Carnage.

Rael materialized in Kahinor, the teleportation node's light fading as the bustling city came into view. If Vash'kar looked like a city, then Kahinor was a literal metropolis. The stone-paved streets sprawled endlessly, lined with towering structures of brick and carved stone. Everywhere he looked, markets thrived, soldiers patrolled, and adventurers moved with purpose. The city buzzed with life, a constant hum beneath the chatter and clang of daily commerce.

He moved through the crowd with practiced ease, his low-level gear and unassuming username keeping him beneath notice. The grand marketplace lay ahead, a maze of colorful stalls brimming with everything from enchanted trinkets to freshly roasted meats. The air carried the scents of spices, baked bread, and the tang of alchemical potions.

Sabrina stood near a potion stall, her silver-haired avatar easy to spot even among the sea of players. She examined a rack of vials, her expression half-focused, half-distracted.

"Wow, look who decided to show up," she said, catching sight of him. Her tone was light, but genuine surprise colored her voice. "Haven't seen you online in forever."

Rael offered a casual shrug. "Nothing much. Just took a break. Figured I'd hop back in, see what's new."

Sabrina smiled, slipping a few coins to the vendor before pocketing an incense potion. "Well, you picked a hell of a time. The whole game's a mess right now."

"Yeah, I noticed." He played with the edge of his worn cloak, his expression mild. "What's up with all the thefts?"

She sighed, tucking a stray strand of silver hair behind her ear. "You and everyone else are asking the same thing. I even asked my brother, he usually knows everything before it hits the forums, but even he's got no clue. Whoever's doing this left no trace, not in-game or in real life."

Rael's expression remained unchanged, but his mind sharpened with interest. "That's pretty intense. You'd think someone would have noticed something."

"Right? But it's like they just disappeared. No one saw anything, no one heard anything. It's starting to feel like one of those ghost stories." She huffed, more frustrated than afraid.

He hummed thoughtfully. The sheer scale of the operation—coordinating heists in four cities—meant this was no small-time affair. To pull off something like this, the thieves either had a literal gold mine at their disposal or had poured an obscene amount of real-world money into the game to convert it into gold. Both options suggested deep pockets and a plan far more complex than simple robbery.

"Anyway," Sabrina's voice pulled him back, "you planning to stick around this time?"

Rael offered a half-smile. "Maybe. But I've got something else I need to do right now. Rain check on the quests?"

She didn't hide her disappointment but nodded. "Yeah, sure. Just message me when you're free."

"Will do." He turned away, slipping back into the flow of the market crowd. His mind was already working through his next move.

If players weren't talking, then maybe the NPCs would. The cult's act back in Vash'kar had involved NPCs as well—the figure he'd seen on the roof had been unmistakably one. The system tags between NPCs and players were different, and anyone paying attention would have noticed. If these thieves had manipulated NPCs once, they could have done it elsewhere too.

Rael moved swiftly to the portal, fingers already selecting his next destination. Hildrebrand, one of the cities where a Golden Token had been stolen. If there were clues to be found, he would find them there.

"It's been a while since I've gone adventuring."

* * *

On the thin, lumpy mattress, Herman lay staring at the ceiling, humming a low, tuneless melody. His fingers tapped rhythmically against his chest, the only motion in the otherwise still cell. Outside, the sound of rain drifted through the narrow window, a quiet patter undercut by the occasional crackle of distant thunder.

"Shut up, or I'll make you regret it."

The voice came from the bunk opposite, a low growl barely louder than the rain. Herman flinched, his melody dying in his throat. He pulled his knees to his chest, sighing softly.

The cell was small, barely enough room for the two of them. Rust-stained stone walls closed in, damp and cold. Iron bars divided them from the hallway, where a single torch sputtered in its sconce. The dim flame cast long, twitching shadows across the cracked stone floor. The window, little more than a slit in the wall, let in a thin stream of cool drizzle whenever the wind blew just right. Droplets glittered on the stone beneath, mingling with the grime.

Lightning flashed, casting the world in stark white for a split second. The rain hissed, a backdrop to the muffled silence of the prison.

Shouts snapped through the silence. Herman's head jerked up. He slid from his cot, bare feet touching the cold floor, and shuffled to the bars. His cellmate remained still, eyes closed, but his breathing had sharpened.

Beyond the bars, the hallway lay empty. The guard who usually slouched against the wall, half-asleep, was gone. Instead, the air hung thick with something unnameable, a tension that crawled beneath the skin.

The shouts grew, a brief swell of chaos, then suddenly cut off. Silence swallowed the sound, leaving only the rain's soft, relentless patter.

"Where'd the guard go?" Herman muttered, fingers curling around the cold metal of the bars. His knuckles whitened.

His cellmate moved. In a single swift motion, he seized Herman's collar, yanking him down. Herman yelped as his knees hit the stone, pain flaring up his legs.

"Idiot," the cellmate hissed, peering through the bars. His bulk filled the space, a dark silhouette against the dim corridor. "Something's wrong."

Herman pushed himself up, biting back a retort. He rubbed his aching knees, casting a wary glance at the hallway.

Then, footsteps.

Light, unhurried. They echoed softly against the stone, a metronome against the rain. The cellmate stilled, his eyes narrowing. Herman shrank back, pressing himself into the corner of the cell.

A figure appeared at the edge of the torchlight. Cloaked, the dark fabric clung to a frame that moved with an unsettling grace. The cloak was frayed at the edges, beads of water trailing from the hem. In the dim light, dark, wet stains marred the fabric—blood, though neither prisoner dared to name it.

The figure stopped in front of their cell, the hood tilting up just enough for the shadows to shift. Herman held his breath, his pulse a drum in his ears.

"Hey, hey!" The cellmate's voice turned sharp, eager. "Get us out of here. Come on, let's go. I've got contacts, money. Whatever you need."

The figure said nothing. A gloved hand reached through the bars, fingers quick as a snake. They caught the cellmate by the back of his neck, pulling him forward until his face pressed against the iron. The metal cut into his skin, smearing his cheek against the rusted surface.

"No, no, wait—"

A blade slid through his neck.

There was no scream, only a wet gurgle as blood spilled over the dagger and onto the stone. The body slumped, held up only by the iron bars and the figure's unyielding grip.

Herman scrambled back, pressing himself flat against the wall. His breath came in sharp, shallow bursts, eyes wide as the figure turned to him.

The figure reached into his cloak, producing a ring of keys that clinked softly in the quiet. With a practiced motion, he unlocked the cell's small, rusted door, pushing it open. The hinges groaned, the sound swallowed by the rain and the dripping blood.

Herman pressed himself tighter against the wall, every muscle rigid with terror. His cellmate's body slumped against the bars, lifeless eyes staring blankly into nothing.

The figure stepped inside, each footfall delicate yet deliberate. His cloak dragged over the stone, leaving faint trails of wetness and crimson.

A hand extended, pale and gloved. Herman flinched, shutting his eyes tight. His mind raced, prayers, regrets, and fear tangling into a wordless mess.

When he opened his eyes, the hand still hovered there—open, waiting. His gaze drifted up, and he caught a glimpse of the face beneath the hood.

A mask.

The mask depicted a demon's visage, its features twisted into a mournful expression. Hollow eyes, slanted and shadowed, sat above lips curled into a perpetual lament. It was the face of grief itself, the kind that lingered at the edges of nightmares.

A sob crawled up Herman's throat, but he swallowed it down. He thought of all the stories of monsters and dark things that lurked in the corners of the world. Maybe the god of death had come for him.

The figure's fingers curled, catching Herman's collar. He was pulled up with ease, his legs barely finding footing. He braced himself for the blade, for pain, for the cold embrace of death.

"Are you Herman?"

The voice was soft, a gentle murmur against the rain.

Herman's lips trembled. "Y-Yes."

The grip released him. He staggered back, knees weak, his back hitting the stone wall. His breath shuddered as the figure straightened, the porcelain mask tilting downward as if considering him anew.

"Follow me."

The figure turned, the cloak swirling around him, and stepped back into the hallway.

Herman hesitated, his mind struggling to catch up. His cellmate's corpse hung against the bars, blood pooling at his feet. There was no time to think, no time to decide—his legs moved on their own, dragging him in the figure's wake.

He stepped into the corridor, and the world tilted.

Bodies lay sprawled across the stone. Guards, prisoners—faces twisted in agony, throats slit, eyes vacant. Blood smeared the walls, dark trails where bodies had been dragged. The torchlight danced over the carnage, casting shadows that seemed to twitch and writhe.

Herman's stomach clenched, nauseated. His hands shook as he clutched his own sleeves, nails biting into his skin.

Ahead, the figure moved with an unbroken rhythm, light-footed among the dead. The rain whispered through the window slits, a gentle patter over the chaos.

Herman's mind spun with questions and fear. He stared at the figure's back, at the dark, wet cloak and the mask that had no place among the living.

Had death truly come to collect him? Was this a punishment, or a mercy?