2025-06-19 23:18:58
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Chapter 151. The Ink Judge.
The prison smelled like wet limestone and regret, a really sharp contrast to how the city looked and felt. The kind that soaked into your skin and stayed there. Rhok sat on the cold stone floor with his back against a wall slick from dripping moss. He could still taste the crust of that stolen bread. Dry, hard, but warm, worth the arrest, barely.Footsteps echoed down the corridor. Two guards with twisted metal spears walked with a robed figure gliding down the hallway like she didn’t touch the ground. Her robes were ink black, soaked in moving script that crawled across the fabric like living calligraphy. A mask covered her face, porcelain white, inked with a single black dot on the forehead and lines trailing down the cheeks like tears, her mask bore no eyes and no mouth.She didn’t speak or rather, she didn’t have to.The guards pulled Rhok to his feet and shoved him forward.They led him through a narrow passage carved into the stone, glowing faintly with blue moss. The hallway op
Chapter 150. The City Of Colour.
Zenyra wasn’t like anywhere Rhok had ever been.It was a city or a big town built into the side of jagged cliffs, with homes and bridges chiselled directly from living stone. The cliffs curved upward like the ribs of a sleeping god, and the city itself pulsed with life... literal pulses. Glowing moss crept along the walls, lighting the paths with a soft, green hue. The people walked like they had music in their bones, and the air smelled faintly of herbs and burnt sugar.At sunset, the enchantments wove their spell. The cliffs bled an unusual colour, vibrant hues that dripped down the buildings like the sky itself was crying. Blues, oranges, reds, violets. It wasn’t just light, it felt as though it moved, shimmered, melted into the cobblestone streets. People gathered on balconies to watch it. Kids tried to catch the colours in jars, while elderly women murmured old prayers, like the colours were sacred.Rhok stood quietly in the crowd, hood drawn over his head. He didn’t belong here,
Chapter 149. The Shores of Saeroth
The sea was not kind.Rhok had never known the ocean to be cruel, even on Earth. Waves slammed against the worn sides of the old merchant vessel he had bought passage on, and the sky above remained a permanent shade of grey. The days had blurred into storms, salt, and silence. And yet, he preferred this to the land he had left behind. Vyranthia was a graveyard now. His name caused whispers and executions, and even silence could be a death sentence there.But Seroth... Seroth was an unknown.He stood at the bow as the ship neared the jagged coastline. The cliffs of this foreign continent rose like black teeth from the sea, and the wind here whistled differently, sharper, colder. The sailors avoided him, and he welcomed their distance. They had seen the scars along his arms, the branded scars that he wore on his wrists, and the strange, quiet weight in his eyes. He wasn’t one of them, he hadn’t been anyone’s for a long time.As the vessel dropped anchor in a secluded bay, Rhok dropped o
Chapter 148. Rise of the Forgotten.
The fire didn’t start with a bang.It started with a whisper.One lone torch, raised in the cold night, trembling in a young boy’s hand. Then another, and another. Thirty rebels. Thirty faces half-covered in rags and soot. Thirty people who had nothing left to lose. They stood just outside the gates of a small Church outpost nestled near the Withered Cliffs, a sleepy corner of the continent where divine eyes rarely watched, and heresy was only a rumor.Until tonight.The Church guards, no more than eight old men and two green recruits, didn’t even raise the alarm in time.By the time they heard the boots in the mud, the rebellion had already begun.Dian watched the flames climb from the outpost tower, his hood soaked from light rain, his hands still bloody. Not from fighting—he hadn’t lifted a blade. But from dragging bodies into a line. From painting the Nameless sigil on the door with crimson. From making sure their first message wouldn’t be missed.The Children of the Nameless had
Chapter 147. Rain That Never Ends.
The rain never stopped.It felt like the sky had been crying for years, relentless, loud, cold. The ground was soaked to its bones. Trees dripped endlessly. Clothes stuck to skin like wet paper. And in the middle of all that misery walked Rhok, hood pulled over his head, shoulders tense, eyes fixed ahead. Each step squelched in the mud. The air smelled like mould, rot, and regret.He didn’t know the name of this place. No one did. Maps avoided it like it didn’t exist. Locals only called it “The Drowned Belt” or “The Weeping God’s Grave.” It was a region lost in time, cursed by something older than sin.But the rain… it spoke.It whispered through the trees, in the puddles, on rooftops. A kind of grief so thick it felt like you were breathing someone else’s sorrow. Rhok had been in dozens of battlefields, drowned in blood and ash, but this, this place was quieter. Sadder. Like the whole land had been abandoned by the gods, and even they were too ashamed to take credit for it.He passed
Chapter 146. The Mask Cracks.
The dungeons beneath Varn’s southern stronghold weren’t built for mercy. Cold stone, lined with rusted hooks and chains, reeked of blood long dried and freshly spilled. Sir Dave had been down there for hours, maybe days. Time didn’t work right in that place. It was the kind of silence that screamed. The kind that got under your nails and whispered cruel thoughts into your ears.His armor had been torn off the moment they dragged him in. His wrists bled from the manacles. His mouth was swollen from being struck too many times. His eye—just one of them now—was nearly sealed shut. But still, he didn’t speak.Above him, torchlight flickered, casting dancing shadows across the cracked walls. The door creaked open with purpose.Boots. Sharp. Heavy. Familiar.Varn entered like thunder. The golden crest on his cloak shimmered—a sun pierced by a spear—holy vengeance wrapped in silk and steel. He stood before Dave, arms crossed, jaw clenched like stone. The Saints flanked him, their faces hidde
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