Far away from any form of civilization, hidden beyond the edge of every map, rested a small, nondescript bunker entrance. From a distance, it appeared almost invisible—no flags, no towers—only the endless dry plains stretched around it like a sea of dust. The only sign of its importance was the unnerving mass of armored guards stationed heavily at the entrance, their eyes cold and unblinking.
Upon entering the bunker, the descent plunged steeply into the earth, easily sinking over sixty meters into the abyss. The air grew colder with every step, the stone walls pressing inward. Dark cages, carved into the very walls, lined the sides like grotesque honeycombs. Each cage was forged from spiked black iron and lit by grim torches that spat weak, flickering flames. The bricks and cages pulsed with a faint, unnatural hum, infused with ancient magic that was ceaselessly active, like the low growl of something alive, something watching.
The deeper one ventured, the fewer the cages became. The black stone hummed louder, resonating with a pressure that weighed down the chest, as if the very dungeon itself rebelled against the light. In the deepest sector, where the humming became a deafening thrum and the very air tasted of ash, a solitary cage stood isolated in a long corridor bathed only in the violet glow of cold purple torches.
From within the barely illuminated cell, the sound of chains scraped against the iron floor, echoes stretching across the long hollow hall. A shadow moved inside the cage—a figure bound and silent.
Suddenly, the low ritualistic sounds—the humming, the chains—were shattered by the grinding creak of a massive stone door opening, followed by the heavy clank of armor moving closer, step by echoing step. The silhouette in the cage did not dare look up, even as the boots halted before his prison.
"Bring the girl," a familiar voice commanded, calm but edged with something bitter beneath its official tone. The clanking of armored steps retreated briefly, leaving the figure in the cage alone with the presence standing before him.
The silhouette looked up slightly, just enough to reveal a single swollen eye staring out beneath a mess of blood and grime—before him, only a singular pair of boots remained. A soft whoosh accompanied the sudden illumination of a purple torch, revealing the one holding it.
It was Commander Louie, his expression carved from stone, yet his eyes betraying a glimmer of something more complicated. In his hand, he held one of the torches from the wall, bathing the battered figure in haunting purple light.
"I never thought they'd go as far as to torture a hero too," he said, voice stern but trembling slightly with concealed regret. He observed the bloodied mess of Shisan, kneeling in the cage, bound by spiked chains embedded into his wrists and neck. His left eye was swollen shut, his right barely open, blood trailing slowly from a deep wound atop his scalp into the lid of his good eye. His body was clad only in torn rags, exposing fresh, open scars that bled sluggishly into the filth below him.
Shisan kept his gaze lowered, offering no response.
Commander Louie placed the torch into a nearby stand, its light casting the cage's brutal details into sharper relief. He reached into his belt, pulling free a small scroll and unfurling it with deliberate care, the ancient parchment crackling as he read:
"I've come to tell you what will happen to you. It's the least that can be done for a hero who dared defy His Majesty's will."
The words cut like knives into the heavy silence.
"Hear me, forsaken Hero," Louie recited, voice echoing with grim ritual. "Thy hero who has placed their own pleasures before His Majesty's orders. This is His Majesty's final courtesy to you: although you betrayed the very trust of his heart, His Majesty will tell you the events that are to take place. Tonight, you will be banished from this world, and your relic will be disposed of. Your banishment is the equivalent of an execution. As of now, you are dead. Wherever your soul may lie from here on are no concerns of this world. Any retaliation will result in more...extreme consequences."
Louie rolled up the scroll with a heavy breath, his shoulders sagging ever so slightly.
"That's it?" Shisan rasped. His voice was dry, cracked, barely a whisper against the oppressive air, but it was steady. His battered face lifted slightly to meet Louie's gaze—eyes swirling with a storm of sorrow and fury, emotions colliding without any clear victor.
"You know the demons plan to overrun this world with creatures that can shatter everything humanity has built," Shisan growled through clenched teeth. "And you hide behind a man who plans to watch it happen?"
His chains rattled violently as he strained against them, fury bubbling to the surface. Commander Louie's face twitched with regret—but he steeled himself, bound to duty.
He raised a single finger, which shimmered with purple energy. Slowly, carefully, he drew glowing letters into the air before Shisan's bloodied eyes:
'Do not say anything. He is listening.'
The letters hovered, casting dim violet light across the dark hall. Shisan's breathing slowed, understanding flashing in his battered mind.
Commander Louie continued speaking venomously for the unseen watchers:
"You're a disgrace of a hero. To think you were nearing Sword Saint status—what a joke. Aren't you ashamed of the shame you brought to your family? Now not only have you doomed yourself to banishment, but your closest friend has been imprisoned. All of this is your fault."
But even as he spoke, he wrote unseen words in the air:
'There is always a way back. This is not true death—it is a trial of your determination.'
Shisan's swollen eyes widened. Hope—a fragile ember—flickered back to life in his chest. His broken spirit, battered beyond belief, pulled itself together under the weight of those invisible words.
Another message appeared:
'Come back and save us.'
The letters seared themselves into Shisan's very soul. His pain, his despair, his hopelessness—all burned away, replaced by a cold, unyielding fire.
Commander Louie saw the change—the unmistakable rekindling of life in Shisan's battered frame—and allowed himself the briefest smile before quickly turning away.
"Don't think for a second anyone will ever remember your name," he barked, his voice regaining its cruel edge as he strode to the stone door, opening it just enough to let another figure step inside.
It was Yuchan.
She wore no chains, no visible injuries, but her hair, once long and free, had been shorn to her shoulders. She wore coarse, shapeless rags, her spirit visibly frayed. As she approached the cage, her eyes widened with pained disbelief at the sight of Shisan's ruined form. But when their eyes met, she saw something unexpected: life. A spark of defiance that hadn't been extinguished.
She smiled, despite herself—her face streaked with sadness and relief.
"I'm glad you're still here... I wanted to see you one more time before they banished you," she whispered, kneeling down before his cage.
"How long did they say your sentence was?" Shisan asked, voice a strained whisper.
"Originally, eighty years," Yuchan said, managing a shaky laugh. "But Lady Miranda fought for me. She got it shortened to thirty." Her smile turned bittersweet. "You should've seen it... the first time I've ever seen her so furious."
Shisan smiled faintly, the expression painful but genuine.
"I tried to get Lady Miranda to fight for you too, but… since you had the vow of a Hero, there wasn't much she could do..." Yuchan's voice broke at the edges.
"This isn't the end, Yuchan," Shisan said, his voice low but filled with certainty. "I'll find a way to come home."
"How?" she asked, wiping tears from her eyes.
"I don't know," Shisan admitted after a pause. "But... can you wait for me?"
Yuchan looked down, trembling.
"When you come home," she whispered, "you better teach me how to cook."
Shisan chuckled softly, warmth in his broken body.
"I promise."
Yuchan stood, trying to reach for him—but the shimmering purple barrier stopped her hand. So she simply pressed her hand against the cold metal bars, closing her eyes as if willing her strength into him one last time. Then, silently, she turned and left.
It wasn't long before the grim, monotonous hum of the prison walls was once again interrupted. The great stone door groaned open, this time not with hesitation, but with heavy, inevitable finality. Shisan lifted his battered head to see them: a contingent of knights in full armor, their visors down, marching in formation. At their head, striding with casual cruelty, was Sword Saint Manto.
The clank of armored boots echoed with ominous finality as they reached the solitary cage.
Without ceremony, Manto stepped forward, his hand reaching lazily for the lock. With a sharp twist, he flung the heavy door open, the stench of blood and old magic pouring out. Manto stood there, staring down at Shisan with cold amusement.
"Hmm... I swear I told the torturer to break your spirit before banishment," Manto mused, voice casual, almost bored. "I guess even he couldn't succeed, huh? No matter. He'll need reminding of his purpose later." His voice turned cruel, a smirk curling on his lips.
Without warning, Manto clenched his fist—and the chains around Shisan's wrists and neck tightened violently, then snaked around his torso, constricting him until he couldn't move his arms at all.
"Stand up, boy," Manto ordered, his voice sharp like a whip crack.
Shisan struggled. The chains scraped his raw flesh, but fueled by a defiant ember reignited by Yuchan's visit—and Louie's secret messages—he forced himself upright, the effort wringing a grunt of pain from deep within.
Sword Saint Manto turned without sparing him a glance, leading the procession of knights out of the dark hall. Shisan, bound and staggering, was marched deeper into the prison—into territory so far down that even the magical humming of the walls faded, swallowed by an unnerving, all-consuming silence.
They stopped before a massive set of ancient wooden doors, bound in iron and etched with old, forgotten runes. A pair of knights pulled the doors open with effort, revealing a cavernous, circular chamber beyond.
Inside, all the Sword Saints, Captains, and Grand Magicians stood atop their individual platforms arranged in a wide circle. Each of them wore a ceremonial cloth mask bearing the sigils of their rank. They watched in silence, expressionless, judgmental.
In the very center of the room blazed a massive, intricate purple magic circle, pulsing faintly like a living heartbeat. Above it loomed a singular throne carved from marble and bone, and a massive Heldholme banner was draped behind it.
Manto led Shisan directly to the center of the circle, then, with a dismissive flick of his hand, made the chains disappear into purple mist. Shisan stumbled slightly, regaining his balance, feeling the bruises and open wounds aching in the cold, magic-heavy air.
Manto waved mockingly before retreating to the outer platforms, leaving Shisan truly alone in the circle's heart.
"ALL SUBJECTS OF HIS MAJESTY, PREPARE FOR HIS ARRIVAL!" a booming voice rang out. Trumpets blared a majestic, almost mocking fanfare.
From behind the Heldholme banner, a figure emerged: the King.
He wore a crown heavy with gemstones, his crimson silk cape trailing behind him. His long beard was combed to a point, his ceremonial robes embroidered with threads of gold. His mere presence flooded the room with an oppressive gravity.
He ascended to the throne and sat down, legs crossed, staring down at Shisan with cold, ancient eyes.
The trumpets ceased, leaving only the shallow breathing of the crowd.
"Xīwàng Shisan," the King said, voice sharp and imperial, "are you aware of what is about to happen to you?"
"Yes," Shisan answered, his head bowed but his voice steady.
"Do you have any final words?"
A long pause filled the hall. Shisan slowly raised his head, locking eyes with the King.
"Yes..." he rasped.
"Why do you allow the demons to build creatures that will destroy everything humanity has built over generations?"
The room froze.
No one dared move. No one dared breathe.
The King's face remained unmoving. Slowly, he raised his hand.
The magic circle around Shisan ignited with violent, chaotic energy. Arcs of purple lightning slashed across the air, and the King's eyes, possessed by ancient power, turned pure white—toxic vapors coiled around him like living spirits, distorting the very air.
And then the King began to chant, his voice doubled over by an unearthly resonance:
"Black vapors churn to swallow night.
By breath of fume and royal hand,
Shisan's curse we now withstand.
O swirl of mists, heed his call,
All wards undone, all fetters break.
Hail, Ruler of Heldholme—banish this blight from my sight!"
The magic circle spun faster, screeching against the stone floor. Shisan collapsed to his knees, his body sizzling under an invisible pressure. Then, suddenly—
Purple fire erupted.
The flames engulfed him whole, his rags catching first, then his flesh, his bones. Yet Shisan did not scream. He did not fight. He endured, teeth clenched, as the flames devoured him.
Piece by piece, limb by limb, he turned to ash.
When it was over, only the remnants of his charred clothing remained.
The King lowered his hand. Silence reigned.
No one questioned. No one dared.
Shisan was gone.
A lost soul hurtled through the cosmos, moving at a speed incomprehensible to mortal minds. It raced past worlds where nightmares ruled, where madness grew like vines, where titanic beings devoured lesser men.
It sought a new place to exist.
In a blinding instant, reality itself tore open.
The lost spirit glimpsed something—an endless spiral of impossible colors. Shades that could not be named, only felt: emotions bleeding into colors, memories dripping into rivers of starlight. Time itself unraveled; there were no years, no days—only the echo of possibilities the lost spirit never lived, lives it never touched.
A library made of stars...
A river of broken dreams...
And then—
It was gone.
Shisan awoke with a violent gasp.
The world around him was dark, lit only by strange orange lights high above, like cold, distant suns. He patted himself down in a panic, miraculously feeling that his limbs were whole again.
He exhaled, shaky but alive, and pulled himself off the unfamiliar, hammered-stone ground.
Everything around him was strange: the floor gleamed like metal, smoother and colder than any cobblestone road he'd ever seen. Towering metal boxes loomed around him like fortresses—painted in strange, faded colors, scrawled with foreign markings and sigils he could not decipher.
Shisan stood there, breathless, overwhelmed by the alien world stretching before him. His body felt heavier, compressed by invisible pressure, as if he wore invisible chains tightening around every fiber of his being.
But despite the fear, despite the uncertainty, he breathed.
He steadied himself.
And slowly, purposefully, he took his first step forward.
Toward the impossible journey home.
Shadows Beneath the Pact END