Outside, the slums of Fallowmere felt smaller than before. The stink, the noise, the desperate scurry of survival — it couldn’t touch him now. Not with this power humming beneath his skin.

He walked like a man reborn. No one dared approach.

Not until he turned a corner and ran into Myra — arms crossed, face full of suspicion.

"You were gone all night."

Arthur blinked, still catching up to real-world time. "I... had a job. Fought something... big."

Her eyes narrowed. "You're limping. Your coat smells like rot. What kind of job was that?"

He smiled faintly. “One that paid well.”

He held up a pouch. Inside were two more silver coins, scavenged from the dungeon core room. Myra’s face softened, just a little.

"You’re lucky I didn’t sell your bed," she muttered, then snatched one coin and walked off.

Arthur chuckled and followed her back home, the dull ache in his muscles a reminder that he was still human — just not only human anymore.

Arthur sat alone on the roof of their shack, staring out at the blinking lights of the upper districts far away.

Aeon was quiet — until Arthur broke the silence.

"Did you know I’d get this dagger?"

“No,” Aeon replied. “But I knew something would find you. You have the kind of blood that draws in forgotten things.”

Arthur unsheathed Eclipsfang, inspecting its obsidian-like finish. He could see his reflection in the blade now, but it shimmered — fractured, shadowed.

"I want more," he said. "More strength. More control."

“And you will get it,” Aeon answered, “but there will be prices.”

Arthur leaned back, let the wind wash over him. “I’m ready.”

Far across Fallowmere, in a tall glass tower that overlooked the slums like a hawk watches the field, Lady Vera stood in silence.

Her pale fingers traced a rune in the air. The surface of a shallow mirror rippled — not with reflection, but with distorted pulses of arcane interference.

"Again?" she muttered.

The masked mage beside her nodded. “Third anomaly in two nights. Magical signature appears and vanishes. Deep, violent energy. Soul-bound.”

“And always centered near the southern edge of the slums.”

“Yes, Lady Vera.”

She turned, sharp-eyed. “Has anyone returned injured or awakened from that zone?”

“None officially. But two corpse vendors reported bodies drained of life — no signs of wounds. One was marked with a jagged black sigil, like rot.”

Vera narrowed her eyes.

“Someone is harvesting,” she said coldly. “Something old. Something… hungry.”

The masked mage lowered his head. “Shall I dispatch the Watch?”

“No. Not yet.” She walked to the window, gazing down into the night.

“There’s a player hiding in the dirt,” she whispered. “Let them grow a little. It’s easier to cut a tall weed.”

Her reflection in the glass smiled — cruel and patient.

“Keep watching. No one escapes the Maw.”

Arthur stood at the edge of the slums, his hood drawn low. The Whispering Gate had vanished after his 50th kill. All that remained was a faint scent of iron in the wind and a faint shimmer in the dagger—his Eclipsfang.

It was no longer just a weapon. It was alive.

[New Dagger Ability Unlocked: Leechfang]
Each strike drains a portion of enemy vitality, healing the wielder for 10% of the damage dealt. Damage scaling increases against wounded targets.

[Your Kill Count has reached 50/50 — C.]

Arthur could feel it humming against his hip.

But peace didn’t last long.

As he stepped through the broken alleys, a crow cawed once and flew overhead. Nothing unusual — except this one shimmered faintly black.

Aeon whispered in his mind, “We are being watched.”

Arthur didn’t slow his pace. His mind was sharper now, his senses heightened. He slipped into an alley and waited.

Five minutes later, a figure in a dark cloak passed the corner.

Not a thug. Too precise. Too clean.

Arthur’s hand gripped the dagger, its hilt warming in his palm.

He didn’t strike. Not yet.

But he knew. The game had changed.

While Arthur trained in secret and fought creatures in shadow, Myra's world changed too.

Her business grew fast — too fast.

One day, a Cinder Crow representative approached her stall.

“Nice setup you got here,” he said, fingering one of her spice packets. “You under anyone’s protection?”

“No,” she said, trying to sound firm.

“You are now.” He tossed her a small metal token engraved with a crow’s wing. “Ten percent. Weekly. Fair deal.”

Arthur wasn’t there when it happened.

But when he returned that night and saw the token, he froze.

“You took their mark?”

“What choice did I have?” she snapped. “I’m not like you. I can’t kill people in alleys and disappear.”

Arthur’s eyes narrowed. His dagger pulsed once.

He didn’t argue.

But inside, something turned cold.

Days later, the Cinder Crows came calling — not for Myra, but for Arthur.

“You the fighter from the pits?” a tall man asked, flashing a rusted tooth. “Boss wants a word.”

Arthur followed them — to a forge deep in the Crow’s territory. The air smelled of oil and sweat. Anvil strikes rang like distant thunder.

The forge master, a half-blind man named Dran, inspected Arthur up and down.

“You're the one with the strange dagger,” Dran muttered.

“I am.”

“Show me.”

Arthur drew Eclipsfang.

Dran’s eyes widened — not in fear, but recognition. “That’s not steel. That’s… godsdamned Voidglass.”

Arthur blinked. “Voidglass?”

“Dead metal. Cursed stuff. Doesn’t rust. Eats life. Where’d you find it?”

Arthur said nothing.

Dran grunted. “Fine. You don’t talk. Just fight.”

Moments later, the floor beneath them shifted — a hidden platform. Arthur descended into a fire-lit arena.

Three men waited. Crows, armed and armored.

Arthur unsheathed Eclipsfang and let the dagger’s hunger loose.

By the end, two were unconscious.

The third never walked again.

The heat of the forge still clung to Arthur’s skin. He sat on a scorched bench, blood drying on his knuckles. The trial had ended — three fighters down. One still groaning. The others weren’t moving much.

Above, Dran leaned over the railing, arms folded. His one good eye glinted like molten iron.

"You fight like you’ve got a devil in your blood," he muttered. “But you don’t waste motion. That’s what caught my eye.”

Arthur said nothing. Eclipsfang rested across his lap, its obsidian edge faintly pulsing — not with hunger now, but satisfaction.

Footsteps echoed behind them. A new man entered, sharp in contrast to the soot-covered forgers — long coat, black gloves, gold tooth flashing when he grinned.

“Name’s Relk,” he said. “I speak for the inner ring of the Cinder Crows.”

Arthur eyed him. “You their boss?”

“No,” Relk said, smirking. “I’m the voice that gets you in. Or out.”

He gestured around.

“Everyone’s talking about you. That dagger. The pit fights. The money. Even the Black Maw’s starting to take notice.”

Arthur tensed. “Then this is a warning?”

“No.” Relk tossed a small leather pouch on the bench. It clinked — heavy with silver.

“This is a proposal.”

Arthur frowned. “What kind?”

“A partnership. You don’t wear our brand, you don’t bow to our colors. But when you fight, you fight with our coin. We’ll back you, protect your sister’s stall, keep the Maw off your neck — in exchange, you bring us results.”

Arthur picked up the pouch. Weighed it. Twenty silver, maybe more.

“You want me on a leash.”

Relk shook his head. “We want you off someone else’s.”

There was a pause.

Then Arthur nodded once.

“Deal.”

Relk grinned wider. “Smart lad. Welcome to the flame — unofficially.”

He leaned in closer, voice low. “Just don’t ever cross it.”