The Warden Shade moved first.

Its long, stitched arm snapped forward like a whip, metal hooks embedded in its fingers screaming through the air. Cray ducked, narrowly avoiding the arc of death, while Elian deflected a second strike with his blade, the impact ringing like a struck bell.

The Shade’s body shifted unnaturally, joints bending backward as it lunged again.

Elian whispered the old words under his breath —
“Bind.”

Golden chains erupted from the ground, snaring the Shade’s legs and slowing its momentum for a split second. It was enough.

Cray grinned like a madman, tossing a handful of powder into the air — crushed moonwort and bloodroot, ignited with a snap of his fingers. The powder sparked and flared, sending a burst of white fire straight into the creature’s chest.

The Shade recoiled, screeching as the fire crawled up its patchwork skin.

"Your turn!" Cray shouted.

Elian moved in.

He drove his blade into the Shade’s mask, twisting as the sigil etched into the porcelain began to crack. The creature shrieked louder — and then the mask shattered, releasing a plume of black smoke that spiraled upward and vanished into nothing.

The Shade’s body collapsed into a heap of stitched limbs and empty skin.

For a moment, there was silence.

Then Cray exhaled, running a hand through his white hair. "Still got it."

"You’re slowing," Elian muttered, stepping over the remains.

"You’re still humorless."

They reached the vault door at last — a thick iron slab pulsing faintly with old magic. The runes etched across it flickered as if breathing.

Elian placed his palm against the cold metal.

It pulsed in recognition.

The door unlatched and groaned open.

Inside, resting on a raised obsidian pedestal, was the Memory Blade — its hilt wrapped in blackened leather, its curved silver edge faintly humming with a strange resonance. Wisps of smoke coiled around it, as though the air itself was afraid to touch it.

Elian stared at it for a long moment.

"You sure about this?" Cray asked softly, voice unusually serious now.

"I don’t have the luxury of doubt."

Cray folded his arms. "If you lose yourself in there, I can’t pull you out."

"I know."

Elian stepped forward.

The moment his fingers closed around the hilt, the world unraveled.

The first memory hit like lightning.

Flashes of a battlefield long dead.
Charred earth. Screaming skies.
Demons pouring through a rift torn in the heavens, their forms impossible, shifting, hungry.
Elian stood at the center of it — but not as he was now.

Armor of white bone and black iron. Runes etched into his skin, glowing like molten veins. His voice carried the authority of gods as he commanded the Bound to hold the line.

The War of the Sundering.

The first war that broke the world.

He remembered now —
The blood pacts they swore. The price they paid to seal the first gate. The immortality forced upon him as punishment — as duty. Bound not to live, but to watch. Forever.

The scene shifted.

Another memory — colder. Deeper.

A circle of robed figures — The Founding Circle. The origin of the Pact.

They argued, voices heavy with desperation.

"One must remain. A Warden eternal. The Seal must always have a living anchor."

"It will destroy him."

"It already has."

Elian — younger, uncertain, but defiant — stepped forward.

"I will bear it."

The ritual began.

His name was stripped. His soul was split — part of him fused into the very bones of the world, tied to the Seal. The rest… left to wander, never aging, never dying, never whole.

The memory burned deeper still.

The betrayal.

Malrek.

Once a brother. Once his closest ally.

Now standing before him with the Hollow Veil priests, their faces hidden, their voices cold.

"You were never meant to lead, Elian. You are the Seal’s prisoner. We will free the world by releasing the Old Masters. You are obsolete."

Elian fought. He killed. But not all.

Some escaped.

The Cult was born.

And the war never truly ended.

Suddenly, Elian was yanked back.

The vault snapped into focus. He staggered, gasping, the blade still gripped in his shaking hand. His vision swam with afterimages, his heart pounding with ancient rage.

Cray caught him. "You’re back. Damn fool, you’re back."

Elian looked up, voice hoarse but sharp. "I remember."

"Everything?"

"Enough."

He sheathed the blade, though its pulse still hummed against his skin.

"The names of the remaining bloodlines?" Cray asked.

"They were never truly bloodlines," Elian said, standing straighter now. "They’re anchors. Living vessels like I was. The Seal needs four to stabilize. Three remain."

He turned toward the vault entrance.

"And Malrek is hunting them."

Cray exhaled. "Then we move fast."

"We move now," Elian corrected.

Far away, in the Hollow Veil’s sanctum, Malrek stood before the Host — a towering creature of shifting flesh and bone, its many eyes blinking in unison. The High Priest knelt at its feet.

"My lord," the priest whispered. "He has awakened the blade."

Malrek’s cold smile spread.

"Good," he whispered. "Then the hunt truly begins."