The old mill loomed like a decayed titan against the bruised purple of the evening sky, its sagging beams and moss-choked wheel whispering tales of forgotten glory. Walenciusz the Cat strutted ahead, tophat perched defiantly, the feather quivering with every gust of wind that rattled the skeletal structure. Gorrick’s heavy tread stirred the dust, Excalibur slung low and gleaming faintly, while Alice gripped her broom, its runes pulsing with a nervous hum. The Philosopher’s Stone was close—they could feel it, a thrumming pulse in the earth beneath their feet, calling them to destiny or doom.
The trio breached the mill’s threshold, the air thick with mildew and the tang of rust. Shadows danced across splintered walls as Walenciusz lit a Fire Spark, its flickering glow revealing a cavernous interior. Broken machinery sprawled like the bones of some ancient beast, and a rickety staircase spiraled down into darkness. “Down there,” Gorrick grunted, nodding toward the stairs. “Stone’s gotta be below. Smells like trouble, though.”
“Smells like fun,” Walenciusz countered, claws flexing as he took the lead. The stairs groaned under their weight, but they descended into a sprawling basement, its walls slick with damp and etched with arcane runes that pulsed faintly red. The air grew heavy, oppressive, and then—a low growl rumbled from the shadows.
A troll king shambled into view, a colossus of stone-crusted flesh and festering moss, its tusks twisted like gnarled roots. It hefted a warhammer spiked with jagged iron, while a swarm of goblins skittered behind, their crude spears and slings glinting wickedly. “Trespassers!” the troll roared, its voice a thunderclap of rage. “The Master owns this pit!”
Walenciusz flashed a rogue’s grin. “Master, eh? Let’s claw that title away!” He unleashed a Wind Gust, the spell slamming the goblins into a shrieking pile of limbs and spite. Gorrick charged, Excalibur blazing as it clashed with the troll king’s hammer in a cascade of sparks. Alice darted to the flank, shouting, “Ignis Burst!” Her broom spat a fireball, turning a knot of goblins into a howling bonfire of ash and screams.
The troll king swung, shattering stone where Gorrick had stood a heartbeat before. Walenciusz vaulted onto a rusted beam, pelting Fire Sparks that scorched the beast’s hide. “Whiskers, catch!” Gorrick shouted, hurling Excalibur upward. Walenciusz snagged it, the blade’s starlight igniting as he dove, carving a radiant gash across the troll’s arm. It roared, black ichor spilling, while Alice’s Ventus Sweep sliced through the goblin stragglers, leaving them broken and scattered.
Gorrick reclaimed his sword, plunging it into the troll king’s leg with a wet crunch. Walenciusz leapt onto its back, dagger sinking deep into its neck—twisting until its roars drowned in a gurgle. The beast crashed down, the warhammer thudding beside it, and silence reclaimed the chamber.
Amid the wreckage, a crude altar rose from the floor, crowned by the Philosopher’s Stone—a crimson gem, alive with swirling light, its pulse a heartbeat in the dark. Walenciusz approached, tophat askew, eyes gleaming. “Power. Freedom. Ours.” Gorrick wiped his brow, Excalibur humming. “Easy, Whiskers. That thing’s got teeth.” Alice nodded, broom trembling. “It’s… watching us.”
Before Walenciusz could touch it, the air twisted. A voice—silken, venomous, and achingly familiar—slithered from the gloom. “You’ve done well, my little rebels. Paved my path nicely.” A figure emerged, cloaked in shadow, its eyes twin coals of burning red. Percival—or what had once been Percival—smiled, fangs glinting in a mouth too wide, too sharp. His blind scars were gone, replaced by that crimson gaze, and his cane tapped with a rhythm that summoned dread. The Stone’s power coursed through him, stolen in a moment of spite-fueled sorcery, turning him into something beyond mortal—an unbeatable force, vampire and master in one.
“Surprised, Walenciusz?” Percival hissed, his voice a mockery of the old man’s rasp. “You took my sight, my hat—my life. But the Stone gave me more. Now I command the shadows—and these.” He snapped his fingers, and the earth shuddered. Trolls—dozens of them—erupted from hidden tunnels, their stone hides glistening, eyes blank with obedience. Gorrick cursed, raising Excalibur, its light flaring against the encroaching dark.
Percival moved like a shadow’s wrath, a blur too swift to track. Alice swung her broom, a Wind Gust tearing through the air, but he reappeared behind her, chuckling darkly. Walenciusz snarled, hurling a Fire Spark—Percival danced aside with a rogue’s finesse, closing on the altar. “The Stone’s mine,” he said, claws brushing its surface.
The trolls surged, a tide of muscle and malice. Gorrick met one head-on, Excalibur slashing through its arm in a burst of starlight, banishing the dark. Walenciusz wove between two, dagger flashing, his Wind Gust toppling them into a snarling heap—chaos worthy of a cat’s finest hunt. Alice cried, “Ignis Burst!” and a troll howled as flames devoured its face, stumbling blind.
But Percival was a storm unbound. He darted through their spells and steel, a predator reborn, his laughter a whipcrack in the gloom. Gorrick lunged, Excalibur blazing, only for Percival to seize the blade between his claws, wrenching it aside with inhuman might. Walenciusz leapt, dagger aimed for his heart—Percival’s grip lashed out, snaring him midair and slamming him against the wall with a bone-rattling thud. Alice’s Ventus Sweep met only shadows as he vanished, reappearing with a troll at his flank, its hammer arcing for her. She rolled, broom sparking, but the odds were spiraling.
“You can’t win,” Percival sneered, red eyes blazing as he lifted the Stone, its light fusing with his own. “I’m endless now. You will bow—or bleed.”
Then—the twist. A tremor shook the chamber, and Percival faltered, his smirk cracking. The Stone pulsed violently in his grasp, fractures snaking across its crimson face. “No… what’s this?” he hissed. Percival froze, head tilting as if hearing a silent call. His smirk, now replaced by a flicker of… fear? “No,” he hissed, staring at the Stone. “Not you.” The gem pulsed violently, and a crack split its surface. Light erupted, blinding, and from within emerged a shape—small, sleek, feline. A cat, black as pitch, with eyes like molten gold, stepped free, stretching lazily as if waking from a nap. Percival recoiled, hissing, “The Guardian… it lives!”
Walenciusz blinked, tophat slipping. “What in the nine hells…?” Gorrick’s jaw dropped, Excalibur dipping. Alice clutched her broom, whispering, “That’s no ordinary cat.”
The newcomer yawned, fixing its gaze on Percival. “Begone,” it said, voice a low rumble that shook the walls. The vampire shrieked, dissolving into mist and fleeing into the dark. Then those golden eyes turned to the trio, gleaming with ancient mischief. “Well,” it purred, “you’ve stirred quite the mess, haven’t you?”