On the day he was going to be killed, Zachary woke early in the morning with a broken, agonizing scream.
He had dreamed of home.
In the dream, he was getting ready for school. His parents had returned late from work, leaving him in charge of making breakfast for his sister and himself. On the fridge, there was money and a note wishing him a good day. It was mundane. It was soft. It was a life that no longer existed.
Outside the Cathedral, the Dark Sea hadn't receded yet, and the Fallen Terror of the Crimson Spire hadn't begun to cast its profane light over the Shore. It had been a week since Zachary's victory over the Stone Saint, a week spent hunting and exploring the ruins with his loyal intern, unaware that the clock was ticking.
Over at the Bright Castle, Gunlaug was beginning to grow wary of Changing Star's growing influence. Nothing grave yet, but enough to warrant provocations. Nephis, meanwhile, was gathering followers under the blazing banner of the Immortal Flame, preparing for the expedition to the Slayer statue.
Gemma and his Hunters were readying themselves for the ruins, while Kido's restless insistence on finding Zachary had finally reached the ears of Tessai. Even Seishan watched the board with amusement, bidding her time.
It was, by all accounts, a normal morning on the Forgotten Sho—
"Like hell it is!"
Zachary gasped, his lungs seizing as he flailed his arms, trying to peel off the soft sheets clinging to his sweat-drenched skin. Something was wrong—violently, fundamentally wrong. A constant, low ringing pierced the base of his skull in a sharp, rhythmic pulse. A maddening warning.
Danger Sense wasn't just tingling; it was screaming.
The warning didn't come as a sudden flare of heat or a reactive spark. It was a cold, leaden weight that settled in the pit of his stomach the moment his eyes opened. Usually, the ability was a guide through the chaos of a blade's path.
This was different. This was a prophecy.
He tried to sit up, but a sudden, violent convulsion racked his frame. He barely made it to the edge of the bed before his stomach emptied itself—a bitter, bile-filled reminder that his instincts had already surrendered. His soul knew what was coming, even if his mind was still frantically searching for an exit.
Death.
It was coming for him. He breathed heavily, tremors coursing through his arms as he forced himself out of bed. His foot caught on the corner of the frame and he stumbled, slamming into the wall. He pressed his face against the cold stone, desperate for even a second of solace.
In that brief respite, the realization dawned on him. He had dreamed. It was a feat considered impossible in the Dream Realm.
Zachary's shaking intensified. He had no affinity for visions like Cassie; there was no magical explanation for this. It was simply an ominous augury—a way for his subconscious to find peace before the end. A last glance at the people whose names he had forgotten, but whose memory he carried like a stone in his heart.
"I-I'm not Santiago fucking Nasar..." Zachary whispered, a trembling, hollow chuckle escaping his throat.
His mind was clouding. His head spun in sync with the relentless ringing of the warning in his skull. Suddenly, he felt a wet trail sliding down his cheek. He tried to tell himself it was sweat, but he knew better.
He was crying. He was going to die.
Danger Sense felt the sentence placed over his head. Even if the threat wasn't known, the degree and certainity of his demise was enough for it to be detected. It was trying desperately to warn him, to find a way to avoid it in any way it could. But the threat and the sentence was already set in stone, so the only way it could find was remind him of his fate.
An Inevitable Fate.
Zachary could feel how the warning was increasing ever so slightly, more frecuent, more sharp and more certain. It was a timer. His heart froze as he came to terms with it.
He would not survive the night.
Suddenly, everything sharpened. The world lost its color.
The tremors stopped. His heart began beating steadily, a resolute drum in his chest. Zachary turned to look at his hand; the shade of grey moved normally, detached from the panic of a moment ago. He understood what had happened, but no chuckle of relief followed.
Under the weight of such absolute certainty and desperate emotion, his Mind had done the only thing it could to increase his chances of survival: it had severed the connection to his heart. Now, only apathy and a hollow, mechanical calm nested within him.
His thoughts began to turn, efficient and sharp. The first question appeared:
"Why?"
He deleted it instantly. The reasons didn't matter; causes had already determined the consequences. Something wanted him dead, and that fact would not change regardless of the motive. A more logical question took its place:
"What can I do?"
The question opened branches of thought. Under the emotional flatness, his thinking process was pragmatic—almost algorithmic.
An option appeared: Run.
Under such a threat, there was no shame in retreat. It wouldn't be cowardice, merely cold judgment. He could return to the Outer Settlement; despite his parting words with Nephis, he knew he would be received. Or he could try his luck with the Host. Their insistence was a clear sign of his value to them.
But even with his heart in grey-scale, his true purpose remained. While these options guaranteed safety, they were shackles. To return home, he needed strength. Joining either group would stunt his growth, stripping away his freedom in exchange for a protection that was never truly free. Obligations and restraints would follow.
More importantly, he knew deep down that whatever was hunting him would not allow him back into the darkness of the Dark City.
The second option appeared: Fight.
He considered it without caring how impossible it sounded. He was aware of his foretold death, but he could assume his executor was unaware of his Danger Sense. If he acted on this knowledge, he could strip the initiative from the hunter. But time was short, and information was scarce. To take the initiative, he needed to be more prepared than the threat itself.
"What's in my pocket?"
The grumpy voice of Eddard suddenly echoed in his head, sounding so real he could have sworn the man was standing in the Priestess's room. With the memory, a stream of emotion surged through the block—and with it, overwhelming shame.
He revisited the options. This time, the rejection wasn't just pragmatic; it was an act of intense, emotional defiance. By returning, he wouldn't just be losing potential growth—he would be burying his personal revolution with his own hands.
He had spoken so boldly to Nephis about purpose. He had claimed, with a nervous heart, that one could change their resolution for a better future. Was he really going to throw the towel the moment he saw a death flag?
The core of the problem was clear. He was planning to clash against the overwhelming tide of Fate. How could he ever hope to succeed if he bailed at the first sign of—
Suddenly, he stopped. A violent surge of nausea broke through his emotional block. He couldn't contain it. He scrambled to the side of the Goddess's statue, leaning over her cold stone shoulder as he threw up into the main hall of the Cathedral.
He didn't even have the strength to lampoon about the Forsaken Knight living below. One thought thundered in his head, growing more certain with every second:
He was trying to change Fate. And just as he was taking his first steps, he had been handed a death sentence. The terrifying truth was that every "safe" option he could take would simply throw him back onto the destined road. Back into the main story.
Joining Nephis in her burning crusade or clashing against her. Either way, he would be taking his place as the Burning Wheel volutarily.
Zachary suddenly felt watched. Every shadow in the cathedral seemed to pulse with eyes, mocking his foolish thoughts of rebellion. He felt small—a speck of dust beneath the heel of something vast and ancient. The shivering returned as he realized his every move might be known before it even finished forming in his mind.
But then, a memory surfaced through the dread.
He remembered the punishment he'd endured after usurping the Forbidden Lineage. He remembered the contemptuous way the Spell and Fate had toyed with his spirit, trying to shatter him for the sin of standing against them. He remembered how, in the smallest corner of his broken self, he had once begged for death.
Fear was replaced by fury.
A maddening sense of wrath ignited in his chest as his heart began thumping loudly—heatedly, hatedly. The death sentence was still there, looming over him, but it was no longer a warning. It was a dare.
"Watch me..." Zachary whispered, a vindictive frown etching itself onto his face. A blazing, crimson glow escaped his eyes, cutting through the darkness of the Cathedral like a brand.
Despite the fire in his heart, his Mind remained cool. He wouldn't allow his rage to lead him into a blunder. He returned to the core problem: he didn't know the nature of the threat. Without that information, he couldn't build a specific trap. He lacked knowledge, and worse, he lacked time.
'Don't lose focus...' Zachary commanded himself.
He racked his brain for an answer, eventually settling into the grey emotional block once more. He needed to think with the precision of an artisan.
"...I guess I'll just have to prepare something that can work in a wide spectrum," he mused.
Syringes hadn't changed their basic design for 150 years. It wasn't due to a lack of creativity; it was because simplicity was the ultimate form of efficiency. Zachary's objective was now the same. Instead of a plan to kill a specific monster, he would build a plan to maximize his own survival. A wide, simple, and brutal safety net.
Zachary exited the Cathedral with careful steps, walking into the main plaza. Before leaving, he turned to stare into the abyss beyond the main doors. He stood there for a few seconds, considering the dark depths of the basement, then shook his head.
The Forsaken Knight couldn't be the source of this sentence. He had lived above the devil for a week; if the Knight intended to claim him, it would have happened the moment he stepped inside.
He summoned the Carapace Echo and looked down at the Witness' Testament he was wearing. The mantle had the potential to be a top-tier armor Memory, but its defensive capabilities were currently lacking. If he wanted to increase his survival changes, he needed to bolster his defense by any means necessary.
Thankfully, he knew exactly where to find the materials.
With the Echo leading the way, Zachary headed toward the Ruins. The morning was beginning to cast its first rays of light over the Dark City, with the shadow of the Crimson Spire laying tenebrously over the ruins like a funeral shroud. Moving at this hour increased his chances of running into the Host or Nephis's hunters, but he couldn't bring himself to care.
After all, Zachary was scheduled to die that same night.
He began acting immediately. Moving south through the ruins, Cinder Eyes began shifting, picking up a change in the atmosphere—not the ethereal kind, but something physical. A salty wind blew in from the west, and his skin pricked at the increased humidity. A faint smell of ozone began to flow along the breeze. These were clear signs of a storm, yet when he looked up, no clouds broke the monotonous grey of the distance.
Shaking his head, Zachary continued. He advanced with the Echo ahead, wary of both creatures and human encounters. They had to choose their route carefully. Even with his experience and the Echo acting as a diversion, their progress was steady but agonizingly slow.
Because something was wrong... Danger Sense was failing him.
Under the strain of keeping tabs on his death sentence, his sixth sense was late to detect the immediate dangers that would have otherwise been obvious. Danger Sense was not omniscient; it was currently preoccupied, its entire bandwidth dedicated to keeping watch on his Doomsday Clock. It was a compass that could only point to the north of his own demise.
Zachary clenched his teeth, forcing his emotions back into the grey box, and pushed forward. He was looking for a Nightmare Creature he had been eyeing for a while—highly territorial and showing growing signs of intelligence. It was an Awakened Monster on the verge of ascending to a Demon.
He had spent the past week observing its habits, waiting for the moment it began the taxing process of forming a third core. He had hoped to fight it while it was weakened, perhaps even securing a powerful Memory in the process.
But Zachary couldn't wait for the "right moment" anymore. He didn't want a new armor Memory or a long-term investment. He needed raw material. Now.
After a couple of hours, Zachary and the Echo reached their destination. It was a low square leading to a second residential level via a set of blackened, narrow stairs. His objective was a three-story building with a side wall that had completely collapsed, exposing the interiors like a dollhouse.
Most of the interior was draped in thick strings and webs that shimmered strangely under the grey sky. At the center of the web, posing high and menacingly, was an Iron Spider. Huge armored plates covered its body and legs, leaving only its belly unguarded—save for the stinger that secreted a hissing, acidic venom.
Zachary sighed at the sight. He would have preferred to hunt in better conditions, with more preparation and a detailed tactical map. But the feeling of doom was ever-present, an indifferent, ticking clock reminding him that time was a luxury he had already spent.
He needed to act now.
Zachary didn't have time for a masterpiece. He summoned Antlered Wrath, the heavy warhammer humming with a low, predatory vibration as he began charging kinetic energy into the weapon.
"Go," he hissed.
Pepe Silvia skittered forward. The Iron Spider, sensitive to the slightest vibration, detected the blasphemous aura of the Echo immediately. Driven by an ancient, territorial instinct to purge the defiant, the monstrosity lunged from its web, its iron-shod legs clattering against the stone like hammers on an anvil.
As the Echo lured the beast toward the center of the square, Zachary scaled the side of a neighboring building, his fingers digging into the crumbling masonry. His heart was a frantic drum, but his mind remained trapped in that grey, analytical cage.
Pepe Silvia bolted back toward Zachary's position. Just as the spider loomed over the Echo, Zachary dropped.
He fell like a meteor. Antlered Wrath, fully charged, slammed into the spider's front-right joint. The impact was deafening—a sickening crunch of chitin and iron. The leg snapped, and the spider shrieked, a sound like grinding metal.
The fight had begun.
Zachary instantly swapped the hammer for Ender's Solace. He moved with the frantic grace of a cornered animal, his blade darting toward the unarmored articulations. He had fought carapaced horrors before, and he knew where the ghost lived in the machine. But today, the machine was broken.
His body was stiff. Despite the emotional mitigation, his biology was in open revolt against the constant, suffocating pressure of his impending demise. His muscles coiled too tight; his breath was shallow and jagged. He redirected the stinger with the flat of the blade, but what once would have been an opening he could exploit was now missed.
His legs responded a moment too late, his tense shoulders refusing to move as fluidly as they had hundreds of times before.
Worse, he was fighting ghosts.
Danger Sense screamed beneath him, and he jumped to the Echo's leg to propel himself away from the sudden danger. He looked down to see what had caused it—only to see nothing. With a shocked expression, Zachary was a second too late to react to a real attack from the spider. Only a quick shift of his waist let him avoid the deadly blow.
Zachary cursed inwardly as he swallowed heavily. His body, conditioned by months of total reliance on Danger Sense, was jerking and reacting to avoid strikes that weren't there. His sixth sense was so saturated with the 'End' that it was hallucinating 'Means'. A phantom blade, a spectral sting—he reacted to them all, leaving himself wide open to the real iron legs swinging at his ribs.
"Focus! "he roared internally. 'Ignore the sense! Trust your eyes!'
He forced himself to rely solely on Cinder Eyes. The world slowed into a strobing mess of grey and red lines.
The spider spun, firing steel-thick cables to pull itself across the square with terrifying agility. Zachary dived behind Pepe Silvia, using the Echo's reinforced shell as a shield against the acidic spray from the spider's stinger.
In that moment, he noticed something chilling. Despite the Echo carrying his blood—and therefore the [Blasphemer] aura—the spider ignored it the moment Zachary stepped into view. The Echo was a spark; Zachary was the sun. The creature's hatred was locked onto him with a purity that transcended hunger.
Zachary rolled out from behind the Echo, his blade flashing as he severed a second articulation. He scrambled back toward the cover of a ruined building, aiming to reset—
Then the world tilted.
There was no warning. No tremor. A structural pillar, which had stood for centuries, simply gave way. It didn't crumble; it failed with the clinical precision of an execution.
Danger Sense flared a second too late.
The ceiling roared down toward him. In that heartbeat of certain death, a blur of white and grey slammed into his side. Pepe Silvia threw its entire mass into Zachary, shoving him clear of the impact zone just as tons of blackened stone obliterated the spot where he had stood.
The Echo didn't make it out. It was buried beneath the rubble, pinned and broken.
The Iron Spider didn't hesitate. It lunged at the trapped Echo, its stinger burying itself into Pepe Silvia's side. With a violent wrench, it tore away the Echo's pincer and its entire left side. But the Echo was a creature of Zachary's soul—it knew its purpose. With its one remaining appendage, it clamped down on the spider's thorax, holding the monster in place for a single, final second.
It was the only window Zachary would get.
He lunged from the dust cloud, sliding beneath the spider's armored belly. He didn't think; he didn't feel the doom. He only saw the line. Ender's Solace sang through the air, the dark blade severing the spider's head in one clean, desperate arc.
The monster collapsed, its heavy iron plates pinning the remains of the Echo even deeper into the dirt.
[You have killed an Awakened Monster, Armored Predator.]
[You have received a Memory.]
Zachary didn't even hear the contemptuous voice of the Spell. There was no joy, no triumph. Instead, he ran desperately to the pile of rubble, ignoring the dead monster completely.
"No, no, no, no, no..." Zachary muttered, his voice cracking as he fell to his knees. He began digging into the blackened stone with his bare hands, the rough masonry tearing at his skin. "Please. Please, please, please."
Finally, something moved beneath the debris. It was a weak, brief twitch, but it was alive. Zachary's heart shattered as he cleared the final stones. Pepe Silvia lay there, a ruin of its former self. Its entire left side was missing, crushed beyond recognition; the once-sturdy pincer was gone, and the light in its eyes was flickering like a dying candle.
"Why?" Zachary whispered, his voice trembling as the world regained its agonizing color for a moment.
He had the materials he needed to survive, but he had lost his most invaluable helper in the process. With a pained heart, he called the Echo back into his Soul Sea. It would heal, eventually, but not in time to stand beside him tonight.
Zachary clenched his teeth so hard they screeched, his white knuckles trembling around the handle of Ender's Solace. He had won the battle, but he felt he had lost the war.
'No... I cannot collapse here.' He stood up stiffly, forcing his mind back into that cold, grey cage. He walked to the spider's corpse and began stripping the steel-like armor plates with the enhanced edge of his blade.
As he worked, he replayed the final moments of the fight. The "accident" with the pillar wasn't just bad luck; it was a targeted strike. The world had tried to trip him, and when that failed, it had taken his shield.
He couldn't prove it, but his intuition was certain: Fate was thinning his options.
Finally, loading the heavy plates into a makeshift pouch, Zachary began the lonely trek back. He moved with agonizing care. With Danger Sense still malfunctioning—screaming about a midnight that hadn't arrived yet—he was blind to the present. He could only trust his eyes and ears, and even those he was beginning to doubt.
Zachary reached the Cathedral plaza in the late afternoon. The drumming of the warning in his skull had become a dull, constant ache. He no longer had the strength to maintain his emotional block, but it didn't matter. The constant threat had exhausted his capacity to feel. A flat, hollow apathy was all that remained.
He stopped in the center of the plaza and looked up at the entrance of the Cathedral. His eyes followed the curve of the brown doorway up to the very top, where a protruding beam jutted out over the drop. A spark of his artisan's mind flickered to life. He turned, measuring the distance to a broken pillar in the left corner of the square.
He began to calculate.
A sudden, powerful gust of wind whipped his hair. It was cold and thick with humidity—a jarring contrast to the stagnant heat of the Forgotten Shore. To the west, dark, heavy clouds were finally visible, rolling toward the Dark City like an advancing army.
Zachary climbed to the roof, preparing to enter the Priestess's room through the broken ceiling. He paused on the support beam, looking out toward the Crimson Spire. The Nameless Sun was low, casting an oppressive, elongated shadow over the ruins. To the Sleepers in the Castle, that shadow was a reminder of their prison.
To Zachary, it was a shadow-clock. And it was almost at zero.
Returning to the room, he didn't lose a second. Dropping the heavy steel-chitin plaques on the floor, Zachary began to plan. He had never crafted something like this. Teacher Julius had never explicitly explained the forging of a physical plate, but the old Awakened had taught him enough about the nature of materials to give form to something usable.
Without a chance to thank the old man, Zachary began cutting. Despite the plaques having the strength of steel, their flexibility remained closer to chitin—a perfect marriage of properties for what he needed.
Lighting a small fire in the corner of the stone room, Zachary began heating the material. He used the enhanced edge of Ender's Solace as a chisel, carving small, wicked thorns into the edges of the plaques to serve as makeshift nails.
'My biggest strength is mobility and evasion,' Zachary thought, his gaze steady despite the sweat dripping into his eyes. 'I cannot hinder them. Unlike Memories that adapt perfectly to the user, what I'm doing will be rough. Crude.'
He pressed a heated plaque against his forearm, measuring the curve.
'Then, I'll aim for a middle ground. A Gusoku.' He began bending the heated material using the heavy pommel of his sword. 'Partial parts worn over the Witness' Testament. Protection for the vitals, freedom for the joints.'
With this vision, the armor took shape. He fashioned a pair of greaves and a pair of vambraces. After a moment's hesitation, he decided to focus his defense on his left side alone. This asymmetry would allow him to transition between a shielded stance and an offensive lunge with maximum speed. A cuirass or a fauld would certainly be useful, but my movility would be greatily compromised.
The centerpiece was a thick, curved spaulder. It swept down from his shoulder to his elbow and rose high enough to act as a gorget, protecting the vulnerable gap in his neck.
Throughout the crafting, the thunder of Danger Sense continued to drum against his skull—a rhythmic, eternal reminder of the guillotine looming over him. Even in his hyper-focused state, violent tremors coursed through his arms. His stomach betrayed him again, but there was nothing left to give; he puked only bile and spit onto the cold stone floor.
Finally, the armor was ready.
The sky of the Forgotten Shore was now tinted a deep, bruised crimson—an augury of spilled blood. Dark clouds moved in, riding a tumultuous wind that howled through the broken rafters. Zachary sat cross-legged, his Memories laid out before him like funeral offerings: Ender's Solace, Midnight Shard, and Antlered Wrath.
With a flick of his wrist, the warhammer dissolved into sparks. He reached into his satchel and pulled out the pouch of Soul Shards he had been hoarding. He had meant to save them, to grow slowly, but he knew the truth: you can't save for a future you won't live to see.
He crushed the pouch. A torrential flood of essence surged into his palm, flowing into his Core like a river of fire and filling him with new, potent power.
[Your Soul becomes better defined.]
Zachary arched an eyebrow. This was the second time he had heard those words—the first being after the Soul Devourer fruit. He felt a profound resonance within himself, a sharpening of his very existence that he knew was vital to his "Self." But the looming shadow of the night wouldn't grant him the luxury of meditation.
With a stuttering heart and a steady hand, he summoned his runes. He needed to see exactly what he was bringing into this final stand.
Name: Zachary.
True Name: Heaven's Equal. [Unclaimed]
Rank: Dreamer.
Soul Core: Dormant.
Soul Fragments: [672/1000].
Memories: [Ender's Solace], [Witness' Testament], [Antlered Wrath], [Midnight Shard], [Ordinary Rock], [Endless Spring], [Ordinary Rope], [Rising Attachment].
Echoes: [Carapace Scavenger].
Attributes: [The Fool], [Mark of Sin], [Conqueror's Soul], [Blasphemer], [Enlightenment], [Spark of Divinity], [Blood Weave].
'Seventy fragments...' Zachary thought, his heart thundering against his ribs.
He had meticulously avoided consuming Soul Shards to maintain the ratio between his Body, Mind, and Soul—clinging to the boon of Unity like a lifeline. But with his newfound Insight, that caution was no longer required. He needed his Soul to match the raw capacity of his being. He needed the reservoir of essence to be deep enough to drown whatever was coming.
The effects of the fragments were inmediate, and while the rise in power was not as present as the one the Core on his heart brought, it certainly would help him greatly. Immediately after the surge, he summoned the runes for his new Memory.
Memory: [Rising Attachment].
Memory Rank: Awakened.
Memory Tier: II
Memory Type: Tool.
Description: [In pursuit of freedom, one must sever every attachment to soar. And yet, some strings still remain.]
Enchantments: [Desired Reach], [Soaring].
Zachary raised an eyebrow as a dark, rugged belt materialized around his waist. It fused almost symbiotically with the Witness' Testament, its straps treading down his legs and around his groin like tactical climbing gear. At his hips sat two small, heavy cylinders, housing coiled steel cables that hummed with a faint, metallic resonance. He read the enchantments with a clinical eye.
[Desired Reach] Enchantment Description: This attachments are connected to its wielder by strong cables that can attach to anything they reach with mercurial agility.
[Soaring] Enchantment Description: Once attached, soar to your destination. Bound yet free.
Zachary sighed at the description, it was a good Memory. A movility tool that would allow him to tread the Dark City with extreme agility, but nothing that would help him in the upcoming fight. Worse, the second Enchantment seemed to be an active one, so he wouldn't be able to soar anytime soon.
He shook his head, unsummoning the runes. He turned his gaze toward the wall, looking in the direction of the protruding beam he had scouted earlier. Then, his eyes drifted to the heavy wooden closet tucked into the corner of the room.
The "Wide Spectrum" plan began to crystallize in the grey expanse of his mind.
'Danger Sense is malfunctioning now because the threat is a distant storm,' Zachary thought, taking a shaky, lurching step toward the closet. The drumming in his skull was reaching a crescendo, a physical force that threatened to unseat his balance. 'But once the source of the danger arrives... once the executor stands before me... it will calibrate. It will scream with a clarity that will either save me or shatter me.'
He gripped the edge of the closet, his knuckles white, his breath coming in jagged hitches. The tremors were back, but beneath them, the artisan was already building.
'There's still time,' he whispered to the empty, darkening room. 'Let's get to work.'
***
The night had come, and with it, the sentence.
Danger Sense had gone silent a while ago. It was the ultimate, cruel confirmation: the threat was no longer a possibility to be avoided; it was a reality to be endured. Zachary sat cross-legged in the absolute darkness of the Priestess's room. His face was a mask of pale exhaustion, beads of sweat tracking down his closed eyelids like phantom tears. His breathing was a mechanical, heavy rhythm—each exhale a forced command to his body to stop shaking.
He stopped breathing.
Silence reclaimed the room. No sigh, no prayer, no tremor. And in that void, Zachary finally felt it. A wave of emotion so thick and suffocating it nearly tore a sob from his throat. He had never experienced it before, yet his soul recognized it instantly.
Killing Intent.
It was a miasma of brutal, animalistic malice radiating from outside the Cathedral, calling him toward his own execution. He had always dismissed the concept as a literary trope, a trick to make protagonists seem impressive. But this was real. It was a physical weight. Cinder Eyes only made it worse; the attribute drank the intent, allowing the malice to seep into his spirit, blackening his vision.
His executor wasn't coming inside. They were likely wary of the Fallen Devil residing in the depths below, or perhaps they were granting him one final, twisted act of respect: allowing him to walk to his own grave on his own feet.
"It's time."
He drew a long, calm breath, filtering the malice through the cold cage of his mind. The crushing weight didn't disappear—it simply met a different Zachary. He tightened the straps of his new vambrace with his teeth and stood up.
His expression was clear and deathly pale. He was a dead man walking the corridor toward the gallows, a man digging his own grave with hands already stained by the dirt that would soon be his bed. But as he reached the door, his voice rang out with a sudden, sharp resonance.
"I am the nail of my own coffin," Zachary prayed, his voice a cold steel blade. "I decide how I die."
He climbed through the broken roof. Above and below, the Dark City was a shroud of obsidian. A cold wind whipped from behind him, ruffling his hair and veiling his burning crimson eyes. Then, the rain began—small, warm droplets that felt like a fleeting, uninterested weeping from the sky.
The gods were dead. Shadow had long been embraced by his own domain. But his weapon remained as a mark upon the world.
Death.
"Now, this weapon has been brandished against me," Zachary whispered. He used the rainwater to comb his hair back, revealing the steady, murderous glow of his eyes. "But you have made a mistake, oh Fate. For I have an answer to Death."
He jumped.
"Not today."
Death had long been a rule designed to contain the Void; it would undoubtedly reach him so long as he bore his place beneath creation.
"Not today."
Everything must end. The time of men would reach its twilight, and blades would chip and shatter under the strain of strife.
"Not today."
Zachary hit the ground of the plaza with a dull thud. He stood up, the water dripping from the edge of Ender's Solace. His executors didn't make him wait.
A piece of stone shrieked through the air with the force of a siege weapon. Following the sharp, now-calibrated scream of Danger Sense, Zachary ducked. But as he stepped below the projectile, a second attack surged from the Darkness of the Cathedral, hidden from his senses until the final millisecond.
He jerked his head back, the displaced air nearly cutting his nose. Before he could reset, a heavy shield slammed into his ribs, the impact throwing him across the wet plaza. He skidded on the slick stone, his new greaves sparking as he fought for balance.
The situation dawned on him with freezing clarity.
Cold, measured steps approached from all directions. Four sets of heavy boots. Four pairs of glowing rubies locked onto him. The authors of his death had arrived, and Zachary laughed—a hollow, jagged sound that was lost in the wind.
His sentence had been signed the moment he bled in that alley. The Stone Legion had followed the trail of his blasphemous blood back to its source, coming to avenge their fallen kin. They were here to entomb him under a foreign sky, baptizing him in the crimson of his own life and the black of the falling rain.
He understood the math. A single, maimed Stone Saint had pushed him to the absolute limit. Four? This wasn't a fight. This was a funeral.
Among stone and swords, Zachary had finally found his first true clash against Fate.
He tried to break the perimeter, but the Saints were methodical—a wall of unrelenting efficiency. A shield swept in from his flank; Zachary threw up his armored left arm, the Iron Spider's plating groaning as it absorbed the momentum. He used the force to leap away, but there was no "away."
A stone fist blurred toward his face. He weaved beneath it, but Danger Sense shrieked a warning from his blind spot. As he tried to jump, a massive stone hand clamped onto his shoulder, locking him in place.
CRACK.
A shield slammed into his back with the force of a falling mountain. The air was driven from his lungs in a red mist. He clenched every muscle, reinforcing his spine with a desperate surge of essence. If not for the seventy fragments he had consumed, his back would have snapped like a dry twig.
He wrenched his shoulder free and spun, his crimson irises dancing as Cinder Eyes burned through the gloom.
The Saints moved with a devious, chaotic dynamism. They were circling him, their steps orderly yet unpredictable—a formation designed to keep him trapped in a perpetual meat-grinder. But something else caught his attention, chilling his blood more than the rain ever could.
The stone swords were still sheathed.
They attacked only with fists and shields. Even in his battered state, Zachary understood the intent, and he wasn't sure if he was surprised or terrified. This was a ritual. A cruel, planned execution. By slaying one of their kin, he had forfeited the right to a warrior's death. He wasn't worthy of their steel.
He was to receive a dog's death. He was to be beaten into the dirt, dancing like a Fool between the stone and the ruby.
'But ain't I a great Fool?' Zachary's lips pulled back into a smile as a line of blood flowed from between.
The ritual began in earnest.
The Saint to his left stepped forward, not with a lunging strike, but a heavy, sweeping kick aimed at Zachary's lead leg. He hopped over it, the wind of the strike chilling his marrow, only to find a shield already waiting for his descent. It caught him mid-air, slamming into his chest and sending him tumbling back toward the center of the ring.
He didn't hit the ground. Another Saint was there, catching him with a brutal, open-palmed strike to the shoulder that sent him spinning like a top. Zachary's world became a strobing nightmare of grey stone and ruby light. Cinder Eyes tracked every movement, but knowing the blow was coming didn't mean his body could move fast enough to stop it.
He threw himself into a desperate roll as two shields collided where his head had been a millisecond before. The sound was like a thunderclap. He came up on one knee, his hand fumbling for the hilt of Ender's Solace, but a stone boot stamped down on his wrist, pinning it to the wet pavement.
Zachary let out a choked cry as the bone groaned. He dismissed his blade immediately, afraid of the weapon snapping under the weight of his execution. Twisting his body on the slick stone, he swept his leg behind the stone boot, but the Saint simply raised its foot to avoid the trip. Zachary seized that split-second of shifted weight, flooding his legs with essence to lunge upward, throwing the stone wraith off balance.
He tried to stand, but was met with a devastating side-arm strike. He focused to the limit on the Attack Line blurring toward his temple. Raising his elbow at the last moment from below the blow, he managed to catch the forearm and redirect the force upward.
But the Saints were a legion for a reason.
A smaller, female-shaped Stone Saint darted from behind her companion, driving the edge of her shield vertically toward his shoulder. Zachary twisted his torso, barely saving his arm from being severed, but the curve of the shield still found the joint.
A dry, sickening pop echoed through the ruins.
"Aghhh!" Zachary groaned, the world white with pain as his shoulder dislocated. He lashed out with a backward kick, hoping to create space, but hit nothing but empty air. A stone foot hooked his standing leg, sending him crashing back into the dirt.
He rolled over his injured shoulder, the agony sharp enough to make him retch. He forced himself back up. They were lethal, devious, and worst of all—they were still toying with him.
'I need to escape the encirclement.' Zachary drew essence from his Core, ignoring the drain as he focused every drop into the muscles of his legs.
Everyone moved at the same time.
He pivoted beneath a shield aimed at his skull and appeared in front of the small Saint. She raised her shield, ready to crush him, but Zachary leaped, landing both feet on the flat of the stone shield and using it as a springboard to vault over the perimeter.
He almost made it.
A massive hand clamped onto his right ankle and yanked. Zachary was slammed back into the ground with enough force to crack the masonry. He didn't let the impact stun him; he used the bounce of the hit to twist on the wet stone, delivering a vicious capoeira-style kick to the shin of the Saint closest to him. The monster reeled back, its stone leg chipping.
'Now!' Rising to his knees in the wake of the kick, Zachary didn't look back. He sprinted through the brief opening, his dislocated arm dangling uselessly at his side as he bolted toward the Cathedral's plaza.
His feet splashed against the black stone as he crossed in front of the Cathedral's great doors. Zachary didn't stop; he sprinted for the corner of the plaza, reaching the broken pillar he had scouted earlier. He pressed his back against the cold masonry, taking ragged, shallow breaths as Ender's Solace shimmered into his hand.
He didn't face his enemies. Instead, he gripped the blade in a reverse grip and plunged it into the pillar at shoulder height. With a grimace of pure agony, he hooked his maimed armpit over the handle. He took one deep, bracing breath and let his body weight drop.
SCHLUCK-POP.
The shoulder slid back into its socket with a wet, nauseating sound. Zachary barely had time to swallow the scream before the Stone Saints entered the plaza.
He watched them approach, his eyes narrowed and hyper-focused. They were moving in a pincer formation: one crossing diagonally toward him, another cutting across the front of the Cathedral to seal his escape, and the final two trailing from the flanks. They were methodical, certain of their victory.
Zachary waited. He watched the lead Saint cross an invisible line in the rain-slicked dirt.
He didn't swing at the monster. He slashed at his side, severing a tensioned rope tied to the base of the pillar.
The rope whipped upward toward the protruding beam at the Cathedral's peak. From the heights, something heavy and dark detached from the shadows, falling with the impossible, screaming speed of a collapsing star.
It was Antlered Wrath, fully charged and weighted by the heavy closet Zachary had lashed to it earlier.
The Stone Saint at the center of the plaza looked up a fraction of a second too late. It raised its shield in a desperate, stalwart posture, but it was like trying to stop a falling moon. The hammer connected with a deafening kinetic explosion that thundered through the ruins, lighting the rain with a flash of white impact.
The Saint didn't just fall; it was sent hurling backward like a projectile. Its tumbling form slammed into its brother's side guarding the Cathedral's gate, pushing it aside among stone debris. The stone wraith became a blurred mass of colliding rock. The momentum didn't stop until it disappeared into the True Darkness beyond the Cathedral's doors—meeting the Forsaken Kight for the first and last time.
Zachary didn't waste a heartbeat on celebration.
He flooded his legs with essence, bridging the distance in an instant. He appeared before the unbalanced Saint. It met his gaze with murderous ruby eyes, brandishing its shield in a reflexive arc—but Zachary was faster. Ender's Solace thrusted forward in a streak of dark light, the blade finding the narrow slit of the stone visor and sinking deep.
[You have killed an Awakened Monster, Stone Saint.]
Zachary wrenched the blade free and spun away from the Cathedral doors as the remaining Saints closed in from the sides. He danced back into the rain, the dark blade shining wickedly under the bruised sky.
"Two down..." Zachary muttered, twisting his shoulder. It groaned in the socket, a hot needle of pain reminding him of its fragility. "Two to go."
The Stone Saints remained motionless for a heartbeat, staring at the spot where their comrade had begun to crumble into grey, lifeless grit. Another brother lost. Suddenly, Danger Sense spiked with a high, electric whine in the back of Zachary's skull. He took a calculated step back.
The rain intensified, becoming a heavy, deafening veil that shrouded the Dark City in an unbearable cold. The only things that pierced the gloom were the burning rubies of the statues and the hungry crimson of Zachary's eyes. He breathed deeply, the sound a sharp contrast to the frantic pounding of his heart.
"Fuuuu."
He dropped into his posture. The arm holding Ender's Solace coiled backward until the hilt was level with his eyes, while his lead arm extended forward, fingers splayed and predatory. He looked less like a swordsman and more like an archer drawing a heavy war-bow, a spring compressed to its absolute limit.
"Fuuuu."
The Stone Saints began their advance. Only two remained—the massive male figure and the smaller, lithe female wraith. Their numbers had dwindled, but their momentum had reached a fever pitch. They had come to avenge a single death, but in their pride, they had lost two more. It was a mistake they were ready to rectify with blood.
"Fuuuu."
Another heavy step. A new sound joined the cacophony of the storm—a soft, sharp, deadly whistle. They had unsheathed their stone swords.
The "dog's death" was over. This was now a formal execution in every sense of the word.
Zachary's heart gave one final, violent tremor before settling into a cold, steady rhythm.
"Fuuuu."
His eyes narrowed as he pushed his focus toward the absolute horizon. The roar of the rain faded. The ruins vanished. The world contracted until only the statues existed. His executors. His enemies...
His prey.
The Saints reached the threshold, a dozen paces away. They locked gazes with him, and in perfect unison, they struck the rims of their shields with their swords—twice. Each metallic clang sent a fresh surge of adrenaline through Zachary's aching shoulders.
They raised their swords above the top of their shields—an impenetrable wall and an unavoidable edge. Zachary swallowed hard, his feet twisting for purchase on the slick, black stone. Air hissed from his nose as his Core coiled in his chest, flooding his arteries with essence, reinforcing his bones and empowering his limbs with a strength that felt like liquid fire.
His crimson eyes locked one last time with their ruby jewels, and finally...
The battle began.