Ian was left alone for so ti after Eli departed.
The chamber was silent enough for the distant hum of wind brushing through the stone-carved halls of House Elarin's estate.
A place that felt less a sanctuary and more like a tomb now. The stench of what had transpired in the arena still clung to him like soot—mories of blood, of power, of near madness.
His breathing was steady, but his body ached in a way he wasn't used to.
He had always been a fast healer.
Ever since the system first whispered to him in the pits, regeneration ca as naturally as breath. But this—this wasn't just bruised flesh or torn sinew.
He had faced Eli. And this ti he was actually trying.
Everything ca with a cost.
Ian sat up slowly, shadows pooling at the edges of his vision, the aftershock of Soul Fla and bloodrage still tingling beneath his skin.
However even more potent was from the state he had fell into.
He blinked, and the gray-hued panel slid before his eyes with the quiet certainty of a waiting judge.
---
[Corruption: 15%]
---
That number had always been there.
Quiet. Dormant. Like an old scar you learn to ignore.
Since the beginning—when he had awakened in the pits, when the voices of the dead had first begun to reach his ears, when the power over soul and death had first kissed his veins—Corruption had been a part of him.
But for the first ti, he really looked at it.
15%.
It didn't seem high. But it felt high.
Because now he knew what it ant.
Now he had seen what it did.
He rembered the arena.
The way his thoughts had peeled away from him, layer by layer, like at stripped from bone. Until nothing remained but the hunger. The certainty that Eli's soul was valuable.
That it belonged to him. That it needed to be consud.
Even now the mory of it still made sothing curl deep in his stomach.
Not sha. Not quite.
Sothing closer to fear.
Not of what he had done—but of how easy it had been.
"…And that entity…" Ian muttered under his breath, sitting upright now, sweat clinging to his chest. "Who was it? And where was that place I saw—?"
The words didn't finish.
One mont, he was in the comfort of linen sheets and waning sunlight.
The next, he stood in perfect darkness.
But this darkness was not blind. It was not empty.
Ian knew it.
Felt it as surely as he knew his own breath, his own pulse. The shadows didn't blind him. He saw in them. In the shifting, rippling folds of void that moved like smoke on still air.
"This is the place," Ian said softly, turning slowly. His voice did not echo.
"But… what is it?"
He hadn't asked anyone.
But soone—or sothing—answered nonetheless.
"Soulrealm," ca the voice from the dark. "Your soulrealm."
Ian turned fast, instantly recognizing the feeling behind the voice, though it didn't speak in words.
It was a voice, and yet it wasn't—more like an echo of a thought, ancient and distant, taking shape only to be understood.
And there it was.
The entity.
The sa figure he'd glimpsed at the edge of consciousness during the blood haze. It stood a ways off, humanoid, draped in writhing black and crowned with a halo of nothingness.
Its face was a void, but Ian could feel its gaze like they were daggers.
"The souls you bind," it said calmly, "this is where they dwell. The space between death and dominion. Before you summon them, they reside here."
With a flick of its hand, shapes erged from the darkness.
Ian's eyes widened slightly as the hulking form of Pitbrawler stepped into view, arms crossed over a massive chest. Beside him, Ashvaleth stepped into view, his form oozing predatory hunger. And last, the Butcher—Torkas.
They stood in a loose semicircle—waiting, watching.
"And who are you?" he asked, finally facing the entity. "How and why are you here?"
The entity didn't move. Its voice, when it ca, was calm.
Patient.
"I am no one. I am the truths you are not yet capable of facing. A distant guide to an inevitable destiny."
Ian's eyes narrowed.
"can you cut the riddles and speak clearly,"
The entity tilted its head. Then, for the first ti, it raised a hand.
"Your soul essence is being drained to sustain your presence in this realm. While your body recovers," it said. "You cannot afford to linger. Heal first. Ask questions later."
With a casual wave, the world began to collapse.
The soulrealm folded in upon itself like paper in fire, and before Ian could say another word, his senses shattered—
—and he was back.
Back in the bed, chest heaving, sweat cold upon his skin. The soulshard beside him dimd, its healing nearly spent. Ian sat upright, rubbing his temples.
That's when he heard it.
Footsteps.
Not loud. Not clumsy.
Deliberate.
Like whispers sliding through the wind.
Then—
CRASH.
The door exploded inward, splinters flying.
Ian's eyes shot toward the entry just as figures clad in white-and-gold armor stord the room. Robes trimd with holy glyphs. Weapons drawn.
The insignia of the Sanctum of Light emblazoned on their shoulders.
At the front, a soldier gripped Elise by the arm, a blade pressed firmly against her throat.
"Ian Night," the lead soldier barked, voice cold. "By decree of the Sanctum, you are hereby taken into custody for suspicion of demonic corruption and cris against divine order."
Ian didn't move.
His eyes were locked on Elise.
Her face was unreadable—calm, cold, detached, as always. There was no fear in her eyes.
Only certainty.
"This an official arrest?" Ian asked, voice low. "It doesn't seem like it."
"It's not," Elise answered for them.
Her voice was flat. Her tone like frostbite.
Ian's head tilted slightly.
"Then I suppose," he said, a slow smile spreading across his lips, "it's good you've all co."
His eyes began to glow very faintly—gray embers behind pale irises.
"I'm in desperate need of souls," he added. "You see?"
The smile widened.
Not kind. Not sane.
A smile that was nothing if not evil.
Reviews
All reviews (0)