He didn't have to wait long before someone showed up. After all, he had already slipped notes to two powerful organizations, tipping them off about the ancient treasure buried deep inside.
That was fast, Ash mused as he leaned against the shadows of a crumbling pillar, eyes sharp as two rival teams stormed into the dungeon's entrance.
Looks like they reached an agreement... or maybe a temporary truce.
He smirked faintly, knowing full well his ploy was working.
His plan was simple—get them to handle the boss for him. But now, it looks like they'll have to clear the entire path too.
I just hope they brought what I requested, Ash muttered internally, feeling the urgency creeping in.
His fingers subconsciously touched the Shadow Cloak and The Ring of Healing.
This cloak can only get me so far.
With the chance of a fight looming, I need those items more than ever.
Then, as if sensing the new life in the dungeon, the stone soldiers stirred.
The sound of grinding stone sent ripples through the air, and before the people could react, the dungeon devoured them.
It was carnage.
A man tried to shout orders, but a stone spear split his throat mid-command, leaving him gasping silently as blood flooded down his chest.
Another hunter unleashed a hail of enchanted arrows, only for the arrows to ricochet uselessly off the golems' dense frames.
Ash, hidden behind the crumbling pillar, arms crossed, watched it all in silence.
The chamber was filled with brutal symphony—bone cracking, flesh tearing, agonized screams bouncing off the cold walls. Fire and lightning spells burst through the air, but the soldiers pushed through, relentless.
And yet, Ash's heart remained still.
No pity. No urge to intervene. Just... stillness.
They're fighting like animals backed into a corner, he thought, as he caught a glimpse of a warrior—her face contorted in terror—desperately hurling a barrier spell around herself.
A soldier shattered it with a single blow, caving her skull in.
Ash's jaw tensed, but his eyes were cold.
But there was a thought that was nagging him.
Why... don't I feel anything?
He knew what fear looked like, what desperation smelled like. He could taste the copper in the air as blood misted around the stone guardians.
One of the teams tried to fall back, but the portal behind them had sealed shut, trapping them like rats.
Their panic spread like wildfire.
Another fighter clawed at the invisible wall where the portal once stood, only to be run through by a jagged blade. His fingers twitched against the bloody marble as life drained from his eyes.
Ash stood there, unblinking.
May be Garry was right?
A flicker of discomfort gnawed at him. He could feel it, buried beneath the indifference. A sliver of something. But it was dulled, distant.
Is this Omni Thought's side effect?
His eyes drifted to the slaughter, the madness playing out like a scene from a book. The longer he stared, the more he realized how numb he'd become.
They're people. They were people.
But to him... they were merely moving pieces being removed from the board.
What will happen when I create more skills?
He swallowed hard, but his expression didn't change. Just a slow, suffocating realization settling over him like a fog.
Will I end up erasing what little humanity I have left? I hope I don't become a monster.
The hall grew quieter.
The stone soldiers finished their grim work, their blades slick with blood, and the hall fell into a terrible silence, broken only by the faint drip-drip of blood pooling beneath severed limbs.
Ash stepped out from behind the pillar.
His heartbeat pulsed calmly in his chest.
His eyes roamed over the broken bodies—faces frozen in terror, arms outstretched mid-scream, blood painting the cracked marble in uneven strokes.
And yet… he felt.
He felt something.
Curiosity? Mild irritation? A detached awareness, as if watching it unfold from behind a pane of glass. He wasn't numb, no—that would've been easier.
I'm not hollow... I still feel things, he realized.
But instead of horror, there was only a faint ripple of disappointment... boredom, even.
Like a man sighing at a ruined painting rather than grieving the artist.
I should be disturbed, he told himself, feeling the slight tug of unease beneath his ribcage.
But the unease itself? It was dull, fleeting.
"I still feel..." he whispered to the empty hall, gaze flickering to the blank, featureless faces of the stone soldiers standing like statues amidst the carnage.
"But what is it that I'm feeling?"
Was it sympathy? Regret?
No, it was... amusement. A dry, bitter smirk crept to his lips at the absurdity of it.
Am I watching a tragedy, or a play?
And then it hit him.
Like a slow, creeping shadow sliding over him.
Maybe this is how it starts. The thought rooted deep, cold and sharp.
First, you feel things that don't match the moment.
Then, you stop feeling altogether.
His gaze returned to the soldiers.
Will I stand like them one day? Watching but empty?
A chill traced the edge of his spine as he looked at his reflection in a pool of blood.
It stared back at him—expression calm, eyes detached—and yet… within him, faint embers still smoldered.
Do I mourn them? Pity them? Or envy them?
He closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the silence.
And when they opened again, there was clarity—but also fear, buried under layers of calculation.
"Sigh… let's see if they have what I asked for," he murmured, voice steady, as if the scene in front of him was nothing more than a minor setback.
Yet inside, he wondered:
When did I stop seeing humans as humans?
***
Meanwhile, few moments before…
The boys darted through the neon-lit alleys of Iron hold, weaving past flickering ads and enchanted drones zipping overhead. Magical circuitry pulsed faintly beneath the cracked streets, casting dull glows under their hurried feet.
One of them veered west, clutching the letter like it would burn him if held too long. He finally skidded to a halt before a watchtower standing like a fossil near the looming West Gate.
The guard stationed at the entrance, Sergeant Harland, leaned against the stone wall, his posture relaxed but eyes alert. The sergeant's gaze narrowed as the boy approached, noting the urgency in his movements.
"What's the rush, lad?" His voice was gruff, tinged with curiosity.
The boy's breath came fast. He shoved the letter forward. "Message," he whispered, trembling.
Harland's gaze fell to the wax seal. A serpent coiled around a single eye.
His heart sank.
The Whisperer.
The air seemed to thicken. "Where did you—"
But the boy was already gone.
Harland's gut clenched. He spun on his heel and stormed inside the watchtower, boots pounding against the obsidian-tiled floors.
"Get the Commander—!" he barked.
But she was already there.
Liera stepped from the far side of the room, her uniform immaculate, silver trims marking her rank. Her gloved hand shot out, steady.
"I'll take it," she said calmly.
He stiffened before wordlessly handing over the sealed letter.
Her gaze fell on the seal. For a breath, her composure faltered—the faintest tightening of her jaw.
She vanished from the room like smoke, urgency radiating off her.
Liera moved faster than protocol would suggest, cutting through City hall's corridors toward Aldric's office. Her mind raced beneath her calm exterior.
The Whisperer… after all these years?
**
The heavy steel wood doors to Aldric's office slammed open.
Aldric sat behind his desk, overlooking Iron hold through reinforced windows. His brows furrowed. He'd never seen Liera like this.
"What happened?" His voice was taut, sensing something was wrong.
Liera didn't speak—just extended the letter.
Aldric's gaze landed on the seal.
His breath caught.
"The Whisperer…" His voice dropped to a whisper.
The weight of history settled between them.
The room grew cold.
He broke the seal and unfolded the letter.
["In the heart of the Frost Fang Grotto lies a rune, ancient and untouched. Its allure calls to those brave enough to seek it—but beware, for within its icy depths, danger waits in the shadows, eager to strike."]
His eyes narrowed as he noticed a second note tucked behind it.
["To ease the guardian's wrath, bring a branch or leaf from the World Tree when entering."]
Aldric exhaled slowly.
"A Rune?"
---
Elsewhere—
Across the city, beneath the slums, another boy slipped through a hidden entrance, ducking past metal grates and rusted sigils that pulsed faintly with warding magic.
He moved with purpose, down into the Raven's Roost Tavern—the Black Market's favored haunt.
Inside, smoke curled lazily under the low ceiling. Cloaked figures nursed drinks at shadowy tables, speaking in hushed tones as enchanted braziers cast flickering blue light along the stone walls.
The boy approached the bar, head down. "Midnight Ale," he muttered, sliding the leather pouch across the counter.
The barkeep paused, mid-polish, eyes narrowing. He glanced beneath the counter—and froze.
That seal.
His throat worked, but no words came.
Without a word, he nodded once and vanished behind a hidden door.
Far below, deeper in the Market's underbelly, Mors, the Black Market Branch Head, lounged in a chamber lit by crystalline lanterns. He lazily thumbed through a ledger, half-bored—until a subordinate burst in, breathless.
The letter was handed over, hands shaking.
Mors's smirk vanished as his eyes locked on the seal.
He rose slowly from his seat.
"The Whisperer…" he murmured.
He opened the letter.
["In the heart of the Frost Fang Grotto lies a rune, ancient and untouched. Its allure calls to those brave enough to seek it—but beware, for within its icy depths, danger waits in the shadows, eager to strike."]
Then he noticed a second note, separate from the first.
["To ease the guardian's wrath, bring essence of a Shadow beast when entering first."]
Mors chuckled darkly.
"Looks like we're going hunting."
***
Aldric broke the silence, voice like a blade slicing through tension. "So... The Whisperer moves."
Mors's lips curled into a cold grin. "After a century of silence."
Both rooms, miles apart, shared the same charged atmosphere—the weight of history pressing down on every breath.
An aide dared to speak in both locations: "Sir… there's a chance this could be—"
"Fake?" Aldric let out a short, mirthless laugh.
Mors smirked at the same question. "There was once a fool who forged the Whisperer's seal," he said, leaning forward. "An entire syndicate... was wiped from existence within a week."
Aldric's fingers traced the wax seal. "And that was a hundred years ago."
Both leaders' gazes hardened.
"Since then," they said in unison, "no one's dared to try."
Then both rooms erupted into action.
"Mobilize the law enforcers," Aldric ordered coldly.
"Rally the hunters," Mors barked.
A quiet war drum pounded beneath the surface of the city. Two titans, suddenly aligned by a single whisper.
***