Valens bolted through the streets, one hand over his burning chest, feeling his mana pool fast recovering as the ground fissured across their path. Nomad and Celme carved a path open while they followed with Selin from the back. The Berserker did seem she got some new moves, but nothing was more stark than the change that happened to Nomad.

He’d grown to be a monster in human flesh, and the Shifters fell one by one under his sword.

They were getting closer to the Golden Cathedral. Already, Valens could see the golden lights wrapped around the giant structure, sending a sprinkle of motes about it, which seemed to feed into the golden and crimson chaos that took hold of the sky.

Something is coming.

He could hear the pleas and the whispers in the wind like the touch of a warm hand on the nape of his neck. They fluttered gently across Belgrave, humming a symphony that sounded strange to his ears.

‘Father…’

‘Blessed Father…’

A chorus of voices, all mixed into each other. Were these Priests? Were they singing in a time like this?

“We can’t go around them,” Nomad said as he halted with one fist raised in the air, signaling for them to stop now that they left the senseless horde way behind them, and managed to find an opening to breathe.

Nomad stepped over the ruins of a house, peering toward the square in which the Golden Cathedral stood, all alone. “Those fools have surrounded the Cathedral from all around.”

Scowling, Valens moved beside him and gazed at the scene. His eyelids twitched at the sight.

It was an ocean of black and green, of undead squirming in an endless tide as they inched slowly toward the Golden Cathedral. No matter where he looked, he saw groups of them shifting as though in preparation, clasped in their hands various weapons, eyes wreathed in greenish fog.

“All taken by the Everfog, as well,” he commented, lips curling downward. “They’re not taking any chances, are they?”

“Uh,” Nomad said. It was strange looking at his newly-fitted face that belonged to a dead man. He raised a finger to the main gate of the Golden Cathedral, a set of giant doors with rows of plated men standing before it. Valens knew the Captain and others were there, resisting the invasion.

“There will be a price for this,” Valens said, frowning. “A grave price.”

“You think they don’t know that?” Nomad scoffed. “You think the Ninth Legion decided on a whim to take up to the surface and assault Belgrave just because of some past grievances?”

“You’re not giving me the whole truth.” Valens scowled at him. “Talk if you have something to say.”

“Reckoned an Ancient would know more than me,” Nomad said, shrugging. “But it ain’t looking like it. Should’ve been floating over those brothers of mine, some lights and power behind your back, hovering there like a god while they prostrated themselves against your presence. That’s what the myths say, eh? Can’t look them in the eye lest you’d lose yourself.”

“Wished it was that simple,” Valens said. “But as it is, I’ve just recently learned the fact that I’ve been lied to throughout my life, for reasons I’m not sure yet. Which is why I can’t control that presence you spoke of, nor do I have the clues to understand what it truly means.”

“An Ancient…” Celme’s voice quivered as she neared them. “The Lord’s revelation is true, then. They have already returned.”

“Quick as ever, Berserker,” Nomad said to her. “Though it’s a touch hurtful that you’re taking the word of your Master rather than your old friend here. I’ve also told you he’s one, haven’t I?”

“But he’s just… human,” Celme said, looking doubtfully at him. “The Healer I’d nearly killed when he tried to heal me. The same one we fought side by side against the Necromancer’s horde. He even joined the Church and opened a clinic. Do all Ancients act like this? It doesn’t make sense.”

“That’s because he’s not just any Ancient,” Nomad said, and as he continued, a heavy expression settled upon his face. “The Forsaken are the outer entities that have ties to Tainted Father one way or another. They are grand deities with their presences and bodies spanning the entire length of continents, who poisoned some families with their seed, turned them into their descendants. This is true for all of them save for one.”

Valens shifted uncomfortably as Nomad’s eyes bore down at him. He seemed conflicted, pained even to talk about any of this.

“They ruled the world as a whole, serving under the Tainted Father in the dark days. Humans were pitiful pawns in their game, puppets yearning to prove useful to their masters even if that meant enduring experiments that turned them into creatures of the shadow. However, one group refused to accept the rule of the Tainted Father. A singular group of Mages decided to rebel against their order.”

“This… Are you speaking of the Surgemasters?” Celme’s eyes widened as she turned to Valens.

“Yes,” Nomad nodded. “Pure-bred humans of old, nothing but skin and bones, they were mortals who dared to defy the gods before they became gods themselves.”

“But how?” Celme asked. “I always thought Surgemasters were mythical beings. I mean, that’s what the stories say, no? They aided Resni to carry out the Carving before abandoning this world. Why leave us if they’re true humans themselves?”

“Did you ever feel the thrill of power, Berserker?” Nomad said. “Ever caught the scent of the insidious ambition that comes from knowing that you can have it all? The world laid bare before your eyes, presenting itself as a shiny jewel promised to you and you alone? That sort of power comes with a price. That sort of thing messes up your mind. Surgemasters were, after all, humans like you. They were prone to the desires of flesh and mind.”

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“Is that what happened, Val?” Celme said, narrowing her eyes at Valens. “Is it even true that you’re an Ancient Surgemaster?”

“You want the truth?” Valens said. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything about what those people did, and why they did it. I’m just as in the dark as you in this matter. I have no prior ties to the Ancient Surgemasters.”

At least, the ones you know of.

“A stray soul,” Nomad said. “That explains why you found yourself inside some bloody Rift. Lost your way, have you, Val? Didn’t remember how you got here, eh? At some point, we have to set our stories straight, because this shit is getting ridiculous.”

“Says the undead who decided to rebel against his Legion all of a sudden,” Valens said, scowling at him, before gazing at Celme. “And a Berserker who belongs to a cult that wants to use Belgrave as an example to send a warning across Haven’s Reach. We’re an odd group of people, that’s for sure.”

“You forgot the Wailborn,” Nomad said, waving a hand at Selin, who blinked at him. “She adds that final touch to us. I daresay she completes us.”

“What are we going to do about that Gate?” Valens said, looking at the pair of them. “We do want to prevent the apocalypse, right?”

“Apocalypse…” Celme sucked in a sharp breath.

“She’s already inside,” Nomad said, face tightening. “You can’t stop the fog from seeping through the cracks. Not like the Golden Church has any manpower to spare for her.”

“But isn’t the only way to open the Gate of that Core Dungeon to do it from the Underworld? I believe that point has been stressed on more than one occasion.”

“That’s the formal way. The safe way, you can say, if you don’t want Terrors and Dreads to spill out into the Haven’s Reach,” Nomad said. “If what you seek is the chaos, then you can just blast the damn thing open once you slip into the ninth floor of the famed Golden Cathedral.”

I can try and open a tunnel with Gravitating Earth under them. Some of them will eventually notice our passing, but I’ll take some to a whole horde.

Walking over the edge of a jutting brick wall, Valens squinted toward the wavering lines across the square. Now and then golden lights flew out of their midst, which suggested there was more to their orderly lines than what met the eye. Something was happening there.

Is it the Captain?

That possibility brought more questions to his mind. Even if they could meet up with the Captain and find their way inside the Golden Cathedral, what was Valens supposed to say to convince them? That there was, indeed, a slippery woman who could command the fog and intended to open the Gate? That the Evercrest Family was behind all of this, and now they’re taking their chance to bring apocalypse to this part of the Haven’s Reach?

I don’t think the Bishop would appreciate Celme and Nomad, either.

Speaking about the Bishop, Valens couldn’t see them from out here. There were just too many lights flashing above the chaos that his eyes betrayed him.

"The Church is mounting a resistance against the assault," Nomad said. "If we can get under those boundaries, we can focus on finding that hateful woman.”

“If they let us pass, that is,” Celme said.

“They will,” Valens said. “I’ve given an Oath to the Church. Became a member of the Golden Ward. I don’t know about the Bishop, but the Captain wouldn’t dismiss my warning as nothing. He would listen. That man is not a simple zealot.”

“Making new friends in my absence, have you?” Nomad looked hurt as he pursed his lips. “Gotta say, that makes me jealous.”

“I have enough mana to open a tunnel,” Valens said, tapping him on the shoulder, then turned and gazed behind. Crawling Shifters in the din, trying to work their way to them in heated fury. They never tired, and that was a problem. “But before that, I should check that gemstone of yours. Best we prepare you against the Everfog.”

……

Thirty seconds. Forty, if he were to be precise about it. It took the Healer under a minute to replenish the lifemana in the stone, then Nomad felt a true peace settle across his mind as if the voices had been a lie.

Ecstasy.

Already, he could feel the absence of the invisible chains strapped around his body. It was as though the crook of a Healer fixed him a pair of wings and set him free, even if there was little air inside this tunnel for him to fly off into the distance.

The earth crumbled and gave way as Valens guided them underneath the square, toward the Golden Church, with loud steps thumping just a few inches above them. Thump, thump, and thump was the rhythm of the undead army, their reek oozing from the fissures across the land.

Can’t believe we live with this stench in the Underworld while the Liches have dozens of extra skin-fits for their choosing. Where’s the justice in that, eh? Why did that bastard make an undead out of me when he could’ve turned me into a master of necrotic and psychopathic magic?

That had been one of the mysteries, alright. In his broken mind, there were scenes of lives that he had no memories of. In some of them he was the Warrior, back ramrod straight, fingers painfully strong and yearning for the touch of steel. He’d been human on many occasions, fighting some battles in the crowds he knew nothing of.

There were also the ones that sent chills down his newly fitted skin. In those, he remembered gazing deep into the world from above, seeing all there is to see. Years would go past in a blink, then he would find himself searching, seeking, the voice of that bastard guiding him still.

None of them, however, felt as real as the time he’d been Damon, the Undying. The more he breathed the air around the Surgemaster, the more he could pinpoint those memories of a glorious life. The lauded hero held by the calloused and battered hands of his brothers, the man who carried the weight of the hope of an entire race over his shoulders.

How come, then, that man killed his brothers in cold blood? How come he yielded to temptation and became the weapon of that cruel father?

That was the thing that bothered him. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw that battlefield with bodies broken and blood pooled underneath his feet, the air tinged with crimson lines and reeking of death. He was the last man standing, fingers trembling, heart thumping in his chest. A real heart, unlike this damn stone—his own heart, back when he’d been a true man.

What lies did the Shadow whisper that he accepted this cruel fate? How could any man of sane mind ever be willing to go through a dozen lives, all cursed with pain and glory? What was he promised that made him carry out that slaughter in the end?

Nomad didn’t know the answers.

But then, he knew he’d always been a coward.

“We’re getting closer,” Valens said, creeping silently onward, the ground breaking against his will. The undead horde should’ve already felt their presence, but by the silence that governed this man-made underground passage, Nomad reckoned someone was keeping them busy.

There was tension in his chest, a weakness around his knees, and a beat to his Heartstone that made him uneasy. The closer he got to the Blessed Father’s sanctuary, the darkness within him reacted to its presence. Told him to get away. Told him to back off.

They would see through him. See through the man he was, and kill him for it.

Nomad didn’t want to die. Not again, and not while he was alive. His thoughts were his own. He was his own man now, able to think through it all.

A gaze at the Healer’s back.

Then down at his hands that clasped the sword tight.

Who was he kidding?

He wasn’t a man who’s out searching for his truth.

No. He was a coward tailing a being that relieved him from doing exactly that.

Muting the thoughts.

The silence prevailed.

“We’re here,” Valens said.

And then the ground broke, and Nomad bolted out with his sword held out in front of him.

……

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