Chapter Three: The Hunter Under the Cover of Night

The night over Etheria was like the sigh of a forgotten deity—heavy and cold. Dusk City, a once-glorious metropolis now increasingly decayed, huddled beneath sparse starlight that seemed on the verge of extinguishing. Corrupted shadows spread like invisible ink along the city's fringes, infusing the atmosphere with a bone-deep chill and despair.

At the far end of Dusk City, atop the weathered ruins of an ancient clock tower long abandoned, a solitary figure blended into the stone-carved darkness, standing silently. Thalia Nightsong, the wandering Shadow Witch, was not at ease. Swathed in layers of dark garments, her body shuddered imperceptibly; her pale, almost translucent fingers instinctively pressed against her heart.

Just moments before, a faint yet extraordinarily pure surge of energy—like a stone cast into a silent, still lake—had abruptly pierced through the choking miasma of corruption in the air, precisely stirring the deepest secret within her.

It was the Fallen Stone!

That long-lost fragment, bearing the last hope of the stars and an ancient curse, had been activated!

From beneath her heavy attire, a subtle blue-white glow suddenly emanated from the region of her heart. That light, like a captive star beating within her, was both the core of her life and a beacon relentlessly battling the surrounding darkness. This "Starcore Fragment" was the foundation of her existence—the only means by which she could temporarily suppress the inherent Shadowblight that gnawed at her like parasites.

Yet at that moment, the fragment resonated fiercely with the activation of its kin—the Fallen Stone in the distance—bringing with it a piercing pain that seemed poised to tear the soul apart. Beneath the agony, however, she felt a curious, almost yearning throb. She sensed that the energy emanating from the activated Fallen Stone, though meager in quantity, carried a raw, pristine starlight force. It was exactly the "nourishment" her Starcore Fragment desperately needed—in other words, a temporary antidote to the encroaching corruption that relentlessly ate away at her.

More importantly, Thalia understood the significance of the Fallen Stone. It was not merely an energy-laden rock; it was a key to unlocking a hidden secret—a linchpin in maintaining the precarious balance of this crumbling world—and perhaps… a lure to attract even greater calamity. Under no circumstances could it fall into the wrong hands, especially those who either knew nothing of starlight power or harbored ulterior motives.

"Who…" Thalia's ice-blue eyes flashed dangerously from the shadows, reminiscent of a snow leopard on the prowl in the dark, her voice low and hoarse as if long silenced, carrying an inhuman chill, "Who has awakened it?"

She closed her eyes momentarily, plunging her entire being into a state of heightened awareness. Like tendrils extending outward, her shadow magic spread silently into every corner of the city, searching and exploring. Although the residual starlight energy in the air was faint, to her—the last "Guardian of the Starborne"—it shone as clearly as a beacon in the pitch-black night.

The energy's trail was unstable, mixed with the chaotic aftermath of its recent burst and imbued with a curious tang—a trace of mortal pain and shock mingled with the scent of blood?

Blood?

Had it been activated by fresh blood?

Thalia's brow furrowed slightly. While the Fallen Stone could be triggered in various ways, its activation through blood usually implied a connection, however slight, between the activator and the stars. A person bearing Starborne blood, perhaps? In this age of waning magic, pure Starborne lineage had all but become a myth.

Whoever the activator might be, they were undoubtedly also enduring the backlash of starlight power. This might just be the perfect opportunity for her to reclaim the stone.

Without further hesitation, Thalia melted away from the clock tower's summit like spilled ink, silently descending. Not a sound escaped her as she landed gracefully into the deep shadows of a narrow alley below.

The pursuit had begun.

Thalia's tracking skills were less a learned art than an innate instinct—a gift born of a symbiosis with the darkness. She did not rely solely on sight or smell; rather, her acute sensitivity to the flow of energy, empowered by the shadows themselves, guided her. The darkened alleys of the city became her allies. She moved close to the walls, her figure elongating and warping in the sparse moonlight until she merged seamlessly with her surroundings. At times, she transformed into a wisp of almost imperceptible black smoke, slipping silently between eaves and arches; at other times, she glided through puddles on the pavement like a shadowy fish. Passersby and patrolling guards remained oblivious to her presence, as though she were nothing more than a subtle wrinkle in the fabric of the night.

In the polluted air, the trail of starlight energy snaked intermittently like golden threads. Though its strength was weak, its pure essence was unmistakable. Thalia could discern a recent, forcibly awakened vibration marked by pain—a lingering imprint of mortal suffering and shock.

"Painful, isn't it?" she murmured with a cold, almost pitying smile curling her lips. "The gift of the stars has never been free."

She followed the energy trail, swiftly navigating the labyrinthine streets of the city. Dusk City was a chaotic maze: on one hand, there were expansive, once-grand squares and wide avenues left from a bygone era of nobility; on the other, the overcrowded, spiderweb-like alleys of the common quarters. Towering Gothic spires stood alongside dilapidated shanties, the pervasive stench of decay omnipresent.

Thalia knew this city as if she were its very ghost. She knew which alleyways could evade the guards' gaze, which ruins provided a temporary lookout, and which sewer entrance allowed her to traverse several blocks in no time.

The direction of the energy trail pointed to a dilapidated old aristocratic district. This was once home to illustrious families, but with the fading of the stars and the spread of corruption, many of those ancient lineages had crumbled, leaving behind empty mansions and desolate gardens that rotted silently with time.

"A mere whelp of the Dawnstar family, perhaps?" Thalia mused. The Dawnstar family—a once-proud Starborne noble house, now in decline—was said to possess blood so diluted that it was nearly undetectable by magic. If one of their descendants had inadvertently activated the Fallen Stone, it would indeed explain the phenomenon.

Accelerating, she let the shadows flow beneath her like living water, propelling her forward like a spectral phantom. The target drew nearer, and the starlight energy's fluctuations became marginally clearer, blended with a sense of repressed pain and… a faint, almost imperceptible wariness?

Oh? Did she sense it?

Thalia paused briefly, a hint of amusement in her cold gaze. It seemed this "whelp" was not as obtuse as she had presumed. Even while enduring the searing backlash of starlight, he was perceptive enough to detect the danger trailing him. How interesting.

Meanwhile, Raine Dawnstar struggled as if caught between frost and flame. Inside his body, the excruciating backlash of starlight power was like countless red-hot iron needles tearing through his bone marrow, each heartbeat echoing with shredding pain. A chilling erosion crept along his veins, as if intent on freezing and draining the very essence of his life. Yet, despite this, the Fallen Stone he clutched tightly against his chest radiated a steady, faint warmth—like the last ember in the hand of a dying man—reminding him that his recent ordeal was no mere hallucination.

After leaving the suffocating study, Raine had no fixed destination. Perhaps he sought herbs to dull the pain, or maybe he simply wished to escape the oppressive aura of his empty ancestral mansion, or perhaps… he subconsciously desired distance from the stone that brought him both hope and a curse.

He wrapped his slightly oversized coarse cloak tighter around him, head bowed low as he tried to blend into the sparse nocturnal crowd. However, not far along, an inexplicable sense of impending danger slithered up his spine like a venomous serpent.

It wasn't a clear gaze or a distinct sound, but rather an almost preternatural, spine-tingling sensation. It was as if unseen eyes were fixed intently upon him from a hidden corner—cold and piercing. The air seemed to thicken, and the surrounding shadows appeared to come alive, harboring some unknown malice.

Was it merely his nerves heightened by the recent backlash? Had the pain sharpened his senses too acutely?

Raine couldn't be sure, but he'd rather trust his intuition. The greedy gazes at the auction haunted him still—who knew if someone would stop at nothing to reclaim the Fallen Stone he'd bought with his last fortune?

Instinctively, he quickened his pace, his heart drumming in his chest. He did not dare look back, but every muscle was tensed and every sense was heightened. He could hear his own labored breathing and even the distant, chaotic footsteps of night-wanderers behind him—but intermingled with them was a subtle, almost imperceptible rhythm that trailed him like a shadow.

In a sudden decision, Raine veered into a narrow alley cluttered with trash—a route he knew well that led to a relatively secluded small square with multiple intersecting paths, ideal for evading pursuers.

Suppressing the needle-like pain in his head, he stumbled and ran along the uneven cobblestones. The footsteps behind him seemed to fade, but the sensation of being watched lingered like an unshakeable curse, growing ever more distinct and imminent.

His pursuer was no amateur!

This realization sank Raine's heart further. He was neither a trained soldier nor a skilled spy—a fallen noble with little more than theoretical knowledge and a constitution inferior even to that of an average man. Against a professional tracker, he had virtually no advantage.

Emerging from the alley, he found himself in the small square. At its center lay a dried-up fountain, its surface overtaken by moss, surrounded by abandoned houses with windows resembling hollow eyes that appeared all the more sinister under the moonlight.

Just as Raine dashed into the square, choosing a branching route for his escape, a barely perceptible chill brushed his neck.

He halted abruptly and froze, turning stiffly around.

There, at the very entrance of the alley from which he had just emerged, stood a figure—one cloaked in a large dark garment. The figure appeared neither tall nor robust—rather slender—with the hood drawn low, concealing most of the face, leaving only a pale jawline and tightly pressed thin lips faintly visible in the moonlight. The person simply stood at the boundary where shadow meets moonlight, as though waiting patiently for a long time.

No furious shouts nor a flash of weaponry broke the silence; not even the slightest unnecessary gesture was made. Yet Raine felt an unprecedented chill surge from his feet to his head—a pure, emotionless threat, as if the apex predator of the food chain had set its sights on him, leaving no chance for escape.

The sensation of being watched faded, replaced instead by a direct, oppressive force. The figure's aura was as cold and murky as the depths of an abyss, merging perfectly with the surrounding darkness, as though she were a part of the night itself.

Instinctively, Raine took a step back, his hand tightening around the Fallen Stone tucked close to his chest. The stone's gentle warmth was, at that moment, his sole solace. He could sense that his pursuer's objective was precisely that stone.

"You…" Raine's voice came out hoarse as he struggled to steady himself against the dual onslaught of pain and fear, "Who are you? What do you want?"

The figure said nothing at first. Moonlight traced the blurred contours beneath her hood as the shadows at her feet writhed like living creatures.

Then, at last, she spoke. Slowly lifting her head, the shadow of her hood receded to reveal a pair of ice-blue eyes. In those eyes, there was no trace of human emotion—only an implacable, millennia-cold indifference and… a barely concealed murderous intent, as if she meant to freeze her prey utterly.

"Hand it over," she commanded in a voice that shattered like ice breaking on a winter pond, clear and uncompromising as it reached Raine's ears, "That stone does not belong to you."

At the sound of her words, an invisible pressure descended, and the very air in the square seemed to coagulate. Thalia's silhouette in the moonlight grew ever more spectral, her murderous aura unmistakable—as if the reaper himself were about to swing down his scythe.

Crisis was imminent.