness. Through the haze, he saw her—a silver-haired woman kneeling beside him, her hand reaching for his. Her face was radiant, almost otherworldly, offering warmth in his final moments.

A weak smile tugged at his lips. “So this is it… my time to die…” he thought, as the world slipped into darkness.

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Knock, knock.

The sharp raps on the door jolted Viktor awake. Streams of sunlight poured across the cluttered desk, highlighting the scattered papers and empty ink bottles from another sleepless night. He rubbed his eyes, groaning as he stumbled to the door, his exhaustion evident in the dark circles beneath his eyes.

As he opened the door, a familiar figure stood before him—a short, bald old man with a silver beard, beaming warmly.

"Professor Harrold?" Viktor blinked in surprise. "What brings you here?" He stepped aside to let the professor in, quickly taking his coat.

"Just passing through town and thought it’d be a good time to give you this," Harrold said, handing Viktor a neatly wrapped box in vibrant red paper. "Happy birthday, son."

Viktor’s breath caught. His gaze shifted from the box to the professor. "Y-you remembered?" he asked, his voice cracking slightly.

Harrold chuckled. "Why wouldn’t I? You’re like a son to me, Viktor. Now, go on—open it!"

With trembling hands, Viktor unwrapped the gift. Inside was a beautifully crafted brown leather coat and a matching leather briefcase, embossed with the emblem of the Kingdom's Investigative Police Unit. Viktor stared, wide-eyed.

"I was planning to give it to you after your graduation," Harrold said with a smile. "But now feels like the right time."

Viktor hugged the professor tightly. "Thank you... so much," he whispered.

Harrold patted his back gently. "I promised your father I’d look after you after he was... gone. Seeing the man you’re becoming, I know he’d be proud."

Viktor pulled back, his voice soft. "I hope so... Thank you, Professor."

Harrold turned toward the door. "Well, I’d better get going. The station’s swamped with reports of strange disappearances. Can’t leave all the work to the younger ones, now can I?" He chuckled, waving goodbye.

"Goodbye, Professor," Viktor said with a faint smile. But as Harrold’s form disappeared down the hallway, a pang of dread twisted in Viktor’s chest.

Viktor watched helplessly as Harrold vanished down the dark corridor, his footsteps fading into the void. A cold sense of foreboding gripped him, his outstretched hand trembling. "No… don’t go," he whispered. But the hallway stretched endlessly, the light dimming until only shadows remained.

Suddenly, the shadows grew heavier, pressing down on him, suffocating. The world around him crumbled into a swirling abyss. Harrold’s voice echoed faintly, distorted and distant. "You’ll be fine, Viktor... won’t you?"

"I… I don’t want to lose anyone else…" Viktor muttered into the consuming blackness, his voice swallowed whole. Then, there was nothing but silence.

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A sharp voice ripped through the void like a crack of thunder.

"I WIN AGAIN!"

Viktor’s eyes snapped open, the world around him spinning as reality came rushing back. He blinked against the dim glow of a nearby lamp, the scent of ink and wet cloth filling the room. Two figures hovered nearby—a masked man holding a quill aloft like a trophy and a silver-haired woman, her arms crossed with a mix of irritation and resignation.

"Ugh... What happened?" Viktor groaned, his head pounding as he tried to sit up. His voice barely reached over the escalating argument.

"You cheated! I said no adding extra columns!" the woman scolded, jabbing a finger at the masked man.

"Bah! Rules are meant to be bent," the man shot back with a grin, twirling the quill theatrically.

"Enough, both of you," Viktor rasped, his voice weak but firm. "Can someone tell me what’s going on?"

The silver-haired woman’s head whipped toward him, her irritation vanishing in an instant. "Oh, you’re awake!" she exclaimed, grabbing a cloth to dab at his forehead.

The masked man groaned, tossing the quill aside. "Took you long enough, kid."

"I’m... alive?" Viktor looked down at his bare chest, running his hands over his sides, searching for wounds. His gaze flicked back to the woman, realization dawning.

He scrambled out of bed and dropped to his knees. "An angel! Miss Angel, thank you for saving me! May I have the honor of knowing your name?"

"An angel? Hah!" the masked man snorted.

Before he could say more, the woman elbowed him sharply in the gut, sending him doubling over with a groan. "You little—!"

"It seems there’s been a misunderstanding," she said, ignoring him. "I’m not an angel. I just happen to be skilled with healing magic."

"Damn right she’s not," the man muttered, staggering upright. "That hurt, by the way."

Viktor squinted at him. "Wait... you’re Mr. Aizen from the adventurer’s guild, right?"

"No, it was me, Dio!" the man exclaimed, striking a bizarre pose.

"You mean that name was fake?!" Viktor asked, stunned.

"Ignore him," the woman interrupted. "He’s insane. Anyway, we saved you from the cultists who ambushed you in the alley."

Viktor’s expression darkened as memories resurfaced. "The alley... I remember now. I thought I was going to die. But how did you find me?"

"We don’t mean you any harm," the woman reassured him. "We’re just trying to learn more about the cultists who attacked you."

"A cult? Why would a cult be after me?" Viktor asked, bewildered.

"You’ve been investigating the missing persons cases, haven’t you?" the masked man—now Scorn—cut in. "The cult doesn’t take kindly to anyone poking around their operations."

Viktor slumped slightly, his grip tightening on his briefcase. "So I’ve dug too deep... just like the professor."

Scorn’s gaze sharpened. "The professor? What happened to him?"

Viktor hesitated, his voice heavy. "He was looking into the same disappearances. I told him not to, but... he didn’t listen. He vanished a week ago." His tone turned resolute. "But I won’t stop. I have to find out the truth."

Scorn tilted his head. "Let me guess—you’re headed to Thalmyra?"

Viktor froze. "That’s classified information."

Scorn smirked. "The people they’ve taken? They’ll die at the next full moon."

Viktor’s eyes widened. "What?! How do you know that?"

Scorn leaned forward. "Let’s just say I know more about this cult than you think. And as luck would have it, I also know my way around Thalmyra. You’ll need a guide if you want to make it out alive."

Viktor frowned. "I don’t know if I can trust you."

"If we wanted you dead, we’d have left you bleeding in the alley," Scorn replied matter-of-factly.

After a pause, Viktor extended his hand. "Fine. I’ll be in your care... Mr. Dio."

Scorn laughed and shook his hand. "That’s not my real name, but sure—let’s go with that."

Scorn’s grin widened as he released Viktor’s hand. "Good choice, kid. But let me warn you—Thalmyra isn’t a place for second guesses."

Mifa shifted uncomfortably, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. "Thalmyra isn’t just dangerous; it’s a graveyard. The streets are like a maze, half of them submerged beneath the sea, and the rest are crawling with monsters that make death look like mercy."

Viktor hesitated, the weight of their words pressing down on him. "I don’t care how dangerous it is. I need answers."

Scorn chuckled, his crimson eyes gleaming with amusement. "Oh, you’ll get your answers. But the price of curiosity in a place like that... it’s rarely worth it."

He turned toward the door, pushing it open to reveal the dark, stormy night outside. A cold gust of wind swept into the room, carrying the faint scent of salt and decay. Viktor shivered but clenched his fists, forcing himself to stand firm.

As Scorn stepped out into the shadows, he glanced back over his shoulder, his tone low and foreboding. "Get ready, kid. In Thalmyra, the monsters aren’t the only things waiting to tear you apart."

The door slammed shut behind them, leaving Viktor staring at the empty space, a chill running down his spine. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled, as if the city itself was calling his name.