Chapter Three

The morning air was crisp, the scent of damp earth and distant woodsmoke clinging to the wind. Pale sunlight stretched over the horizon, casting long shadows over the quiet town behind him.

Raymond adjusted the weight of the newly acquired sword on his hip, its steel cool against his side. His armor, though not extravagant, was sturdy—reinforced leather with iron plating at the joints, designed for mobility without sacrificing protection.

It wasn't much. But it was better than nothing.

He had learned his lesson in his past runs. Charging into Vel'cairn without preparation had cost him dearly before. This time, he had taken the extra steps—bought gear, stocked supplies. There was no point in being reckless.

But preparation alone wouldn't be enough. He needed something else. That item.

His fingers twitched at the thought. He knew where to find it—how he had acquired it before. If he played his cards right, it would serve him well again.

But first, he had a ruin to raid.

Vel'cairn. A corpse of a city long since devoured by time. The road to it was barely more than a memory, swallowed by twisting roots and shifting earth.

Raymond moved with purpose, his steps steady despite the rough terrain. He had made this journey before. Six times, to be exact. But this time, he was stronger, better prepared.

He would not fail here again.

The ruined fortress came into view as the sun began to dip beneath the horizon. Crumbling walls loomed ahead, wrapped in ivy and decay. The remains of watchtowers jutted out like broken fangs.

But Raymond did not slow. He knew what lurked here.

And they knew he had returned.

The first sign of them was the clicking.

Faint, rhythmic, almost like bones knocking together.

Raymond exhaled through his nose, loosening his shoulders. He reached inward, drawing from his Aether—the raw essence of his soul, the energy that coursed through all things.

It surged beneath his skin, flooding his limbs with unnatural strength. His muscles tensed, his senses sharpened.

Just in time.

From the rubble, the Hollowborn emerged.

They moved like broken puppets, clad in remnants of rusted armor. Their hollowed eyes flickered with something unnatural, something that did not belong in the world of the living.

One lunged.

Raymond kept his sword raised, angling the point toward the creature's throat. The attack came down in a crude, overhand chop. He shifted his blade downward at an angle, deflecting the strike off to the side instead of meeting it head-on.

The moment it faltered, he struck.

A quick step forward—twisting his sword around the enemy's to control its weapon—before snapping his blade into a horizontal hewing strike. The sharp edge cleaved through rusted steel and split the creature's skull in two.

It collapsed.

Another rushed him from the side.

Raymond lifted his sword high on his shoulder, ready to bring it down with force. As the Hollowborn swung, he angled his blade upward to catch and redirect the blow over his head. The impact rattled through his arm, but Aether reinforced his body, keeping him steady.

A sharp exhale. A shift in stance. He stepped forward, locking its weapon down before driving his sword in a clean thrust straight through its throat.

Two down. Three more to go.

The next one didn't wait. It lunged low, aiming to sweep his legs. Raymond angled his blade diagonally in a way that obscured the enemy's vision, throwing off its attack. The Hollowborn stumbled back, and Raymond pressed forward, shifting into half-swording—gripping his blade with one hand on the hilt and the other on the steel itself. With this control, he rammed the crossguard straight into its jaw. Bone shattered. The Hollowborn reeled.

He followed through with a final mordhau—the "murder stroke"—flipping his grip so he held the sword like a warhammer, slamming the pommel down onto its skull.

The last two hesitated.

Raymond exhaled, rolling his shoulder. His Aether pulsed beneath his skin, humming with untapped potential.

Still inefficient. His power was strong, but it drained him quickly. He needed more control. More refinement.

But that was a concern for later.

For now, he had a vault to open.

He turned toward the vault door, the last of the Hollowborn collapsing in the distance. He wiped his blade clean, then focused inward, reaching for the Aether that hummed beneath his skin. The energy surged through his fingertips, radiating warmth as it poured out of him.

With a controlled breath, he placed his palm against the ancient stone door. The Aether flowed outward, spiraling like a river of light. He wasn't trying to break it, not yet; instead, he was weaving his power, guiding the Aether to slip into the cracks and crevices of the stone. It vibrated with life as it responded to his will, shifting the molecular structure of the lock, bending reality just enough to undo the ancient seals.

The door groaned, resisting at first, but Raymond's grip tightened, and his soul's energy pressed deeper. He could feel the resistance as though it were a living thing, fighting back against his intrusion. But this was something he had done a hundred times before. With a steady, forceful push, he unraveled the Aether that locked the door in place. The heavy stone door rumbled open, revealing the darkened treasure room beyond.

Raymond entered, his steps quiet against the stone floor. The room was cold, filled with the scent of decay and dust. He approached the altar, his eyes scanning the array of ancient relics on display. But he wasn't here for anything ordinary. There was one thing—that item—that he had come for, something he had obtained in a previous life, a relic whose power he had yet to fully comprehend.

He took a deep breath and reached for it.

It was small, no bigger than the palm of his hand. He could feel the weight of it, heavier than it seemed. Something in the back of his mind told him that this was his key. He didn't know exactly how or why, but the relic had always been there, lingering in the shadows of his regressions. And as always, he could feel the subtle connection to it growing stronger with every passing moment.

But it wasn't time for answers—not yet.

He turned and left, feeling the tension in his limbs from the fight. The journey ahead would not be easy. There were still more relics to find, more trials to overcome. And with every step, he could feel the crushing weight of the curse on him, slowly eroding his mind.

The early morning mist clung to the ruins like a shroud, swallowing the silhouettes of the explorer group as they ventured toward the ancient vault. Their boots crunched over the gravel, the soft sounds of their steps barely cutting through the silence of the abandoned place.

A man in the front of the group—tall, his posture rigid with the weight of his armor—paused. His sharp gaze swept across the area, noting the scattered bodies of the Hollowborn lying in grotesque positions, their faces frozen in expressions of despair.

"Well, looks like we're not the first ones here," said the swordmaster, a veteran of countless skirmishes. His name was Varrick, and the sword at his hip was as worn as the many battles he had fought in. He crouched beside one of the bodies, inspecting the blade marks with interest. His hand hovered above a jagged, clean cut that had cleaved through bone and armor alike.

Varrick's lips twitched in something resembling a smile. "This doesn't look like a typical mercenary's work. No slashing or hacking—these strikes are precise, almost surgical. Whoever did this knew exactly where to strike."

One of the explorers, a younger man, stepped forward and frowned. "Surgical? These Hollowborn were nothing more than mindless husks. Wouldn't expect anyone to go to such lengths to put them down."

The swordmaster's brow furrowed as he examined the marks more closely, his fingers tracing the edges of the cuts. "You think so? These are deep, calculated strikes. Whoever wielded this blade used technique... form. The kind of form you get after years of training."

He stood and looked around, his gaze narrowing as he surveyed the scene. "Whoever this was, they weren't just here to kill. They were making a statement." Varrick paused, as if to let his words sink in. "This wasn't the work of a low-level mercenary or a wandering knight. This was someone with purpose. Someone who knew how to fight."

The rest of the group exchanged uneasy glances. "Do you think they could still be here?" the young man asked, his voice slightly trembling.

Varrick shook his head slowly. "No. If they were, we would've found them by now. But whoever they were, they left an imprint here." He turned toward the vault door, now creaking open, the stone remnants of the ancient lock scattered about. "We'll have to wait to find out more. For now, we continue with the mission."

But his eyes lingered on the marks, his mind turning over the possibilities. Something told him they would encounter this mysterious figure again. Someone who fought with the precision of a master, someone with power.

Someone like him.