Chapter 11: A Dark Side

Breath short, throat parched, and muscles burning, Arthur followed his father through an increasingly narrow corridor. They had been running nonstop through the underground galleries, turning at every junction, descending rocky slopes, leaping over hidden fissures—always on the edge of falling, always chased by the cold echoes of soldiers' boots, amplified by the tunnels' perfect geometry.

The beam of their lamp trembled, flickering across walls etched with ancient, worn markings… as if something gigantic had been clawing at the stone for centuries.

And then…

— "Shit…" Jonas breathed, coming to a sudden stop.

Ahead of them, the tunnel ended in a vertical wall. A dead end.

Arthur's eyes widened. He looked left, then right. Nothing. Then, raising his gaze, he saw another passage—perched more than three meters above the ground. Smooth. Inaccessible.

— "We could… try to climb!" Arthur exclaimed.

Jonas shook his head, jaw clenched.

— "We'd need a grappling hook. And time. Two things we don't have."

Behind them, a metallic sound echoed. Sharp. Cold. Tearing through the silence.

Then a voice rang out, strong, authoritative, distorted through a helmet modulator:

— "DON'T MOVE! HANDS UP!"

Arthur turned slowly, heart pounding, his legs suddenly weak as water.

A squad of Dissonant soldiers had just burst into the tunnel, immediately taking formation. They aligned with chilling precision, their rifles—S-Tek 9 Projectors—aimed squarely at their targets.

In a synchronized, almost choreographed motion, they all cocked their blasters.

A low click.Then a beep.And finally, a red glow ignited from each barrel.

Dozens of crimson dots lit up on Arthur's chest.Others—on his father's.

Arthur stood frozen. He could hear the blood pulsing in his temples.

The soldiers no longer shouted. They were in position. Ready. Silent.

Jonas slowly, wordlessly, raised his hands above his head. Arthur mimicked him, trembling slightly, his eyes fixed on the faceless black-clad figures before them.

And then…

A shift in the air.

A presence.

Almost imperceptible. But massive. Unfathomable. Like a crack opening in the very fabric of reality.

The Abjured had arrived.

Their footsteps echoed differently. Heavier. Slower. More… assured.

The crimson glow of their Elan blades lit the end of the tunnel like a moving fire-mist—and then, one by one, they dimmed with a soft, suffocating hiss.

Their leader—Nemeor—stepped forward slowly, hands clasped behind his back, masked, impassive. He stopped barely two meters from Arthur and Jonas.

His mask was smooth, featureless. No mouth. No eyes. And yet Arthur felt a gaze piercing through him—deep, searching—like this void of metal could read every beat of his heart.

The other Abjured positioned themselves behind him, forming a silent semicircle, their cloaks barely stirring from the hot drafts rising from the stone.

Arthur's throat tightened.

A heavy silence had fallen.

The entire world seemed suspended in that moment.

Not a breath. Not a word.

Only the empty stares of soldiers waiting for an order… and the unmoving black mask, just two steps away.

A silence so thick you could hear a heartbeat—or feel fear climb, inch by inch, up the throat of a seventeen-year-old boy.

Arthur didn't look away from the still figure before him. Two meters. No more.

Nemeor, Supreme Abjured. The faceless mask. Hands folded behind his back. Wrapped in a long black cloak bearing no crest, no emblem. He didn't need one. His presence alone was enough—it weighed like iron on the shoulders of those around him.

The other Abjured, silent behind him, were statues of shadow—but even they seemed diminished by their master's aura. Even the soldiers, ready to fire, didn't move.

And then…

Nemeor took a step.

A slow, perfectly measured step. He tilted his head slightly, examining Arthur with surgical focus. The smooth mask revealed nothing, but Arthur knew… he was seen. Not just physically. Seen—from the inside out.

A voice emerged—distorted, deep, horrifyingly calm:

— "So this is the source…"

The voice, resonating through a modulator embedded in the mask, vibrated slightly—like it came from another world.— "Fresh. Unstable. Weakly controlled."He tilted his head to the other side.— "Fascinating."

Arthur didn't know what to say. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. His still-raised hands trembled slightly.

Nemeor stepped closer.

— "You must have suffered... the first time. The Elan, when it awakens in fragile beings, is... painful. It burns, it twists, it... consumes."

He paused.Then slowly turned his head toward Jonas.

A beat of silence. Then—a tiny detail only Arthur noticed: a smile.Yes. That smooth mask... tilted ever so slightly, as if the face behind it was smiling.

And something shifted in the air.

— "But you," Nemeor said, now addressing Jonas, "you are interesting."

He slowly extended a gloved hand toward the father. Palm open. Fingers perfectly straight.

And without warning, a deep rumble echoed through the tunnel.

The Elan.

But not the one Arthur had felt. Not the living fire that had pulsed within him.

This one was cold. Dense. Twisted.It tasted like metal and ash—like a scream choked in the throat.

Suddenly, Jonas's body was ripped from the ground.

— "FATHER!"

Arthur screamed without thinking, as his father was hurled toward Nemeor like a ragdoll.

The motion was clean, brutal.The soldiers didn't even flinch.

Jonas hovered in the air, feet kicking at nothing, choked by an unseen force. Nemeor simply held out his hand—palm up, fingers slightly curled, like pinching something small and invisible.

Jonas's neck was caught in a grip of pure force—a mystical vice.

His face turned red, then purple.His eyes bulged.His hands clawed desperately at the empty air.

— "NO! NO! STOP!" Arthur shouted.

He stepped forward—but the soldiers reacted instantly. Their blasters beeped, and the red targeting dots danced once again across his chest.

Arthur raised his hands again, tears welling in his eyes.

— "Please… he didn't do anything! He has nothing to do with me!"

Nemeor turned his head toward him—slowly.

— "You still don't understand…" he said, with a slowness that almost sounded gentle.

— "Grief... loss... these are the foundations of real power. If I want you to awaken fully—this is where I must begin."

Jonas was gasping for air, his gaze searching his son's through the haze of pain.

Arthur, arms shaking, voice breaking, cried out again:

— "PLEASE! I'LL DO WHATEVER YOU WANT!"

Nemeor was savoring the moment.

His hand didn't move, but Jonas's body now twitched, his legs jerking with violent spasms.