The Sanctuary(21)

Niko moved like a shadow laced with lightning, hurtling through the twisting corridors of the cult's underground world. His boots barely grazed the ground, propelled by bursts of bluish-white tendrils that snapped from his body to the walls and ceilings, slingshotting him forward at breakneck speed.

The passage twisted unnaturally, as if it had been carved not by hands, but by memory—crumbling stone lined with faint runes, torch brackets that had long since lost their flame, and the ever-present hum of something old breathing beneath it all.

"I swear," Niko muttered under his breath, ducking under a low arch, "if that guy sent me toward more guards, I'm gonna make him regret waking up this morning."

His black eyes, dull and endless as an eclipse, scanned every crack in the walls ahead as he approached the final turn. The air was still here—he could almost hear his own heartbeat echoing off the walls. His mental map was still scrambled, but this was the direction the guard insisted led to the meeting hall—or whatever it really was.

He made the final turn.

And froze.

A man was walking down the hallway alone, some distance ahead—calm, deliberate steps that seemed to push the silence around him. His cloak, black as the abyss and inscribed with ancient silver markings, dragged behind him with a gravity of its own. His hair was short and silver at the temples, his posture upright like a blade left unsheathed too long.

The Speaker. No… Niko understood now. This was the First Prophet.

Niko's muscles tensed on instinct. He didn't slow—he launched himself forward in a single fluid motion, tendrils snapping tight as he soared through the dim air, flipping high over the Prophet's head in a blur.

His cloak flared behind him like wings. He landed hard, boots striking the dusty stone and kicking up flecks of grit. A breath hung in the air.

He looked up, black hair swept partially across his face, and stared into the eyes of the man before him.

"Yo," Niko said simply.

There was a long pause.

The First Prophet stopped walking.

For a moment, Niko couldn't read anything on his face. His expression was carved from stillness—ageless, amused, and terrifyingly composed. But there was something in his eyes.

Not surprise. Not fear.

Amusement.

The corners of the First Prophet's lips curved upward, not into a smile, but something smaller—more dangerous.

"Well," he said at last, voice soft and deep like a promise, "I wondered when fate would roll the dice again."

Niko's pulse spiked, but he stood his ground. His eyes narrowed.

He didn't know what this man could do. But he could feel it. Power. History. Secrets pressed into skin like ink and blood. The Prophet had expected this.

And Niko didn't care.

The silence between them felt like a fuse waiting to be lit.

And Niko had fire to spare.

Niko didn't hesitate.

This was it.

No more riddles. No more ruined books or broken chambers. The time for stories was over—this was the reckoning. His heartbeat thudded not in fear, but with the clarity of purpose. The hallway ahead shimmered in the dim, artificial light, its cracked walls and flickering sconces casting broken shadows on every surface. And in the middle of it all stood the First Prophet.

The man who had chained him. Mocked him. Claimed fate had chosen him, not Niko.

Niko exhaled once, slow and deliberate. Then he stepped forward, voice low and cold as the forgotten stone underfoot.

"My name is Niko," he said, every syllable sharpened like glass. "And I'm the one Fate couldn't break."

The First Prophet didn't move.

He just stood there, his long black coat draped around his form like a shroud of old power, a single hand loosely held behind his back. His face—neither young nor old—remained unreadable in the shifting light. Then, the corners of his mouth twitched into a smile. Not mocking. Not cruel. Just… tired. Like someone watching an echo of something he'd seen long ago.

"I once thought the same," the Prophet said, his voice velvet and worn. "But fate has a habit of circling back."

Niko didn't wait to hear more.

His tendrils burst from his back in a crackling explosion of motion, blue-white energy flaring through the corridor like bolts of living lightning. They lashed outward, anchoring into the stone walls, the ceiling, the floor—then he pulled.

He shot forward like a missile, twisting mid-air with acrobatic precision. As he neared, he spun, redirecting himself off one of the tendrils and aiming a crushing kick at the Prophet's head.

The First Prophet moved without effort.

His coat flared outward, and in that moment—just a moment—Niko saw it.

A glint of gold beneath the fabric. Not ornamental. Not decorative. Just a weapon. Lean. Forged for war.

The Prophet parried the incoming kick with the side of his arm, the block solid but relaxed, as though batting away a falling leaf. Then came Niko's follow-up—his tendrils whipped forward, attempting to wrap around the Prophet's torso, legs, wrists—anything.

But the Prophet twisted between them effortlessly, evading the bindings with fluid precision, not even needing to counterattack. His coat flowed with his movements, that faint flash of gold disappearing and reappearing like a memory.

Niko's eyes narrowed mid-assault.

Something about the way he moved.

He retracted his tendrils in a snap and used one to pivot into a low sweep, but again the Prophet sidestepped, hands still largely unmoved—watching. Testing.

Niko landed in a crouch and stared up at him, breath steady, heart thudding.

The Prophet's eyes glinted.

"You're faster than before," he said. "Sharper. But not finished."

"I don't need to be finished," Niko growled, rising. "Just enough to end you."

The Prophet laughed. Not cruelly. Not maniacally. Just a short, surprised breath of amusement, like someone recognizing a younger version of something long buried.

"I remember that fire," he said. "The belief that the world could bend to your will if you just burned bright enough."

Niko didn't answer. His tendrils flared again—ready.

This time, no test.

He launched himself again, slamming into the Prophet like a storm—this wasn't a maneuver, it was an assault. Tendrils snapped like whips from every angle, coming in with curved arcs, zigzag strikes, feints and flickers. The hallway trembled from the speed and force of it.

And the Prophet responded in kind.

He moved his hand—and the coat parted. The blade flashed again.

Gold.

In a single, smooth motion, he deflected a tendril strike and twisted the blade upward, slicing through the air near Niko's head—not enough to hit, but enough to say: I can.

Niko blinked once.

He shouldn't be this fast.

And yet—he smiled. Because the thrill of the fight, the dance of power, the chaos of motion—it was everything he lived for.

If this was the man at the center of the cult, the so-called First Prophet, then Niko was glad he found him.

And if this was the blade that ruled the shadows behind the curtain—

He would tear down the whole stage just to see how sharp it really was.

They clashed again.

And again.

Each movement a page in a forgotten war song. Each strike a stanza. The Prophet's blade moved like liquid gold, smooth and effortless, while Niko's tendrils danced with furious velocity, unpredictable and wild. They mirrored two halves of something ancient—form and chaos, grace and defiance.

And in the echoes of battle, the hallway became a battlefield. A memory. A stage.