When Kael turned, the monk was gone. Vanished. The entrance, too, had disappeared, replaced by a void.
Words materialized in the air:
> ◇ Trial Completed.
◇ You have been rewarded.
◇ You have received 3 echos: Idols of The Blind Gods
◇ You may Exit The Trial.
Kael stared into the void. It stared back, formless, hungry. He knew better than to hesitate. The Nexus did not reward doubt.
He stepped forward—
He took a deep breath and clenched his fists and he walked out of the chamber into the void.
> ◇ Exiting Trial.
________
He left the trial a new man, one born from a type of desperation only the Nexus could afflict in a person.
The gateway to the Second Reach wasn’t a door but a wound—a jagged tear in reality, its edges shimring with unstable Etherion. Kael steps through, his boots sinking into gravel that glitters like crushed glass.
The air here is sharper, charged with energy that prickles his skin. Behind him, the portal snaps shut with a sound like breaking bone. Ahead, chaos.
A dozen voices swarm him before he takes three steps.
"First ti in Sanctus, challenger? I’ll show you the guildhalls for five shards!"
"Ignore that leech. My map’s got every Blight-free tavern marked—"
"You look like a fighter. The Iron Pact’s recruiting. Let’s talk terms."
They’re all guides, he realizes—hawkers in patched cloaks and scavenged armor, their faces hungry. Kael shoulders past them, his silence a blade. But one voice hooks into him, bright and stubborn.
"You’ll die before sunset without ."
He turns.
The girl can’t be older than seventeen. Her hair is a nest of copper curls streaked with Blight-gray, and her eyes are mismatched—one green, one clouded white. She wears a coat three sizes too big, its sleeves rolled to her elbows, and her boots are held together by wire and what might be dried Ravager sinew. When she grins, a silver tooth winks.
"Twenty shards," she says, "and I’ll make sure you don’t trip into a Blightstorm or piss off the Vanguard."
"No." He walks.
She follows. "Fifteen. Ten. Look, your tunic’s got First Reach filth all over it. You’re fresh at. Sanctus’ll eat you alive."
He picks up his pace. So does she. Her boots crunch in ti with his.
"Fine. Free. But when you’re bleeding out in an alley, don’t say Lira didn’t warn you."
He stops. "Why?"
She shrugs. "Bored. Also, you’ve got that look. Like you’re here to burn sothing down. That’s fun."
He stares. She stares back. The white eye doesn’t blink.
"Do what you want," he mutters.
"Perfect! First lesson: never say that here."
Sanctus Nexus unfolds like a fever dream. The streets throb with bodies—rchants hawking glowing Ravager cores, guild enforcers in polished armor, challengers staggering under the weight of Etherion loot. The air reeks of sweat, ozone, and sothing sweetly rotten. Lira weaves ahead of him, her coat flapping like wings.
"Stay close," she calls over her shoulder. "The Market Quarter’s where you lose kidneys."
He nearly collides with a hulking figure clad in silver-plated armor. The man’s cloak bears a sword-and-shield emblem.
"Silver Vanguard," Lira hisses, yanking Kael into an alley. "Exterminators. They’ll conscript you if you make eye contact. Unless you like killing Ravagers for scraps?"
"I kill them for free," Kael says.
She snorts. "Then you’re an idiot. This way."
They erge into a plaza where a massive obsidian obelisk looms, its surface etched with glowing nas.
"The Ascension Stone," Lira says. "Top hundred challengers in the Reach. Guild leaders, faction favorites, lunatics who’ve survived the higher Trials." She jabs a finger at the third na: Jorik Bloodtide. "Vanguard’s guildmaster. Can split a Ravager’s skull with his eyebrow."
"And the first na?" Kael asks. The top slot reads Lady Evelynn Draemir.
Lira’s grin fades. "Council head. Runs the Etherion Collective. Don’t et her. She collects people too."
They pass a group in black tunics, daggers strapped to their thighs. One tosses a Ravager core like a juggler’s ball.
"Iron Pact," Lira whispers. "rcenaries. They’ll stab you for a shard but pay triple for intel on rival guilds. Good custors, bad enemies."
"Are you with them?"
"Please. I’m a freelancer. Like you."
He doesn’t correct her.
The crowd thickens near the Guildhall District. A man in Celestial robes shoves past, his entourage bearing a banner stitched with stars.
"Faction scout," Lira says. "From the Third Reach, maybe higher. They’ll recruit you if you’ve got a fancy Light Core. You do, don’t you? Bet it’s gold-ranked. Or—"
"Undetermined," Kael says.
She whistles. "Ouch. Not sure what that ans but it mst be bad. They’ll treat you like Blight-rot here. Lucky you’ve got ."
"Lucky," he deadpans.
The girl talks. And talks. She nas every gang controlling the Commons ("Never gamble with the Razor Teeth—they cheat"), mocks the perfud nobles in their palanquins ("Bathe in Etherion once and they think they’re gods"), and points out the black-market dealers lurking in shadowed arches ("Best price for Ravager cores. Worst prices for your soul").
Kael says little. But he listens.
Night falls, the sky deepening into bruised purple. Lira leads him to a cramped tavern, its sign creaking: The Hollow Chalice.
"Last lesson," she says, plopping onto a stool. "Never drink the—"
A hand clamps on Kael’s shoulder.
He turns. The man is all muscle and scars, his tunic stained with Blight. A jagged dagger hangs at his belt.
"You’re in my seat," the man growls.
Lira rolls her eyes. "It’s a stool, Varek. They’re all the sa."
"My stool." The dagger flashes. "Newcors pay a seating fee. That core on your belt’ll do."
Kael’s fingers twitch. Aether’valis hums in his mind, eager. But before he moves, Lira stands, her white eye fixed on Varek.
"He’s with ," she says.
"Since when do rats have pets?"
"Since now. Walk away."
Varek laughs. Then his free hand darts out, snatching the Ravager core from Kael’s belt—the one from the last ravager he killed in the trial.
"Paynt taken," he smirks.
Lira sighs. "Oh, you moron."
Kael moves.
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