The Sorrowing Spire
The mist parted.
Only barely.
Mephisto stepped forward onto a bridge of cracked stone, suspended over an abyss that swallowed the light. The chasm stretched into infinity below, an endless void where even echoes dared not descend. Ahead, the path twisted in jagged arcs, spiraling toward a crooked tower etched into the blackened cliffside.
[Subzone Discovered: Sorrowing Spire]
[Void Saturation: Critical – Mental Instability Imminent]
[Environmental Effect Active: Echo of Sorrow – Willpower Drain Over Time]
His breath left a faint shimmer in the freezing air. The silence wasn't true silence—it pulsed. It bled. It whispered.
"You failed them…"
"You let them die…"
"All of this… your doing."
The voices slithered through his mind like leeches, burrowing, gnawing. A lesser man would have trembled. Fallen to his knees. Begged for respite.
Mephisto walked.
His boots scraped against the stone, each step steady. Unyielding. The violet haze of Void energy clung to the air, twisting in spirals around the spire's skeletal frame. Veins of corruption pulsed along its base, feeding into the cursed structure like a great beast breathing.
Broken bells floated around it, suspended in midair by chains that twisted in the windless dark. They did not ring.
They wept.
And beneath them—
They waited.
Figures hunched like broken statues, wrapped in tattered robes stiff with old blood. Their spines were twisted at unnatural angles, arms elongated, fingers curled around relics shaped like a veiled figure with no face.
[New Enemy: Penitents of the Spire]
[Type: Cursed Remnants]
[Threat Level: Low – Packs Cause Despair Effect]
[Passive Aura: "Repentance" – Lowers Regeneration & Increases Void Affinity Exposure]
One stirred as Mephisto passed.
Its head lifted.
Sewn lips. Bone-threaded stitches. Empty sockets where eyes should have been. It did not speak. It could not.
It moaned.
The others moved in unison. Slow at first, then faster—crawling, dragging themselves forward like they sought forgiveness through his blood.
Mephisto shifted his stance, Hollowfang reversing in his grip. When they lunged, he was already moving.
His first strike carved through two Penitents, slicing them at the midsection. But they did not fall—they clung to him, hands clawing, bony fingers scraping against his skin.
The aura hit him in waves. Dread. Guilt. A choking weight pressing against his ribs, stealing the air from his lungs.
A vision flickered.
A temple bathed in fire. A priest screaming. His own hands, drenched in blood—
He growled, breaking free of the illusion. The blade in his grasp burned faint with Void charge, feeding off his defiance.
[Void Technique Unlocked – Phantom Cleave]
[Effect: A swift arc that leaves an after-image slash of Void energy. Scales with Strength + Void Affinity.]
He used it instantly.
An upward slash—then a second, mirrored strike. The air sang as violet light erupted from his blade, carving an X-shaped tear into the advancing horde.
The Penitents screamed.
Then they were ash.
[Enemies Defeated: 9]
[Void Essence Acquired: +21]
[EXP Gained: +510]
Mephisto exhaled, slow and measured. The whispers quieted—but did not leave.
His eyes drifted over the remains. The stitched mouths. The prayer idols. The broken reverence.
Something about it felt wrong.
Too familiar.
Then—
Above.
A shadow moved.
Mephisto's gaze snapped upward.
On the highest balcony of the spire, a figure stood. Tall. Cloaked in black. Hollowed gold eyes gleamed from beneath its hood, watching him with an unreadable stillness.
Not a reflection.
Not an illusion.
It turned and vanished into the tower.
Mephisto didn't move. Didn't speak.
But his knuckles whitened around his blade.
The path to the spire's entrance was long.
Shrines lined the way, each filled with melted candles and masks warped by heat. Stone altars bore broken verses, their meaning lost beneath centuries of decay.
And at the base of the gate—
His system flickered.
["Fragments of the Forsaken" – Memory Distortion Active]
[Triggering Vision…]
The world cracked.
The darkness peeled away, replaced by blinding gold light. A temple—vast, resplendent. Choirs sang in harmony. Devoted followers knelt before a towering altar.
And at the center—
Him.
Mephisto knelt, head bowed. No scars. No Void corruption. No blade in his grip.
Just silence.
A woman stood beside him.
Smiling.
Her face was lost to the light.
Then—
Fire.
Screams.
Darkness.
Mephisto staggered back into reality, chest heaving. His nose dripped blood. His hands trembled.
He couldn't remember her face.
Only the scream.
[Fragment Acquired: "Before the Fall"]
[Effect: ??? – Fragment count: 1/??]
He wiped the blood with the back of his hand, eyes still fixed on the broken mural.
"Good," he muttered. His voice was hoarse. "Bring it back. All of it."
He pushed the spire doors open.
And stepped into the dark.
The inside of the Sorrowing Spire was worse than the outside.
Not because it was dark.
No, it should've been dark.
Instead, lanterns of pale flame hovered in the air like dying souls—each one suspended in place by nothing but sheer will, casting no heat, no shadows, and no comfort. The flickering glow revealed a corridor far older than anything he'd seen in the chasm below. Time hadn't decayed it. It had preserved it, as if the Spire itself refused to be forgotten.
The walls were carved with deep murals, etched directly into the raw stone. Scenes of worship. Of penance. Figures with hollowed eyes and bent knees, all kneeling before a towering, veiled being whose form shifted the longer Mephisto looked at it. Sometimes a god. Sometimes a corpse. Sometimes a mirror.
The air reeked of incense—sweet and rotting. Like flowers left too long on a grave. He didn't trust it. His breath felt thicker here, as though the air clung to his lungs, trying to stay inside.
Behind him, the great doors groaned shut with a hollow, final thud.
[Zone Effect: Isolation – External System Communication Locked. Mental Fortitude Drain Active.]
Even the system felt muted now.
Sluggish.
Like it didn't want to speak here.
Mephisto walked forward, each step echoing too loud—bouncing off the cathedral's ribs like bones in a tomb. The silence wasn't silence. It listened. Hummed. Somewhere above, he swore he heard the sound of distant weeping—or was it laughter?