Elias leaned back against the cold metal wall, watching the wave of shadow surge forward to consume them all. The corrupted darkness moved with unnatural fluidity, like oil spreading across water but with deliberate, hungry purpose. His breathing came in measured intervals, each one calculated to conserve energy. The Guardian's Mantle encased them in a golden luminescence that held the corruption at bay—a fragile boundary between survival and oblivion, pulsing with each impact like a heartbeat under stress.
Through the connection of shared thoughts, Elias sensed the burden distribution among the survivors. Lyara bore the heaviest weight, her face tight with concentration, sweat beading along her temples despite the chill of the bridge. Her jaw clenched with each impact, the tendons in her neck standing out like cords. The others contributed what strength they could, their faces ashen with effort, but the protection came at a cost he could feel with each pulse of the Mantle's defense.
Where the acrid stench of rot and decay should have filled his nostrils, Elias instead breathed air reminiscent of the Sanctum of the Maw—clean, almost sweet, carrying the impossible scent of life in this place of death. Each breath seemed to push back against the bone-deep fatigue that had settled into his limbs, like cool water flowing through his veins. But every impact against their protective barrier sent a corresponding jolt of pain through his chest, like a hammer striking a half-healed wound. The pain would flare white-hot before subsiding to a dull throb, only to spike again with the next attack.
The shadow tendrils whipped against the golden light with increasing ferocity, leaving momentary smears of darkness that slowly dissolved. They probed methodically, testing for weaknesses, congregating where the light dimmed even slightly. Elias moved with practiced efficiency, Sable Kiss slicing through each tendril that came too close. The blade hummed with satisfaction as it fed, drawing essence from the corruption it severed, a high-pitched keen that bordered on pleasure. A familiar rhythm established itself: the strike of corruption against the barrier, the sharp pain that followed like lightning through his nerves, the precise slash of his blade leaving a momentary vacuum in the air, and then the subtle rush of stolen vitality that partially closed his wounds and renewed his strength, like drinking after days of thirst.
It was a sustainable cycle—one that, given enough time, would see him restored to fighting capacity. But the timer on the wall told a different story, its red digits merciless in their precision.
0:00:30
The corruption occasionally added seconds to the countdown, buying them moments of life, but it couldn't keep pace. The self-destruct sequence continued its inexorable march toward zero, each passing second bringing the mechanical voice's announcement that echoed through the bridge like a death knell.
Elias's mind worked with cold calculation, assessing their options with the same detachment he'd once used to determine which merchant's stall would be easiest to steal from. With how often the corruption adds time to the clock, we may have about a minute and a half to get this done.
Multiple acknowledgments echoed in his mind, confirming his conclusion had reached the others through their shared connection—some voices steady, others tinged with fear.
He pieced together everything he'd observed during the battle, memory fragments fitting together like shards of broken glass. Lyara seemed convinced her sword could cleanse Markov of corruption. Whether that would stop the self-destruct sequence, he couldn't be certain. But one thing was clear—Markov served as the central anchor for the corruption surrounding them, the nexus from which all the darkness spread. The implications raised questions that would have to wait.
A strategy formed in his mind with crystalline clarity. Keldric, lead the others against the surgeon. Create an opening for Lyara to reach Markov.
Affirmative. Keldric's thought came without hesitation, solid as steel.
The survivors moved as a single unit, their movements synchronized through Commander's Voice with a precision that spoke of Keldric's years as a Sentinel. Eight remained of the original twelve, gathered on the bridge with hollow eyes and blood-stained clothing, their faces mask-like with exhaustion and determination. Three artifacts still awaited discovery, their absence a physical ache in the back of their minds.
Elsewhere on the ship, Darius stood before a box stored beneath Captain Markov's bunk, drawn by a pulsating need that overwhelmed rational thought. The sensation was like a hook behind his navel, pulling him forward with increasing urgency. His second artifact lay within—he knew this with absolute certainty, a knowledge that transcended logic. Lifting the lid revealed a collection of personal items that once held meaning for the now-corrupted Captain, each carrying the faint echo of her essence.
A bronze pocket watch with hand-carved decorations caught his eye first, its ivory face surrounded by intricate golden inlay depicting constellations and celestial bodies. Next to it lay a small storage device marked simply "Memories" in faded ink on yellowed tape, its edges worn smooth from handling. But the third item called to him with a voice he couldn't ignore, a whisper that bypassed his ears and spoke directly to something primordial within him.
The leatherbound book bore the scars of countless readings—nicks and scratches along its edges, the spine cracked from being opened and closed thousands of times, its corners rounded from use. Silver inlay framed the cover, surrounding ornate calligraphy that spelled out: Chronicles of Legacy: Wisdom Through Ages.
His fingers traced the bright silver letters embedded in the lusterless brown leather. The book radiated warmth against his palm and seemed to sing—a chorus of voices that entered his mind directly, bringing an unexpected sense of peace amid the chaos. As a lifelong student of history, the artifact's nature seemed a perfect match for his own, like reuniting with a part of himself he hadn't known was missing.
When he lifted the book, it opened itself with purpose, pages turning with an invisible hand until settling halfway through. Bold letters proclaimed the chapter title: Achilles: Hero of the Trojan War.
Darius's body seized as energy surged through him like molten metal poured into a mold. Every muscle in his body contracted simultaneously, veins bulging beneath his skin as they carried ancient power through his frame. His muscles tightened and swelled, reshaping themselves into something stronger, more defined. Bones creaked and tendons stretched as his form reconfigured itself to accommodate this new strength. Truth Seeker, his first artifact, suddenly felt as natural in his grip as his own fingers, as though he'd carried it every day of his life, its weight an extension of his arm.
His awareness expanded, each movement more precise, each step lighter yet more solid. The power flowing through him wasn't merely physical—it was knowledge incarnate, the distilled experience of countless wars fought and survived, battlefield wisdom accumulated over millennia.
But along with that came something else. Something unfamiliar and foreign. A cold arrogance settled over him like a mantle, a sense of superiority that viewed all others as lesser beings. The legendary pride of Achilles seeped into his consciousness, whispering that glory was the only currency worth pursuing.
The pocket watch and memory device still exerted a subtle pull on his attention, their energy signatures pulsing in counterpoint to his heartbeat. Following instinct rather than reason, he shoved both into his pockets before turning toward the bridge, his new strength propelling him toward the others and the final confrontation that awaited them all.
As five of the remaining eight pushed towards the disgustingly decrepit surgeon, Elias sat against the cold steel wall, Lyara was moving away from the rest in Markov's direction, and Darius was emerging from Markov's office to Elias's right.
Those facing off against the mass of obsidian-infused corpses were losing ground slowly but inexorably. The surgeon's body had continued to grow, consuming nearby corruption to add to its mass. What had once been human was now a towering abomination of fused bodies, medical instruments protruding from its flesh like metallic tumors. Multiple heads twisted at impossible angles from its torso, mouths opening and closing in silent screams. Keldric had managed to inflict minor damage to several of the now innumerable limbs, his sword cutting through corrupted flesh with practiced precision, but for each limb severed, two more seemed to emerge from the writhing mass.
The surgeon moved with unnatural coordination, its dozen limbs attacking simultaneously from different angles. Scalpels and bone saws flashed in the dim light, seeking flesh to cut and tear. The floor beneath it was slick with a mixture of black ichor and red blood, forcing the defenders to maintain careful footing or risk falling into its grasp.
Maren had used the sigils of her Twilight Twins to push the beast back to help others avoid death and dismemberment and managed to cause it to stumble. Her presence came in and out of existence as she used Veil of Whispers to camouflage herself in the darkness. One moment she would be visible, daggers flashing as they carved equations into reality; the next, she would be a mere shadow, detectable only by the sudden appearance of wounds on the surgeon's body. Her sigils hung in the air momentarily after each strike, glowing purple symbols that distorted gravity and slowed the monster's movements in localized pockets.
Etta's Echo Hammer sent out increasingly more powerful shockwaves with each hit she landed, the air visibly rippling around the impact points. The force compounding on top of each previous impact, creating concussive waves that shattered corrupted bone and tore necrotic flesh. The hammer's tolling grew louder with each strike, a resonant boom that seemed to momentarily silence all other sounds on the bridge. The surgeon's mass would ripple and distort with each impact, parts of it seeming to phase in and out of reality under the hammer's temporal distortion.
Despite everyone's high level of coordination, they were losing to the great monstrosity. Attacks that should have been fatal merely slowed it. Wounds closed almost as quickly as they were inflicted, the black ichor flowing like living tar to seal any damage. Lyara had released a good portion of Guardian's Mantle, leaving Elias as the only one under its protection. In doing so, the pressure of the corruption that enveloped the perimeter was bearing down on the Chosen Ones with renewed fury.
The corruption no longer simply attacked; it hunted with intelligence, targeting exposed flanks and retreating defenders. Tendrils whipped through the air with the precision of striking vipers, finding gaps in their defenses. The pressure was relentless, forcing them to constantly shift positions, never allowing them to establish solid footing.
Wounds were beginning to mount. They were minimal at first, a cut here, a stab there, but not enough to take anyone out of the fight. However, each member was rapidly dying by a thousand cuts. Blood plastered clothing to skin, muscles trembled with fatigue, and reactions slowed by crucial fractions of seconds. Time was running short, both on the clock, and in their physical state. Faces that had been determined now showed the first creeping edges of despair.
As he emerged from the captain's quarters, the corruption attacked Darius once again; whatever force kept him hidden in Markov's private quarters clearly no longer applied. Tendrils surged from the walls like striking serpents, their trajectories calculated to box him in and leave no avenue of escape. They attacked him from multiple angles all at once, a coordinated assault that would have overwhelmed any of them minutes earlier.
With complete efficiency and skill that bordered on precognition, Darius dodged, parried, and cut down every attack that came his way. His movements were no longer human—they were the distilled essence of warfare, each motion executed with flawless precision. Where the tendrils struck, he was no longer present; where they were vulnerable, his blade found purchase. The corruption recoiled from him like a living thing sensing a superior predator.
Shock was written all over Elias's face as he watched through the golden barrier. The young noble had clearly experienced a change unlike the others. He was a completely new being. His posture, movement, confidence, mannerisms… Everything about him had changed. Even his face seemed different, his features sharper, more defined, as though sculpted by a master artist. He moved with the deadly grace of a predator, each step placing him exactly where he needed to be.
Unlike those influenced by Commander's Voice, who saw a moderate increase in ability and moved together as of one mind, they still were themselves—still Keldric's soldiers rather than warriors in their own right.
This was something else entirely. The young noble was proud before, now he looked as if everything and everyone was but an insect beneath his boot. Disdain was the only emotion on the young man's face, his lip curled in a perpetual sneer as he surveyed the battle. His eyes held the cold calculation of a general assessing a battlefield, seeing not people but pieces to be positioned and sacrificed.
His combat ability, however… Godlike. Every movement sharp and with purpose, not a single calorie of energy wasted. Each swing was precisely placed to strike down his enemies with minimal effort. The blade seemed to sing as it cut through the air, leaving momentary silvery trails that hung in space. He plunged himself into the combat against the surgeon, cutting through the outer defenses as though they were mist rather than corruption-hardened flesh.
The rest of them were showing signs of exhaustion, their movements becoming sluggish, their reactions slowing. Sweat poured down their faces despite the cold, and their breathing came in ragged gasps. But the corrupted tendrils showed no signs of slowing, their attacks continuing with mechanical persistence. As Darius closed in on the group, two objects fell from his pockets to the floor in front of Etta and Nira, clattering against the metal with a sound like destiny.
Nira picked up the storage device labelled "Memories," her fingers closing around it instinctively. The moment she touched it, images flooded her mind—fragments of lives not her own, emotions that belonged to strangers, knowledge from other times. Etta grasped the bronze pocket watch, its weight solid and reassuring in her palm, its ticking synchronizing with her heartbeat.
The pocket watch went through a minor transformation, the metal warming and flowing like liquid under her touch. The face went from being that of a normal clock, to having four separate zones, each one with elaborate golden inlay designed to look like the 4 seasons of earth. The upper left showed a field covered in snow as the frozen crystals fell to the ground, minute details visible in each unique snowflake. The upper right showed blooming flowers in front of a forest of trees to represent spring, so realistic she could almost smell the pollen. The lower right was a river with a brilliant sun shining overhead to represent summer, the water appearing to actually flow across the tiny surface. The final quadrant was trees with falling leaves and animals strolling through the woods to represent fall, each leaf detailed down to its veins.
The storage device warped into an elegant mirror with a silver frame that seemed to capture and reflect light that wasn't present in the dim bridge. The intricate handle was decorated with beautiful ornate patterns that swirled and flowed like a living organism, constantly reshaping themselves as Nira watched. The face of the mirror was fractured into dozens of segments, and each reflection in the mirror seemed a little different from the others, though they were faint—some showing Nira as she was, others as she might have been, still others showing strangers with her eyes.
Etta spun the dial on the watch until the hand was in the winter section, and the already frigid temperatures of the bridge dropped precipitously. The air crystallized with each exhale, forming delicate patterns that hung suspended before dissipating. Unlike mundane weather, this cold differed from the frigid winters of the Outer Slums; it cut to the core, seeping into their bones like liquid nitrogen. It penetrated through clothing and skin, directly chilling the blood in their veins.
It also seemed to affect the corruption. The tendrils slowed, their fluid movements becoming jerky and mechanical. They became brittle and stiff, small cracks appearing along their surface with each movement. Some would fracture on their own from movement, falling to the ground as shards that rapidly sublimated into foul-smelling vapor. The surgeon's mass contracted, drawing in on itself for warmth, its attacks becoming more desperate but less coordinated.
Darius was pressuring the surgeon on his own at this point, wounds and exhaustion slowing the others to the point that they weren't of much use. They formed a rough semicircle around the confrontation, their weapons ready but their bodies failing them. Blood froze on their skin in the unnatural cold, wounds stiffening in a way that both reduced bleeding and restricted movement.
His prowess was peerless, each movement flowing into the next like water. The surgeon, who had been overwhelming the entire group before, now struggled before a single warrior. Its many limbs flailed in desperate attempts to land a blow, scalpels and saws cutting only air as Darius weaved between them. He ducked, spun, dodged, parried, thrust, and slashed with the precision of a seasoned warrior who had seen thousands of battles and defeated innumerable opponents. His expression never changed from one of cold contempt, as though the life-or-death struggle was beneath his notice.
As he ducked under another cut from a scalpel-tipped limb, the blade passing close enough to sever a few strands of hair, he sliced off the surgeon's right leg with a blow so precise it separated joint from socket. The massive creature listed to one side, its balance compromised. Darius then spun on his heels to dodge the next strike, the corrupted limb passing through the space he had occupied milliseconds before. Using the momentum of his spin and the falling body of the titanic beast, his sword thrust upward and plunged deep into its chest, the blade sliding between ribs with surgical precision to pierce what remained of its heart.
An inhuman cry that sounded like the collection of a hundred wailing children filled the air, the individual voices distinguishable in their terror and pain. The sound mixed with the sound of creaking glass and screeching metal as the surgeon's body began to collapse in on itself, corruption pouring from the wound like black blood.
0:00:05
The mechanical voice announced the countdown with the same emotionless efficiency it had shown throughout the ordeal. Darius's display was valiant and awe inspiring, like watching a legend come to life before their eyes, but time was out. The surgeon was dying, but too slowly to matter.
The game was over.
Every eye turned to Lyara who had covered herself with Guardian's Mantle, the golden light surrounding her like a second skin. It protected her from the torrent of whips that threatened to destroy her as she approached Markov. The captain stood unnaturally still, black veins visible beneath her skin, her eyes pools of darkness that reflected nothing.
"You can't hurt me, just like that pathetic child couldn't hurt me!" Markov cried, her voice layered with others speaking in unison, as it moved to block Lyara's blade thrust at her chest. The black tendrils surrounding her formed a defensive wall, densely packed and seemingly impenetrable.
Mercy's Edge sliced through the barrier as though it wasn't there, the blade passing right through all of the corruption, severing it from Markov's body with a sound like tearing silk. The corruption screamed as it was separated, the sound high and thin like steam escaping a valve.
The Captain rocked backward, her eyes clearing of the onyx that colored her eyes, humanity returning to her face in stages. The black veins beneath her skin receded, color returning to her cheeks. She was returning, her eyes showing signs of life again, recognition dawning in them as she regained control of her body.
0:00:02
This will work, it has to! Lyara thought, hope swelling in her chest that they were about to successfully complete the trial the Maw had thrown at them. The mechanical voice continued its countdown, but perhaps there was still time to abort the sequence if Markov could be fully restored.
On top of that, she had managed to save the captain from corrupt—
STAB.
A black blade with a crimson edge, a leather-wrapped hilt, and an ivory pommel decorated with a brilliant red jewel was lodged in Markov's chest. Blood blossomed around the wound, startlingly red against her uniform. Smoke arose from the wound's edges, and a trail of obsidian crystals lined the path of the knife's travel. The red jewel was pulsating with a sickening red glow.
Markov's eyes, clear of corruption, widened in shock and betrayal. Her mouth opened, but no sound emerged except a wet gurgle as blood filled her lungs. Her gaze fixed on her killer with a question that would never be answered.