The outpost was no longer a safe haven.
The tremors had grown frequent, subtle at first, but now each one rattled the foundation and stirred clouds of ancient dust. Every breath Alex took felt heavier—as if Zeta itself pressed down on him, watching, waiting.
They descended deeper.
The team moved cautiously through the ruins beneath the outpost, torches glowing dimly with enchanted flame. Cracked murals lined the walls, depicting Saints and humans once united under a forgotten banner—until fire split the heavens and tore the land asunder.
"Another civilization…" Soren muttered. "One erased by the imperials, no doubt."
"They feared what it knew," Nyssa added, running her fingers along etched symbols that pulsed faintly at her touch.
Ahead, Veridia motioned for silence. "Something's breathing."
They turned the corner—and saw it.
A massive, half-submerged cathedral of obsidian and bone, its structure twisted by time and arcane corruption. At its heart, an altar pulsed with eerie blue light. Surrounding it were broken statues—some bearing wings, others Saintlike features with shattered faces.
Alex stepped forward, drawn by instinct. The crystal in his hand flared, responding to the altar's pulse. The others stayed back, weapons raised.
The moment his foot touched the cathedral floor, runes ignited beneath his boots. A gust of wind swept through the room, and the shadows moved.
A ghostly figure rose from the altar.
It was translucent, ancient, and burned with fragmented memory.
"You bear the spark… of the sealed bloodline," the spirit said. "Son of two legacies. The final convergence."
Alex's voice was steady. "Who were you?"
"I was the High Arcanist of the Forgotten Court. We tried to contain the Nameless Horror. The imperials… abandoned us. Your kind, the Saints, betrayed the pact. Humanity was left to burn."
"But not all of them," Alex replied. "There's still resistance. Still hope."
The figure's eyes locked onto his. "Then take it."
The altar cracked open, revealing a spear—long, obsidian, laced with glowing veins of mana and a hilt forged from Saintsteel.
"Vyrakar," the spirit whispered. "The weapon forged to pierce the veil between realms… and strike what should not exist."
As Alex reached out, he hesitated. He could feel the spear's hunger—its need to be wielded by someone who walked both paths.
The moment his fingers curled around it, his mana flared uncontrollably.
His eyes burned silver.
The ground split beneath them.
A terrible roar echoed from the earth, shaking the cathedral. Monstrous claws erupted from the stone below—an ancient guardian, awakened by the spear's emergence.
It was massive—horned, plated in shadow-forged bone, and roaring with an ancient language of pain and fury.
Soren cursed. "Looks like we're not leaving quietly."
"Good," Alex said, stepping forward as Vyrakar glowed in his grasp.
"Let's see what this thing can do."