[Location: The lting Pot Inn – Exterior]
Evening had fallen over Argentum.
Or at least, the Abyss’s version of evening.
The overhead mana-lamps of the chro city dimd to a low, throbbing amber, and the smog from the Slag Heap factories turned a deep, bruised purple.
Damien stood on the tal balcony outside the inn, the cold, oily wind ruffling his silver hair.
He couldn’t stay in the room.
Every ti he looked at the bed, at the grey, cracked skin of Isabelle’s sleeping face, he felt a phantom pain in his chest.
It was a suffocating weight, heavier than any gravity magic she could cast.
’100,000 DP,’ Damien thought, gripping the rusted railing until the tal groaned.
’I will get it. I will burn this city to the ground if I have to.’
He closed his eyes, inhaling the scent of sulfur and ozone.
For a mont, the noise of the alien city faded.
His mind drifted back to his old house back on the blue star, the silence of Apartnt Block 404.
He rembered the cold noodles. He rembered the flickering TV.
He even rembered the crushing, absolute loneliness of his past self Lin Ye, a ghost haunting his own life, watching characters on a screen because he had no one to touch in reality.
’I was so alone back then,’ he thought.
But now?
He thought of Isabelle, who had burned her life just to buy him ti against the Emperor.
He thought of Leona, the Beast Queen who ruled the North in his na, waiting for his command.
He thought of Lyra, the Phantom who hunted in the dark to keep his secrets safe.
He thought of Alfred, Hephaestus, Barnaby, even Durin and Aelinor.
’They aren’t just NPCs anymore,’ Damien realized, a warmth spreading through his chest that fought back the chill of the Abyss.
’They are my people. My family.’
A vision ford in his mind.
It was a simple image. A large table. Food that was hot.
Laughter. Isabelle pouring tea without shaking.
Leona arguing with Alaric over a chicken leg. A ho.
’When all this is over,’ Damien whispered to the smog.
’When I find my parents... when we stop the Void... we are going to rest. We are going to build a place where no one has to fight just to survive.’
It was a greedy dream. But at this point Damien had long since known he eas greedy.
He exhaled, steadying his resolve.
"Ti to go back," he muttered.
"Moping around won’t cure her."
He turned and walked back inside the inn.
******
[Location: The lting Pot Inn – Hallway]
The hallway slled of stale beer and rust.
Damien walked toward their room, his footsteps silent on the tal floor.
But as he reached the door, he stopped.
Soone was waiting for him.
Leaning against the doorfra, clutching his bone staff with white-knuckled intensity, was Elian.
The old Arch-Mage looked different.
The trembling fear that usually defined his posture was gone.
He stood straight, his tattered robes brushed clean, his eyes clear and hard.
"Master," Elian said, his voice steady.
"Elian," Damien nodded.
"Is sothing wrong with Isabelle?"
"No," Elian shook his head. "She is stable. I checked the everything myself."
The old man hesitated, then gripped his staff tighter.
"I am waiting for you, Master. because I need to say goodbye."
Damien paused. He looked at the old man who had guided him through the Ash Wastes, the Fungal Jungle, and the Great Lake.
"Goodbye?" Damien asked calmly.
"You’re leaving? It’s dangerous out there, Elian. You know without your core you won’t last a day without protection."
"I know," Elian smiled. It was a sad, weary smile.
"But I cannot follow you any further."
"Why?"
"Because of Layer 5," Elian whispered.
The na hung in the air.
"The Sanctuary Lord..." Elian’s voice cracked with a sudden, suppressed rage.
"When he transported us... he sent us directly from Layer 4 to Layer 6. He skipped the Fifth Layer."
"He said it was boring," Damien recalled.
"To him, perhaps," Elian spat.
"But to ... Layer 5 is where my life ended."
Elian looked down at his chest, at the scar hidden beneath his robes where his mana core had been shattered a century ago.
"The Viscount," Elian rasped. "
The High Demon who crippled . Who laughed as he turned an Arch-Mage into a beggar. He is still there. In his Obsidian Castle. Sitting on his throne."
Elian looked up, eting Damien’s eyes.
"For one hundred years, I ran. I hid in the mud of Layer 2. I told myself I was surviving. But I wasn’t. I was just rotting slowly."
He took a step forward.
"But then I t you, Master. I watched you fight the Corpse Collector. I watched you challenge the Emperor Thraka. I watched you achieve feats even the forr wouldn’t dare imagine."
Elian’s eyes shone with a moisture that wasn’t from fear.
"You taught sothing, Damien Voss. You taught that
"Where there is a will, there is a way"
"Elian..."
"I can’t go with you to the Tournant," Elian interrupted gently.
"I can’t even seek wealth or power for soul is stuck on Layer 5."
"I know a path," Elian revealed, his voice dropping to a conspirator’s whisper.
"A smuggler’s vent near the upper district. It leads back up. Back to the Obsidian Castle."
"You’re going to fight him?" Damien asked. "
Elian, you have no core. You’re just a mortal fighting a High Demon. It’s suicide."
"Perhaps," Elian admitted. He reached into his robe and pulled out a small, glass vial, a strange potion he had always kept by his chest.
"I am not the sa coward I was yesterday, not only that but I have the courage you gave ."
Elian straightened his back, looking dignified for the first ti in a century.
"I will not die crawling in the mud. I will go to his castle. I will look him in the eye. And I will use every trick, every explosive, and every ounce of spite I have to make him bleed."
He bowed deeply to Damien.A bow to thank this young man for everything he had given him, and forgive him for leaving early.
"Thank you, Young Master. For the food. For the protection. And for allowing this old man to dream of revenge one last ti."
Damien looked at him.
He saw the fire in the old man’s eyes. It was the sa fire he had seen in Leona back at the slavers.
The sa fire in Lyra when she hunted the Flesh-Crafters.
It was the refusal to be a victim.
Damien reached into his Void Gem. He pulled out a heavy pouch of High-Grade Abyss Cores and a small, black sphere, a Mana-Bomb he had crafted with Hephaestus’s blueprints.
He placed them in Elian’s hand.
"If you’re going to make him bleed," Damien said, a small smirk touching his lips.
"Make sure he rembers it."
Elian looked at the bomb. He laughed, a dry, raspy sound.
"I will, Master. I will turn his castle into a crater."
The old man turned. He didn’t look back at the room where he had slept.
He walked down the hallway, his bone cane tapping a rhythmic, determined beat against the tal floor.
He was walking toward his death. But he was walking with his head held high.
Damien watched him go until he disappeared into the shadows of the stairwell.
"Good luck, Elian," Damien whispered.
He turned and opened the door to his room. Isabelle was waiting. And tomorrow, the Tournant began.
"One less companion," Damien murmured, closing the door behind him.
"But one less regret."
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