Chapter 10 – The Silent Pact

The wind carried the last traces of burnt flesh through the ruins of Whitebridge, twisting between shattered archways and broken towers, curling through the empty streets like a whisper of something long since dead. The embers of the assassin's corpse had faded, leaving behind nothing but scorched bone and blackened dust, a grim reminder that whoever had sent them had no intention of leaving loose ends.

Aldric stood motionless, staring down at what remained of his would-be killer, the weight of their final words settling deep within him, curling beneath his ribs like a shadow that refused to leave.

The Hollow King.

The name meant nothing.

And yet, it did.

It clung to his thoughts, stirring something he could not place, something beyond memory—a presence, a weight, a whisper that had always been there but never loud enough to hear.

His fingers wrapped around King's End, the Abyssal greatsword resting at his back, its pulse faint but constant, like a second heartbeat that did not belong to him. The blade had been silent for most of his journey, offering only the occasional flicker of presence, but since the assassin had spoken that name, since their body had burned to nothing before his eyes, the sword had been... different.

Not restless.

Not impatient.

Expectant.

Aldric exhaled through his nose, forcing the unease from his mind. He had no time for riddles or ghosts. He needed answers.

And he knew exactly where to find them.

The journey through Whitebridge's ruins was slow, not because of caution—Aldric did not fear anything that lingered here—but because the city itself seemed to resist him.

The deeper he went, the heavier the air became, thick with a weight that clung to his skin, pressing against his shoulders as if the very walls of this forsaken place were trying to hold him back. The silence was unnatural, not the absence of sound but the presence of something unseen, watching, waiting.

Aldric ignored it.

He had walked through death once before. He would do it again.

At last, he reached the place he had been searching for—a collapsed section of Whitebridge's outer district, where the remnants of noble estates had long since been swallowed by time and ruin. Here, beneath the wreckage of a once-great manor, hidden away from prying eyes, lay an entrance few knew existed.

And even fewer had survived using.

Aldric knelt, brushing away loose debris, his movements methodical. Beneath the stone, beneath the decay, his fingers found what they were looking for—a rusted metal ring, embedded in the ground. He tightened his grip and pulled.

Stone shifted. Dust rose.

A hidden door yawned open, revealing a tunnel that plunged into darkness.

Aldric stepped inside without hesitation.

The Silent Pact was waiting.

The air within the tunnel was thick, stale with the scent of damp stone and something older, something that had seeped into the walls and remained there, untouched by time. The passage sloped downward in a slow, winding descent, the edges of the corridor uneven, carved by hands that had worked in secret, chiseling this path into existence beneath the bones of Whitebridge.

Aldric moved forward without hesitation, his steps steady, unbothered by the darkness that pressed in around him. The only light came from King's End, its abyssal etchings faintly glowing with a cold, crimson shade, pulsing with each measured beat of his heart.

It was not guiding him.

It was reacting.

The Silent Pact was not an organization one simply sought out. It did not recruit. It did not negotiate. It existed beneath the surface of history, pulling strings in the shadows, controlling the flow of information like a hidden tide.

Aldric had only encountered them once before, years before his death—when he had been a different man. Back then, he had dismissed them as spies, scavengers, parasites feeding on the scraps of fallen kingdoms. But now, as he walked deeper into their domain, he knew better.

They were not parasites.

They were survivors.

And if there was one thing Aldric understood, it was survival.

A faint sound broke the silence.

A whisper of movement—too controlled, too precise to be the shifting of stone or the settling of dust. Aldric didn't slow, didn't turn his head, but he knew.

He was being watched.

Another step. Then another.

Then—a flicker of motion.

A figure stepped into view at the far end of the tunnel, emerging from the shadows as if they had been born from them. They wore a hooded cloak of deep gray, their face hidden behind a mask of smooth black metal, expressionless, devoid of features. Two more figures appeared at their sides, equally silent, equally motionless.

Aldric stopped.

The figure in the center tilted their head slightly, observing him, their voice smooth, deliberate. "We do not welcome the dead here, Everthorne."

Aldric smirked. "Then you should have buried me deeper."

A pause. Then, slowly, the figure nodded.

"Follow."

Without another word, they turned and disappeared into the depths of the Pact's sanctuary.

Aldric followed.

The path ahead twisted into darkness, the tunnel narrowing as Aldric followed the masked figures deeper into the hidden sanctum of the Silent Pact. The air grew colder, thick with an unnatural stillness, as if the very earth held its breath beneath the weight of unseen eyes.

The silence was suffocating.

The Pact's stronghold was carved into the forgotten bones of Whitebridge, buried far beneath the ruins where no light reached, no sound escaped. It was a place removed from time itself.

They led him through a series of winding corridors, past arched doorways that opened into shadowed chambers where hooded figures moved in silence, their presence barely more than flickers in the verge of his vision. Scrolls lined the walls in some passages, ancient tomes stacked in careful disorder, the scent of ink and old parchment mingling with the cold stone.

Aldric kept his steps measured, his expression unreadable. He had walked through many fortresses in his lifetime, but this was different. This was not a place of warriors. This was a place of secrets.

Finally, they reached a chamber larger than the others, its high ceiling disappearing into the dark above. A single table of blackened wood stood at the center, its surface illuminated by dim lanterns that cast flickering shadows against the walls.

A lone figure waited for him.

Unlike the others, this one did not wear a mask.

She was tall, clad in fitted black armor with silver accents, her dark hair bound into intricate braids that rested against her shoulders. Her eyes, sharp and golden, studied him with the weight of someone who had long since abandoned the notion of trust.

Aldric met her gaze evenly.

"Everthorne," she said, her voice smooth but edged like a finely honed dagger.

"I was expecting you."

Aldric did not react, though her words pressed against his mind like a dagger poised at his throat.

Expecting him.

Not surprised. Not wary. Not even hostile.

She had been waiting.

The woman studied him, her golden eyes sharp and unwavering, as if she could strip him down to the marrow with nothing but her gaze. Then, with slow, deliberate motion, she gestured toward the seat across from her.

"Sit."

Aldric remained standing for a moment longer, letting the silence stretch. He had spent too many years in war councils, in strategy chambers, in throne rooms where words were just as lethal as steel. He knew better than to sit in unknown territory without understanding the game being played.

And yet—curiosity stirred beneath his ribs.

Finally, he moved, lowering himself into the chair opposite her.

She leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows against the table, her fingers interlaced.

"You should be dead, Aldric Everthorne."

A faint smirk appeared at his lips. "I get that a lot."

Her expression remained unreadable. "The Hollow King knows you're alive."

The smirk vanished.

A slow, deliberate pulse ran through King's End, the Abyssal greatsword resting at his back. The shadows in the chamber flickered, stretching unnaturally for just a moment before settling again.

Aldric exhaled through his nose, his fingers tapping lightly against the wood of the table.

"Then let's start there."

[System Status – Abyssal Rebirth System]

Name: Aldric Everthorne

Class: Abyssal Revenant

Title: Forsaken Commander

Level: 14

[Attributes]

Strength: 32 → (Enhanced by Abyssal Influence)

Agility: 26 → (Refined through combat experience)

Vitality: 40 → (Revenant Physiology Strengthened)

Arcane: 18 → (Abyssal Connection Expanding)

Willpower: 35 → (Resisting the Abyss)

[Skills] Passive Skills:

Revenant's Resilience (Rank II) → Damage taken is reduced, and wounds heal at an unnatural rate. Regeneration increases in darkness.

Abyssal Endurance (Rank I) → Stamina drain reduced by 30%. Abyss sustains movement even when body should collapse.

Predator's Gaze (Rank II) → Instinctively detects weaknesses in enemies. Passive awareness of hidden threats.

Active Skills:

Blood for Power (Rank II) → Sacrifice health to temporarily enhance Strength and Agility by +10. Lasts 30 seconds.

Abyssal Rend (Rank I) → Strike wounds the enemy with lingering void energy, preventing natural healing.

Shadow Step (Rank I) → Temporarily merge with surrounding shadows, becoming undetectable for 3 seconds.

[Weapon Status – King's End]

Weapon Type: Abyssforged Greatsword

Status: Evolving

Current Effect: Deals additional damage against entities with divine or holy energy.

Next Evolution: ??? (Requires further Abyssal attunement)

[System Notification]

[Warning: Abyssal Corruption increasing. Influence unknown. Proceed with caution.]