2026-08-18 18:20:43The city of Oakhaven was a graveyard of lights. Every torch was extinguished, and the streets were patrolled by armored inquisitors with glowing, violet visors.
Freecs adjusted his velvet collar, the silk itching against his neck. Beside him, Vivina looked dangerously out of place in a floor-length evening gown that clearly belonged to someone much smaller.
"Stop pulling at the neckline," she hissed, her voice barely audible. "You look like you’re trying to strangle yourself."
"I am," Freecs muttered, keeping his head down as they approached the North Gate checkpoint. "If this corset doesn't kill me, the guards definitely will. Who wears this stuff? It’s basically torture."
"It’s high-society fashion, you idiot. Just stop hunching. You’re a lord’s son tonight, remember?"
"A lord’s son who smells like a sewer and has an assassin’s dagger taped to his thigh? Perfect."
"Lord Valerius the Third. My cousin from the southern provinces," she added, catching his eye with a warning glare. "And don't you dare touch your belt. The guards are trained to spot nervous ticks."
"My only tick is the overwhelming desire to stab the guy in the helmet," Freecs retorted.
The Captain of the Guard blocked their path, his hand resting on the hilt of a runic blade. "State your business. Why are you out after the curfew bells?"
Vivina stepped forward, her posture regal and chillingly cold. "Do you have any idea who you’re delaying, Captain? My cousin has a very sensitive stomach. If we miss the banquet at the High Priest’s, he’ll make sure your boots are the only thing you own by sunrise."
Freecs deepened his voice, affecting a pretentious, bored lilt. "Truly. The delay is becoming... problematic. Quite frankly, I’m offended."
The Captain narrowed his eyes, peering through the dim light at their forged crests. "The High Priest is seeing no one tonight. The city is under total lockdown."
"Oh, I know," Vivina said, her tone dripping with fake honey. "That’s exactly why he invited us. A private consultation on... internal security matters."
"Internal security?" The Captain hesitated, looking at the seal of the Southern Arch-Bishop on her ring.
"Exactly," Freecs drawled, leaning against the cold stone wall. "Unless you want to be the one to tell the Arch-Bishop that you blocked his niece from delivering a 'fragile' report?"
The Captain paled, his hand falling away from his sword. "Pass through. But stay off the main boulevards. The Inquisition is sweeping the lower sectors."
"We’ll be sure to watch our step," Vivina replied.
They walked past the gate without looking back. Once they were out of earshot, Freecs let out a long, shuddering breath.
"I hate you," he whispered. "That was terrifying."
"You were the one who suggested the 'fragile report' bit. You’re learning."
"I’m learning that lying to authority figures is surprisingly addictive. Where to now?"
"The basement levels of the Association. That’s where they keep the experimental gear and the... 'special' prisoners."
They wove through the shadows of the alleyways, dodging the rhythmic, heavy footsteps of the Inquisition patrols. The city was a maze of paranoia.
"We need a distraction," Freecs said, checking the corridor ahead. "The entrance is guarded by two mages and an automated sentry."
"I can handle the mages," Vivina said, her eyes flashing gold. "You take the sentry. But don't break it completely—we might need the clearance codes."
"You want me to hack a sentient war-machine while you fight two battle-mages? You have a very strange definition of teamwork."
"It’s called trust, Freecs. Try it sometime."
"My trust usually involves traps, but fine. On my mark."
They sprang into action. Vivina moved like a blur, her hands weaving patterns in the air that sent waves of force slamming into the mages, pinning them against the marble pillars. Freecs sprinted toward the sentry, sliding on his knees as the machine’s cannons whirred to life.
"Nice to meet you, toaster," Freecs grunted, jamming his override tool into the machine's cooling vent. "Who’s your manufacturer?"
The machine groaned, its lights flickering from red to a confused yellow.
"Freecs! The mages are breaking my barrier!" Vivina shouted, her voice straining.
"Almost... done!" He twisted the tool. The machine let out a high-pitched whine and powered down. "Door is opening!"
They scrambled inside, the heavy steel vault doors groaning shut behind them. The air inside was freezing, smelling of ozone and old, rotting paper.
"This isn't the armory," Vivina said, pointing to a single, dimly lit cell at the end of the hall.
"No," Freecs agreed, his heart rate spiking. "It’s a dungeon."
They walked toward the cell, the floorboards crunching beneath their boots. Inside, a man sat curled in the corner, his robes tattered and stained with years of neglect. He looked up, his eyes milky with cataracts.
"You’re late," the man wheezed.
Freecs paused, his hand tightening on his dagger. "We weren't exactly expected."
"The System told me you were coming," the prisoner rasped, a hollow, rattling laugh shaking his frame. "The Glitch and the Saint. The two pieces of the game that refuse to be moved."
Vivina stepped into the light, her face a mask of shock. "How do you know that name?"
"I built it," the old man whispered. "I built the System to save this world from the dungeons, but they turned it into a leash. You aren't the first ones to try and break it."
"Then tell us how to destroy it," Freecs demanded, leaning close to the bars.
"You don't destroy a code by killing the user," the man muttered, reaching out with a withered hand. "You have to kill the source. And the source... isn't in this building."
"Where is it?" Vivina asked.
The old man’s smile turned into a jagged, blood-stained line. "It’s in your head, girl. It’s in his blood. And right now... it’s listening to every word we say."
The cell erupted in a blinding, crimson light. The System’s interface shattered across Freecs’s vision, text scrolling at a speed he couldn't comprehend.
[System Alert: Unauthorized entity located. Purge protocol initiated.]
"Get back!" Freecs shoved Vivina aside just as the walls of the cell began to melt into shadows.
The old man wasn't just a prisoner; he was a beacon, and he was currently drawing the entire Inquisition straight to their location.
"We’ve been played," Freecs snarled, drawing his blade as the shadows in the room began to form into a towering, obsidian shape.
"So," Vivina said, pulling her sword and standing back-to-back with him. "Same plan as always?"
"Same plan," Freecs replied, his teeth bared in a feral grin. "Survive, kill the architect, and burn the game to the ground."
The shadow monster lunged, and for the first time, Freecs didn't see a mission—he saw the end.
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Chapter 84
The metallic tang of blood mingled with the pervasive, sickening stench of the low-tide muck as Freecs pressed his weight against the cold, weeping stone of the alleyway wall. Every breath felt like inhaling crushed glass, a reminder of the fractured ribs that had been knitting slowly under the pressure of too much movement and too little rest.He peered past the splintered remains of the tavern door. Three men in the charcoal-grey livery of the magistrate’s private guard stood amidst the wreckage of the Rusty Anchor. They were not merely searching; they were dismantling.Tables had been overturned and smashed into kindling. The floorboards were being pried up, one by one, with heavy iron crowbars. The tavern was being gutted, stripped of its secrets by men who didn't care for the history of the wood, only for the paper hidden beneath it."He isn't here, captain," one of the guards grunted. He tossed a handful of ruined ledgers into a guttering fire pit in the center of the room. "The
Chapter 83
The street leading to the Rusty Anchor was deathly quiet. A single, overturned cart blocked the main thoroughfare, its wheel splintered and half-sunken into the mire.Freecs halted. He held up a hand, signaling for Vivina to stay back in the shadows of the warehouse overhang.The tavern door stood wide open, swinging rhythmically on a single, rusted hinge. It groaned against the stone frame, a mournful sound that cut through the silence like a dull blade."Stay here," Freecs whispered. His voice was a flat, hard edge."Freecs, wait," Vivina hissed, her fingers gripping his sleeve. "If the guard is still inside, you won't stand a chance with that shoulder."He looked at her, his eyes cold and devoid of comfort. He pulled his sleeve from her grasp and stepped into the open.The street was empty, but the heavy, rhythmic thud of metal-shod boots echoed from somewhere deep within the building. They weren't the clumsy, sliding steps of the city watch. These were disciplined, weighted.Freec
Chapter 82
The rain over the Fishgut Quarter had turned to a greasy, clinging mist that smelled of rotting kelp and coal smoke.Freecs moved with his back pressed against the damp siding of an empty smokehouse. He paused at every cross-alley, his ears straining against the ambient rumble of the docks.Beside him, Vivina wiped a smear of wet rye flour from her cheek. Her breathing was ragged, her boots caked in grey muck from the granary courtyard."Did Joran turn them?" she whispered.Freecs shook his head once, his jaw tight."If Joran wanted to sell us out, we wouldn't have walked away from the granary gates," he said. "He’s a dog who knows which master pays him, but he doesn't bark for free.""Then we go back to the cellar," Vivina said, pulling her damp woolen shawl tighter around her shoulders. "We dry the grain dust off the ledgers and wait for Kjeldsen's runners."Freecs didn't answer immediately. He peered around the corner of the smokehouse, studying the narrow lane that led to the rear
Chapter 81
The courtyard outside the municipal granary looked like an open abattoir of wet grain and crushed chalk.A mixture of gray rain and split rye flour coated the cobblestones in a thick, slippery paste. Distant whistles echoed through the narrow alleyways, shrill and frantic, as the city watch scrambled to contain what they could not control.Freecs stood near the broken gate of the secondary grain depot, his breathing heavy and measured. His hands were coated in the pale residue of broken sacks, and his knuckles throbbed from the cudgel work at the barricade.A dozen dockhands scurried past him into the gloom, each carrying a heavy burlap sack over their shoulders. They moved quickly, like ants stripping a fallen carcass before the tide rolled in."Move them through the cooperage alley," Freecs called out, his voice low and rasping. "Don't cluster in the squares. Break into pairs once you hit the fish market."Kjeldsen gave a sharp, affirmative nod as he guided the last of the laden wag
Chapter 80
The smell of sour mud and damp wool hung over the North Quay like a wet shroud. For two days, no barges had unloaded their cargo, and the price of coarse rye had tripled before the sun cleared the eastern shoals.Freecs crouched beneath the eaves of a cooperage, his boots sinking into the dark muck of the gutter. Beside him, forty dockers stood in the persistent drizzle, their breath rising in pale, ragged puffs.They carried no swords, for swords invited hangings. Instead, they gripped lead-weighted boat hooks, oak truncheons, and iron cargo pincers worn smooth by years of hauling."The belly doesn't care about Vane's edicts," muttered Kjeldsen, the dock boss. The old man spat a glob of brown chewing tobacco into the ditch. "A man can stomach the lash, Freecs. He can't stomach listening to his children chew on boiled leather."Freecs adjusted the strap of his leather vambrace, feeling the dull ache in his right shoulder. The joint held, but the memory of the cliff's rocks lingered in
Chapter 79
The mid-morning air in Westreach felt brittle, like glass held over a candle flame. The sky remained an oppressive, bruised purple, heavy with the promise of more rain that refused to fall.Freecs stood in the shadows of an alleyway, watching the main thoroughfare. He leaned his weight against the damp brickwork, careful not to jar his recovering shoulder.Across the street, a column of armed men marched in lockstep. Their steel gorgets caught the weak morning light, glinting like the teeth of a predator.At the head of the detachment rode a man whose presence seemed to suck the warmth from the alley. Inquisitor Vane sat atop a massive, war-trained stallion that snorted clouds of steam into the cold air.Vane was a man carved from granite and spite. He wore robes of charcoal grey, reinforced with hardened leather plates that groaned whenever the horse shifted its weight."Look at them," Vivina whispered from the darkness behind Freecs. Her voice was barely audible over the clatter of
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