The Confessors Blade

Chapter 4 — The Relic’s Call

The rain had slowed to a drizzle, leaving the streets slick and glimmering under neon lights. Matteo Cross crouched behind a toppled street sign, boots splashing in the puddles, eyes scanning the rooftops above. His breath came in controlled bursts, heart steady but senses alert.

Somewhere above, the Syndicate’s shadows moved. Somewhere closer, the Wraiths lingered. And somewhere deep inside him, the relic in Father Malachi’s hands pulsed faintly, a distant heartbeat echoing in his mind.

Matteo knew he couldn’t ignore it any longer. The Wraiths were more than ghosts; they were memories made flesh. And the Syndicate… the Syndicate wanted that power.

He vaulted across a fire escape, landing on a narrow ledge that ran along the side of a crumbling skyscraper. Rain poured down, washing the neon reflections from the glass. From the shadows ahead, he glimpsed movement—two figures gliding along the adjacent roof. Syndicate scouts, cybernetically enhanced, weapons at the ready.

He didn’t hesitate. Action was his instinct.

With a running leap, he crossed the gap between buildings, blade drawn. A guard turned, saw him, and raised his rifle. Matteo spun, blade slashing across the barrel, sending sparks flying. The man fell backward over the ledge with a scream that was cut short by the wind.

From behind, a whisper curled around him: “You cannot hide from what is yours.”

The Wraith emerged from the shadows, faster, more tangible than before. Its black mist swirled, tendrils stretching toward him like grasping fingers. Matteo rolled beneath a dangling cable, narrowly avoiding a slash that would have cut him in half. His blade met its form, and for a brief instant, he felt a shiver—not fear, but recognition.

This thing knew him. Knew every sin he had committed, every life he had taken. The whispers grew louder, names and memories echoing in the night. Matteo struck again, forcing it back, but it didn’t retreat. It only circled, patient and inevitable.

He sprinted down a side street, the Wraith following silently. Then came the Syndicate operatives, dropping from rooftops, firing with precision. Matteo weaved between them, using the urban landscape as his weapon—vaulting over vehicles, sliding under scaffolding, slashing at anyone who came too close.

The city became a warzone of shadows, neon, and rain. Sparks from electrical boxes lit the alleyways in strobe flashes. Wraith tendrils reached out, Syndicate bullets ricocheted, and Matteo moved like a phantom, calculating each step, each strike.

He reached an abandoned cathedral at the edge of the city. Broken stained glass let in faint beams of moonlight that danced across the floor in fractured patterns. Matteo paused, blade in hand, heart racing. The relic’s pulse felt stronger here, as if guiding him.

Inside, Father Malachi waited, hands resting on the small, cross-shaped relic. Candlelight flickered across his face, serene and calm, but the pulse of the relic under his fingers was urgent, insistent.

“Matteo,” the priest said, voice steady, echoing across the empty pews. “You’ve felt it, haven’t you? The weight of your sins… and theirs.”

Matteo didn’t respond. He couldn’t. The Wraiths outside shrieked, voices layering over one another, reaching through the broken doors and shattered windows.

“They’re learning,” Malachi continued. “And the Syndicate… they are coming for this,” he said, pressing a hand over the relic. “They want it to control the darkness you’ve encountered. And if they take it…”

Matteo clenched his jaw. He didn’t need Malachi to finish. He knew. He had felt the pulse, seen the Wraiths, survived the Syndicate’s hunt. He was beginning to understand: this was bigger than a single contract. Bigger than the city.

A sound—metal scraping, faint but deliberate—echoed through the cathedral. Syndicate scouts had found the location. The first shots rang out, and the Wraiths surged through the broken windows, black mist blending with shadows, tendrils reaching for the relic.

Matteo leapt into action. He swung his blade, deflecting Wraith tendrils and striking Syndicate operatives with lethal precision. The fight was chaotic: shattered pews, flickering candlelight, rain pouring through holes in the roof. Each strike of his blade left faint cross-shaped impressions on the Wraith mist, weakening it just enough to buy him time.

Malachi chanted softly, eyes closed, hands moving over the relic. Its light pulsed stronger, flaring briefly with each whisper of the Wraiths, a reminder of the weight that Matteo carried now.

A Syndicate operative lunged from the shadows, blade aimed at the priest. Matteo spun, intercepting, and the fight became a dance of life and death—steel against steel, mist against flesh, shadow against shadow.

By the time the last operative fell, the Wraiths had been repelled for now, retreating into the night with whispers that promised return. Matteo stood in the center of the ruined cathedral, chest heaving, drenched, blade dripping black mist.

Father Malachi opened his eyes, calm as ever. “You’ve survived tonight,” he said. “But survival is not enough. You will need to face what you carry. And soon, the Syndicate will not just hunt—you will be the battlefield.”

Matteo didn’t reply. He only nodded, understanding that the night had changed him. The sins he had carried were no longer just his—they were a part of the city now, and the Wraiths had taken notice.

Outside, on the rain-soaked rooftops, eyes glowed in the dark. The Syndicate’s forces regrouped. The Wraiths whispered, circling like predators. And somewhere, deep beneath the city, a shadow moved independently of them all—a force waiting, watching, knowing that Matteo Cross had just become the key to everything.