The world blurred.

Raikuro’s vision flickered between light and dark as he stumbled through the ash-choked forest skirting Arcadia’s ruins. Velgrim’s blade had carved more than flesh—it had cleaved through buried memories, pulling jagged truths from forgotten depths. His shoulder throbbed, pulsing with unnatural heat. The Hellsteel gauntlet on his right arm gleamed dimly, as if savoring the pain.

Something inside him stirred.

Not his soul. That was still his—he hoped. No, this was different. A whisper threaded through his blood, a hunger that did not come from within, but from beneath. The Hellsteel pulsed again. Once. Twice. It was learning.

He collapsed near the base of a charred obelisk—one of the old markers from the Flame Wars. Smoke curled in lazy halos above him, and the air vibrated with hymns long since forbidden.

That’s when they found him.

Three figures emerged from the smoke, their robes black as burnt bone, embroidered with ember-threaded sigils. Their eyes glowed orange, not with heat—but with memory.

"Ash take him," said the tallest, voice deep as coals cracking. "The steel sings of judgment."

Raikuro raised his hand, ready to defend, but his strength failed. His vision dimmed again. Just before the world vanished, he heard the chant:

"By ash, by flame, by forgotten name…"

He awoke in silence.

Stone walls loomed around him, their surfaces covered in layered carvings—prayers, bindings, warnings. A single brazier flickered above, casting golden shadows over his cot. His wounds had been bandaged, his armor removed, but the gauntlet remained untouched. No one dared take it off. Wise.

“You live,” said a voice behind him.

Raikuro turned. A woman stood at the doorway, her robe like the others’, but with a scarlet sash indicating some authority. Her skin was greyed by soot, and ash lined the creases of her face.

“Barely,” he croaked.

She stepped forward and handed him a cup of something hot and bitter. He drank without question. It burned—but so did his veins now. The Hellsteel reacted, glowing faintly.

“I am Sister Arvain. You are in the Sanctum of Sorrow—last refuge of the Ash Priests.”

Raikuro’s brow furrowed. “I thought your kind were hunted to extinction after the Flame of Renewal fell.”

“We were,” Arvain said flatly. “But fire, like truth, always leaves embers.”

She sat across from him, eyeing the gauntlet.

“The Hellsteel is awake,” she said.

Raikuro nodded. “It speaks… not in words, but pulls. I feel things. Hunger. Memories that aren’t mine.”

Arvain leaned in. “It’s not speaking. It’s remembering. Hellsteel isn’t just demonic alloy. It’s soul-forged metal. It remembers every bearer. Every kill. Every moment it fed.”

Raikuro swallowed. “Then why hasn’t it consumed me yet?”

“Because it hasn’t needed to,” Arvain replied. “But you’re close. Too close.”

Later that night, Arvain brought him deeper into the sanctum. They passed through vaults filled with relics—ashes of saints, preserved tongues of martyrs, even a scorched feather claimed to be from a fallen seraph.

Finally, they entered a cavern below the temple. Blackened roots curled along the ceiling. A shallow pool sat at its center, water still and perfectly reflective.

“The Rite of Anchoring must be done tonight,” Arvain said. “Before the Hellsteel learns too much.”

“What happens if I fail?” Raikuro asked.

“You’ll stop being Raikuro. The Hellsteel will wear you.”

A second figure entered—an aged priest bearing a censer of smoking myrrh. He nodded once and began to chant in the lost tongue.

Raikuro stepped into the water. It was warm. Not from heat—but memory. As he stood, Arvain approached with a shard of volcanic obsidian.

“This will draw the spirit into focus,” she explained. “You’ll face what the Hellsteel has absorbed. Every sin. Every soul.”

“And if I lose?”

“Then the next bearer will face you.”

She plunged the shard into his chest.

His scream echoed not in the chamber—but in the mind.

Raikuro opened his eyes to a world of blood and brimstone. He stood on a plain of endless iron bones, beneath a sky torn by red lightning. Figures loomed in the distance—some human, some not. All bore Hellsteel. All turned to look at him.

The shard in his chest pulsed, becoming a conduit between him and the blade’s past. Memories surged forward:

—A warlock, weeping as he killed his beloved to seal the first Hellsteel core.

—A king, mad with grief, cleaving through traitors with burning eyes.

—A demon-child, laughing as her blade sang lullabies to dying angels.

And finally… himself.

He saw his own face, twisted in rage, killing not for justice—but for vengeance. He saw Lysia’s face in his hands, already dead. Not from Dreadvorr’s minions—but from his failure.

The Hellsteel surged with this truth.

It wasn’t made for protection.

It was a mirror.

Raikuro collapsed to his knees. Around him, the bearers approached. Whispering. Judging.

“You are like us,” said the warlock.

“No,” Raikuro gasped.

“You chose vengeance.”

“I chose survival.”

“You wore the steel willingly,” hissed the demon-child.

“I had no choice!”

Laughter surrounded him. The Hellsteel flared with joy—feeding on his denial.

Then another voice cut through the chaos.

“You still have a soul.”

It was Ogrhul—standing not as a demon, but as a man. Burned. Broken. Real.

“You wear the steel. But you aren’t it.”

Raikuro looked up. “Why are you here?”

“Because you pulled me from the pit. Gave me a name. A choice. You think the Hellsteel does that?”

Raikuro gritted his teeth. “Then how do I stop it?”

“You don’t. You bind it.”

Ogrhul offered a hand. “Anchor yourself. Not to vengeance. Not to rage. Anchor to choice.”

Raikuro reached forward. The shard in his chest cracked. The Hellsteel roared—but it was afraid. The memory-scape trembled. Flames turned blue.

And just like that, the steel broke.

Raikuro gasped awake, submerged in the ash pool. Arvain and the elder priest pulled him out. The gauntlet no longer glowed. It pulsed—steady, silent, watching.

“You survived,” Arvain said, breathless.

Raikuro stood, taller somehow. Grounded. Changed.

“It’s no longer a curse,” he said quietly. “It’s a burden.”

“Then bear it wisely,” Arvain whispered.

As he donned his armor again, Raikuro noticed something new etched into the gauntlet’s palm: a sigil—neither demonic nor divine, but human.

His.

End of Chapter 7