34. The Lost Twin

Chapter 34: The Lost Twin

The hollow ruins of the governor's mansion loomed eerily around Lashley as he stood alone in the chamber, his chest heaving from adrenaline and confusion. His fingers gripped the hilt of his sword tightly, his knuckles white as he surveyed the room. The pedestal where Neralia and Kaizen had been moments ago was now surrounded by a gaping chasm, the jagged edges of the collapsed floor falling away into an abyss so dark it seemed to devour the faint glow of the torches.

"Damn it," he muttered under his breath, his voice sharp with frustration. "What the hell just happened?"

He scanned the room, his sharp blue eyes narrowing as he tried to make sense of the chaos. Dust and debris hung thick in the air, illuminated by the sputtering flames of the remaining torches. The statues that had once stood menacingly around the chamber were now frozen in place, their glowing red eyes dimmed. But the silence that followed their fall was worse than any attack—it was oppressive, a vacuum that seemed to swallow every sound except the faint pounding of Lashley's heart.

"Neralia!" he called, his voice echoing through the ruins. It bounced back to him, warped and distant, as though mocking his desperation.

Lashley's jaw tightened as he turned on his heel, his frustration bubbling into anger. "That commoner fool," he spat, his voice low and venomous. "If he's touched her, if he's *hurt* her…" His grip on his sword tightened further, the leather of the hilt groaning under the pressure. "I'll kill him."

The thought of Kaizen—cocky, reckless, and insufferably smug—being alone with Neralia sent a fresh wave of fury coursing through him. She was his twin, his other half, the one person he trusted implicitly. And now she was lost, somewhere beneath these cursed ruins, with *him*. The very thought made his blood boil.

But anger wouldn't bring her back. Lashley forced himself to breathe deeply, his years of discipline and training by his legendary father kicking in. He needed to think clearly, to focus. If anyone could find a way to her, it was him.

The air grew colder as Lashley began to move through the ruins, his boots crunching softly against the debris-strewn floor. The flickering torchlight cast long, distorted shadows on the walls, transforming the crumbling architecture into grotesque shapes that seemed to shift and writhe as he passed. The walls themselves were damp and slick with moss, the carvings on their surfaces worn and indistinct, as though the building itself was slowly being consumed by time.

The corridor ahead of him stretched into darkness, the faint light of the torches behind him barely reaching its end. Lashley's every step echoed unnaturally, the sound distorted and warped as it bounced off the uneven walls. He couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched—that unseen eyes were tracking his movements from the shadows.

"Get a grip," he muttered to himself, his voice low but steady. "This place is just old. Falling apart. There's no one here."

But even as he said the words, he didn't believe them. The ruins seemed alive, breathing with a low, almost imperceptible hum that thrummed through the stone. Every so often, he thought he heard faint whispers—too soft to make out, but persistent enough to set his nerves on edge.

Lashley stopped at an intersection where the corridor split into three separate passages, each one equally dark and uninviting. He hesitated, his instincts warring with his reason. His training had taught him to assess his surroundings carefully, to look for signs or clues. But here, there was nothing—just endless darkness and the faint, musty scent of decay.

He chose the leftmost passage, his sword drawn as he advanced cautiously. The air grew colder still as he moved deeper into the ruins, the temperature dropping so quickly that his breath began to fog in front of him. The silence was oppressive now, broken only by the occasional drip of water echoing from somewhere unseen.

Lashley's steps slowed as he entered a large, open chamber. The walls were lined with broken statues, their faces twisted in expressions of agony. The floor was uneven, covered in jagged stones and patches of slime that glistened in the dim light. In the center of the room stood a pedestal similar to the one in the previous chamber, but this one was covered in dried blood that had long since turned black.

A chill ran down Lashley's spine as he approached the pedestal. The air felt heavier here, almost suffocating, and his senses tingled with unease. Something about this place felt wrong, as though it were a place of death and despair.

As he inspected the pedestal, a faint sound caught his attention—a soft, skittering noise that seemed to come from the shadows near the far wall. Lashley froze, his hand tightening on his sword as he strained to listen. The sound came again, louder this time, accompanied by the faint scrape of claws on stone.

"Who's there?" he demanded, his voice firm despite the unease creeping into his chest.

There was no response, only the sound of something moving just beyond the edge of the torchlight. Lashley's jaw tightened as he stepped forward, his sword raised. The shadows seemed to deepen as he approached, swallowing the weak light entirely.

And then, something moved.

A figure darted out of the darkness—small, fast, and impossibly silent. Lashley swung his sword instinctively, the blade slicing through the air, but it connected with nothing. The figure disappeared into the shadows again, leaving only the faintest trace of a whisper behind.

"…Neralia…"

The sound of her name, spoken in a voice that wasn't his sister's, sent a jolt of fear through Lashley's chest. He spun around, his sword raised defensively, but there was no one there. The chamber was empty, save for the broken statues and the bloodstained pedestal.

"This place is cursed," he muttered, his voice trembling slightly despite himself. "But I'll find her. I'll find her, and we're getting the hell out of here."

As he turned back toward the corridor, the whispers grew louder, surrounding him on all sides. They were faint and indistinct, but their tone was unmistakable—mocking, taunting, filled with malice. Lashley's grip on his sword tightened as he pushed forward, his every step feeling heavier than the last.

He didn't stop. He couldn't. Somewhere in this nightmare, his sister was waiting for him—and Lashley would tear this cursed place apart stone by stone if that's what it took to find her.

The whispers had grown fainter as Lashley pressed forward, his sword drawn and his senses on high alert. The oppressive air of the ruins seemed to weigh heavier on him with each step, the narrow corridors twisting like the intestines of some long-dead beast. He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, though the chill in the air should have made such an act unnecessary. Every muscle in his body was coiled, ready to strike at the first sign of danger.

Then he smelled it.

The stench hit him like a physical blow—a putrid mix of rot, sweat, and filth that clawed its way into his nostrils and refused to let go. It was the kind of smell that made bile rise unbidden in the back of his throat, forcing him to grit his teeth against the urge to gag.

"Goblins," he muttered under his breath, his voice a low growl. He'd encountered the creatures before—vile, cowardly things that thrived in dark, forgotten places like these ruins.

The faint scuttle of movement reached his ears, accompanied by guttural chittering that sent a shiver down his spine. Lashley stopped dead, his sword raised as his eyes darted across the shadowy corridor. The light of the distant torches cast grotesque shapes on the walls, each flicker making it harder to distinguish between the statues and something alive.

A low, guttural laugh echoed from the shadows, followed by the scrape of claws on stone. Lashley turned sharply, his gaze locking onto a pair of glowing yellow eyes peering out from the darkness. Then another. And another.

Five goblins emerged from the shadows, their hunched forms silhouetted in the faint light. Their mottled green skin glistened with a sickly sheen, and their jagged, uneven teeth gleamed as they grinned hungrily at him. Each carried a crude weapon—rusted daggers, jagged clubs, and splintered spears that looked more like instruments of torture than tools of war.

One of them, larger than the rest, stepped forward with a twisted sneer, its beady eyes glinting with malice. It barked something in its guttural tongue, and the others began to spread out, circling Lashley like wolves around a wounded deer.

Lashley's grip tightened on his sword, his heart pounding in his chest. He couldn't afford to waste mana on these vermin, not when he needed to save his strength for finding Neralia. But he wasn't going to let them overwhelm him, either.

With a flick of his wrist, the runes carved into his body flared to life, glowing faintly with Tier 1 martial magic. A surge of energy coursed through his body, sharpening his reflexes and steadying his grip. It wasn't much—just enough to give him an edge. And he'd make damn sure it was enough.

---

The first goblin lunged with a high-pitched screech, its rusted dagger aimed for Lashley's throat. He sidestepped easily, the magic-enhanced speed of his movements making the creature's attack look almost sluggish. With a single, fluid motion, he brought his sword down in a vicious arc, slicing clean through the goblin's neck.

The blade didn't just cut—it *tore*. The goblin's head came off with a wet, crunching sound, blood spraying in a geyser from the jagged stump of its neck. Its body collapsed to the ground in a twitching heap, the severed head rolling to a stop at Lashley's feet, its grotesque features frozen in a rictus of shock.

The remaining goblins hesitated for only a moment, their yellow eyes narrowing in fury. Then they attacked as one.

The second goblin came at him from the left, its crude club swinging wildly. Lashley ducked under the blow, the wind of the attack ruffling his hair, and drove his sword upward into the creature's gut. The blade sank deep, slicing through muscle and organs with sickening ease.

The goblin let out a strangled shriek, its bloodshot eyes bulging as dark blood poured from its mouth. Lashley twisted the blade savagely, ripping it free with a spray of gore that painted the walls in crimson streaks. The goblin fell, its twitching body pooling blood on the cold stone floor.

The third and fourth goblins came at him together, their weapons flashing in the dim light. Lashley parried one strike, his blade clashing against a rusted spear with a grating screech of metal. He shoved the goblin back with a feral snarl, spinning to block the second's dagger with a sharp upward swing.

The goblin hissed and darted backward, but not fast enough. Lashley followed the motion, his sword carving a deadly arc through the air. The blade caught the creature mid-leap, slicing clean through its torso.

The goblin's top half separated from its lower body with a grotesque squelch, blood and viscera spilling onto the floor in a steaming heap. The creature's upper body hit the ground with a wet thud, its clawed hands scrabbling uselessly at the stone for a few agonizing seconds before it went still.

The remaining goblin snarled, lunging for Lashley with reckless abandon. Its jagged dagger nicked his arm, drawing a thin line of blood, but Lashley didn't flinch. Instead, he grabbed the creature by the throat with his free hand, his gauntleted fingers crushing its windpipe with brutal efficiency.

The goblin's eyes bulged as it choked, its clawed hands flailing uselessly against Lashley's armored arm. With a roar, he slammed the creature into the ground, driving his sword through its chest with enough force to pin it to the stone.

The goblin let out one final, gurgling scream before it went limp, its black blood pooling beneath its broken body. Lashley yanked his blade free with a grunt, the runes on his body flickering faintly as the Tier 1 magic faded.

The chamber was silent once more, save for the sound of Lashley's ragged breathing. He stood amidst the carnage, his armor splattered with blood and his sword dripping with gore. The bodies of the goblins lay strewn around him, their twisted forms broken and lifeless.

He wiped his blade on the tattered rags of one of the fallen creatures, his expression grim. "Pathetic," he muttered, though his heart was still racing.

As he turned to leave the blood-soaked chamber, his thoughts returned to Neralia. Wherever she was, he'd find her—and gods help anyone or anything that stood in his way.

---

The goblin corpses lay in twisted, grotesque heaps, their blood pooling in dark, steaming puddles that soaked into the cracked stone floor. The silence that followed the brutal fight was heavy, almost tangible, broken only by the faint drip of viscera falling from Lashley's blade as he moved on.

Yet, the room was not empty.

From the darkness beyond the reach of the sputtering torches, a figure emerged—silent, patient, and calculating. Its form was obscured by a tattered black cloak that blended seamlessly with the shadows, the edges frayed and uneven, as if it had been dragged across centuries of ruin. Beneath the hood, two pale, reflective eyes glinted like twin shards of moonlight, their gaze fixed on Lashley's retreating form.

The figure moved with an unnatural stillness, its steps deliberate and soundless as it approached the carnage. It stopped at the edge of the chamber, its posture almost casual as it surveyed the aftermath of the fight.

The goblins' mutilated bodies told a clear story: their attacker had been ruthless, efficient, and unrelenting. Blood painted the walls and floor in broad, chaotic strokes, and the air still reeked of iron and bile. The figure tilted its head slightly, as though in contemplation, and then crouched beside one of the corpses—a goblin that had been cleaved in two, its top half severed cleanly from its lower body.

A pale hand, long-fingered and unnervingly skeletal, reached out from beneath the cloak. It traced the jagged edge of the wound with a disturbing tenderness, the faint glow of the rune-scorched flesh drawing its interest. The figure's head tilted further, its gaze sharpening as it studied the faint remnants of first tier martial magic that lingered in the air like fading embers.

"Fascinating," it murmured, its voice low and melodic, with an edge of something inhuman. The word seemed to ripple through the chamber, as though the walls themselves carried its weight.

The figure rose fluidly, the motion so seamless it was almost unnatural. Its pale eyes flicked toward the direction Lashley had taken, narrowing slightly as if weighing some invisible scale.

"This one has fire," it said softly, almost to itself. "Rage tempered by discipline, and power held in check. A dangerous combination."

It stepped forward, moving toward the center of the room where the pedestal stood, its cloak swirling around it like smoke. The blood beneath its feet should have left a trail, but none clung to its steps.

The figure's gaze lingered on the pedestal for a moment before returning to the corridor Lashley had disappeared down. Its pale lips curved into a faint smile, though it held no warmth—only a cold, predatory curiosity.

"Let us see how far that fire will burn," it whispered.

Without another sound, the figure turned and vanished back into the shadows, leaving no trace of its presence save for the faint chill that lingered in the air, as though the room itself remembered its passing.