[There is a way]
Gunn looked in front of him, and saw his system window appear in front of him.
"What are you..?" Gunn asked.
[No one. I am the one to keep up with your statistics and power]
"You said there was a way, what way?"
[To break the timer]
"Show me! Please.."
[Stand]
Gunn stood, and in front of him, it was a small orb of shadows in front of him.
[Grasp it]
He immediately reached for it, grasping it, and immediately he was transferred.
The air is thick with a cold, ashen mist as Gunn steps through the remnants of a shattered portal, the boundaries between realities blurring and then snapping sharply into focus. He finds himself standing at the edge of a sprawling, nightmarish cityscape, a realm of eternal twilight bathed in an eerie, unbroken darkness. The city, a sprawling maze of Gothic architecture, stretches infinitely under a cloud-covered red and black and gray sky, heavy with the scent of impending rain and decay.
Buildings soar towards the sky like jagged teeth, their spires twisted and adorned with grotesque gargoyles that seem to leer at passersby with stony, ominous eyes. The streets are narrow, winding through the urban expanse like the veins of some great, slumbering beast. Cobblestones, slick with the perpetual dampness of the fog, reflect the faint light from the gas lamps that punctuate the path with their dim, yellowed glow.
Directly before Gunn stands a colossal tower, its presence so dominating it appears to command the city itself. The structure is a monolith of blackened stone, soaring into the heavens, its peak lost to the low-hanging clouds that seem to coil around it like protective serpents. Intricately carved buttresses jut out from its sides, meshing strength with an almost obsessive attention to detail, each figure and filigree sharp enough to draw blood.
The main facade of the tower is a masterwork of despairing artistry, adorned with archaic runes and morbid statuary, depicting scenes of both sorrow and beauty intertwined. Large stained glass windows, though dimly lit, scatter fragments of colored light onto the ground, painting macabre pictures on the cobblestones. An immense door, crafted of what appears to be ironwood bound with iron, stands imperiously closed, its surface etched with more enigmatic symbols that seem to pulse with a life of their own.
The atmosphere is oppressive, the air filled with a palpable sense of dread and decay. Whispers float on the wind, a hint of voices or perhaps cries; carried from distances unknown, while distant shadows move just beyond the edges of vision, fleeting and insubstantial yet undeniably present.
As Gunn steps closer to the tower, the very air around him thickens, pressing against his skin like a tangible shroud. He feels the weight of countless eyes upon him, the city itself watching, breathing, an entity not simply built by hands unknown but alive with a dark and ancient purpose. The challenge is clear, and the path fraught with peril, but Gunn moves forward, drawn inexorably towards the heart of this dark, gothic maze. The tower, ominous and seductive in its silent promise of secrets hidden deep within its walls, stands waiting.
"What is this place?"
[Grimwald. The tower here is known as the Cursed Tower, and there are four levels. Each floor is guarded by deities of curses, rot, poison, and death]
"All I have to do is kill them?"
[By your current power, you won't even get past the first floor. If you die here, you die altogether. Your current level is 10, you need to be at least level 15. Kill to gain XP to level up. Complete quests to gain XP as well, craft components to create new curses and toxins to also gain XP]
Gunn stood there, his fists clenching.
'It's already a risk using my abilities, it would be a waste here. If I die, I can't do what I want to do. I'll leave for now. And I'll be back.'
He turned and started walking away, and he looked back at the tower, and once he did, shadow silhouettes were on top of the tower, standing like they were watching him leave.
Gunn kept walking, and walking.
And walking.
"Um. Get me the fuck out of here."
[Apologies]
A black orb opened in front of him and he grasped it, appearing back in the warehouse.
He looked down at his hand, and saw the black veins within them.
'I don't know how I came back, but someone wants me to do this. Badly. As for me, I want it more than them. I won't stop at nothing until I kill all of the Empire, including my main enemy: Bramwell.'
Thornville, a city shrouded in the industrial smog and the whispers of the past, awakens to another day under the gray, heavy skies. The clatter and hiss of steam-powered machinery mix with the distant tolling of the church bells, calling the city to face another day of toil and tedium. The streets, a labyrinth of cobblestone and dark secrets, bustle with life.
Gunn, cloaked in a threadbare sackcloth outfit that's seen better days, pulls his hood closer around his face as he steps onto the street. The fabric, rough against his skin, does little to shield him from the chill morning air that slips through the alleyways like wraiths. His eyes, sharp and scanning, take in the worn facade of the city as he makes his way toward the main thoroughfare.
A carriage rattles down the street, pulled by a pair of mechanical horses whose steel limbs gleam dully in the weak sunlight. This makeshift bus, a marvel of Victorian innovation, is flanked by children who run alongside it, their laughter a stark contrast to the somber mood of most commuters. Gunn steps up to the carriage as it slows, the brake system hissing like a tamed serpent.
Inside, the carriage is cramped and stuffy. Men and women clad in the mourning colors of the city, grays and blacks mostly sit tightly together. A baby cries somewhere in the back, its wails almost drowned by the grinding gears of the carriage. A woman tries to soothe the child, murmuring words lost to the rumble beneath.
Across from Gunn, an old man with spectacles perched on his nose glances up from his newspaper. "Storm's coming in from the north," he comments, his voice rough as gravel. "Read it in the Gazette. They say it'll be a bad one." Nods and murmured assents ripple through the carriage, a communal bond forged in shared dread.
Outside, constables patrol the streets, their uniforms almost military in their precision. Clipped voices call out orders as they adjust the gas lamps, now obsolete by daylight but soon to be guardians against the encroaching dusk. Their boots echo on the cobblestones, a constant reminder of the city's vigilance against the darker elements of human nature.
One constable stops to help an old vendor whose cart of mechanical toys has overturned. Together, they right the cart, the toys clattering miniature automatons designed to dance and sing, a brief respite from the dour mood of the city.
At a street corner, a group of young men argue heatedly about the latest technological advance from the Thornville Tech Guild. "Heard it's a device that can capture pictures of our souls," one claims, waving his arms dramatically. The others scoff, rolling their eyes at the absurdity.
Gunn remains silent, observing the interactions with a detached air. His thoughts wander to darker avenues, to plans and plots that simmer beneath the city's industrious veneer. In his pocket, his fingers trace the contours of an amulet, its surface cool and etched with runes only he could read.
The carriage jolts as it hits a pothole, and for a fleeting moment, Gunn's hood slips, revealing a glimpse of his scarred face to the old man with the newspaper. The old man quickly looks away, his interest lost to the headlines once more.
Gunn stepped off the mechanical carriage with a fluid grace, barely noticeable beneath his rough sackcloth cloak. As he walked along the sidewalk, the clangor of Thornville enveloped him, a cacophony underscored by the relentless chug and hiss of industry. The streets were alive, brimming with morning energy as shopkeepers opened their establishments, and the chatter of the crowd swelled like the tide.
All along the main thoroughfare, propaganda posters plastered on brick walls fluttered in the chilly breeze. Brightly colored and audacious, they depicted the shining faces of politicians next to sleek images of automatons, each one promising a brighter future driven by mechanical prowess. "Progress and Unity with Automatons," one slogan boldly declared.
Automatons themselves roamed the streets, some sweeping, others delivering messages or parcels, their movements precise and unnervingly human. A group of small, dog-like automatons played with children outside a toy store, sparking laughter and delighted shrieks from the young crowd gathered around.
As Gunn continued his stroll, a town crier's voice boomed from an intersection, cutting through the hum of morning activities. "Hear ye, hear ye! Thornville celebrates twenty years of peace and innovation! Parade to be held at noon, City Square!" Other snippets of news followed, painting pictures of a city thriving under the vigilant rule of its leaders.
Then he cried: "Important! Chief Bramwell and the Empire are having a memorial for their fallen comrades in just an hour! Please attend! Friends and family will be present! And keep your loud ass children under control!"
Passing by a newsstand, the headlines screamed of advancements in automaton technology and upcoming civic projects. "New Steam Condenser Promises Clean Air!" promised one article, the front-page adorned with sketches of giant towers filtering the ever-present smog.
Gunn's path soon led him beside a park where a group of children played in carefree abandon. They chased one another around a large, moss-covered fountain, their laughter piercing the urban drudgery. Gunn stopped for a moment, watching. Their joy was palpable, a stark contrast to the memories of his own childhood, shadowed days spent in the back alleys and forgotten corners of Thornville.
One child, a little girl with bright ribbons in her hair, noticed Gunn standing there. She paused, mid-giggle, and gave him a curious look before her mother called her back to safety. Gunn's gaze lingered on the scene a moment longer, a complex expression etched across his features, before he turned away, his heart a shade heavier.
Further down the street, an automaton dressed in a constable's uniform directed traffic, its voice mechanically repeating safety guidelines. "Keep to the sidewalks. Watch for carriages. Report suspicious activities." Its eyes, if they could be called that, flickered with a cold light, scanning the throng of citizens.
Gunn veered off into a narrow alley, leaving the brightness of the main street for the shadows. Here, the air was quieter, the din muffled by the closeness of the buildings. Overhead, laundry hung from lines strung across the tight space, the garments swaying like spectral figures.
Exiting an alley, Gunn found himself at a market square buzzing with traders and shoppers. Stalls brimmed with fresh produce, fabrics, and handcrafted goods. Above one stall, an automaton hovered, fixing a sign that read "Farm Fresh to Your Table." Its owner, a robust man with florid cheeks, touted his wares below, unaware of the mechanical ballet happening above him.
As Gunn moved through the market, his keen eyes noted the people around him, the hurried steps of a young woman, the nervous glance of a street urchin, the calculated smile of a well-dressed gentleman. Thornville was a tapestry of tales, each thread intertwined and each character playing their part in the grand design of city life.
However, beneath the surface of this orchestrated normalcy, Gunn knew there were deeper currents, undercurrents that pulled mercilessly at the foundations of Thornville. It was in these depths that his true interest lay, and as he blended back into the crowd, his mind worked tirelessly, planning, anticipating the ever-watchful observer in a city of gears and shadows.
As Gunn negotiated his way through the market, a sudden tension snatched the air. The usual cacophony of merchant shouts and bargaining faded into a nervous murmur, and heads turned toward the main avenue. There, in grim formation, constables of the Empire began to fill the street, their numbers seemingly multiplying as more appeared from side roads and alleyways.
Curious and anxious whispers rippled through the crowd. "What's happening?" one vendor asked, craning his neck to see better. "They're searching for someone," replied another, his voice edged with worry.
"They say Gunn is back," a woman muttered close to Gunn, unaware of to whom she spoke. "Mortimor chopped his head clean off yesterday. Saw it with my own eyes. How could he be walkin' now?"
The news seemed to spread like wildfire, every snippet of conversation tangling into an incredible tale of the man who was supposed to be dead but yet rumored to be alive. Gunn's heart quickened, feeling the noose of attention tightening as coincidences piled into a dangerous narrative.
'Shit. I expected this. They would be on high alert after what happened. If I'm surrounded..'
At that moment, some of the constables were suspicious of Gunn, and started whispering to each other, looking his way.
Gunn noticed them from the corner of his eye, thinking, 'If they're onto me..I'd have to kill them here, no matter who's in the way. I should kill them anyway, they're members of the Empire..'
Just as a group of constables turned their searching gaze towards him, the crowd parting uneasily, a subtle shift occurred with Gunn's attire. The edges of his cloak darkened, threads weaving rapidly under the unseen command of his will, morphing into the garb of a Plague Doctor transformation nearly complete when he found himself abruptly at the center of imperial scrutiny.
"Sir, we need a moment of your time," one constable said, moving closer with authoritative briskness. His colleagues fanned out, creating a barrier between Gunn and any possible escape route.
Before the full interrogation could begin, a distraction came. "Officers, oh thank goodness!" A voice, laced with forced relief, cut through the tension. A woman with striking black and brown dreadlocks, pale skin, and a dark eyepatch approached, her dark red eyes flicking briefly to Gunn with a hidden signal before returning to the constables. "I need his help in my shop, urgent delivery of herbs that needs sorting, and he promised to assist today! Can this possibly wait?"
The constables, caught off guard, hesitated. The woman, named Marshy, leaned in a bit, her voice earnest. "You see, it's for the apothecary treatment needed for the dock workers... the ones affected by the last shipment of tainted grain. It's vital they get the care immediately."
One constable, looking unconvinced, leaned toward her. "And you are?"
"Marshy, proprietor of the Green Essence Herb Shop." Her confident tone seemed to weave as much a story as it declared fact.
Another constable, older and with insignia of higher rank, nodded slightly. "My apologies for the inconvenience, ma'am. We'll clear this up quickly and let your friend be on his way."
As they spoke, murmurs continued around them. "You know the Empire's been on edge ever since those factories in the east quarter got shut down," a bystander commented to his neighbor. "They say it's those rebel factions stirring up trouble again, remnants of the old guilds."
"And that Gunn guy, the plague doctor. Mostly him."
Marshy's tale and the ongoing discussions seemed to provide just enough distraction. The constables, still vigilant but now slightly appeased by the prospect of aiding the health crisis, allowed Marshy to lead Gunn away, engulfed by the comforting shadows of her herb shop.
'Marshy Hengale. Not a friend, but she was the first one to create toxins and poisons for me. Which led to my campaign of taking hundreds of lives under the sun. She never told me why she's helping me, nor do I care.'
The musty scent of aged herbs pervaded the close quarters of Marshy's herbal shop, a dimly lit den of alchemical possibilities and secretive whispers. The cramped, shadowed walls were lined with shelves crammed full of jars and bottles, their contents a macabre rainbow of ominous substances. Dull candlelight flickered, casting ghostly shadows that danced across the uneven wooden floor.
Marshy slouched comfortably on an old, worn-out stool, her rugged attire and careless posture exuding an air of untamed defiance. She eyed Gunn with a look that mixed respect with a dash of skepticism. Gunn, cloaked in darkness, his eyes glinting with a dangerous intensity, stood before her, his presence like a storm waiting to burst.
"So, you're alive... and fucking kicking, I see," Marshy remarked casually, her tone laced with a hint of amusement. "I saw your head roll off the platform after Executioner Mortimor cut your head off."
Gunn's lips curled, "I'm here to destroy Bramwell and his damn Empire. "
"And you were just gonna walk past here and not say anything to me or walk in?"
"You didn't want to be deeply involved last time. You played both sides. Helping Empire members, but allowed me to mix up substances to kill the lot of those bastards. What if they catch me in here with you?"
"Aww, how thoughtful."
"No."
Marshy nodded, cracking her knuckles. "Bramwell, the bastard, has everyone quaking in their boots. The whole Empire's under his bloody thumb."
"Fear... it's what he cultivates. But I've been cultivating something else," Gunn said, a dark gleam in his eye. "Power, Marshy. The kind that creeps in shadows and speaks in curses. Some kind of window thing is making me stronger somehow."
Marshy arched an eyebrow. "The dark shit, huh? Like the old days when I'd mix you poisons and acids? Helped you thin out hundreds of those Empire cronies, didn't I? Show me what the window thing is."
Gunn commanded, "Come out. Or something..I don't know what to really say."
The system window appeared:
[Greetings, Gunn]
Gunn said to Marshy, "Do you see it?"
Marshy shook her head, "Are you going crazy? Are you on that stuff?"
"No! You can't see it?"
"Nope. You're on that shit."
"You don't have to believe me. But it's probably the reason I'm alive."
"Could be. I'd believe you more if I can see it." Marshy leaned forward, her interest piqued. "So talk to me. Last time I checked, you were headless. How the hell are you walking and talking, Gunn?"
"I think it's A dark art, something bound to the soul. I can't explain it fully, but it's given me powers I never had before, curses, poison, toxins... all twined with the darkness."
"Damn," Marshy muttered, shaking her head in disbelief. "And these new tricks, you reckon they're strong enough to take down Bramwell?"
Gunn nodded grimly. "Yes. But there's more. I've tapped into something else. This system window can be used to craft herbs and other... components into something much deadlier."
"You mean like alchemy?" Marshy asked, puzzled.
"Beyond alchemy. These are curses woven through botanicals, enhanced by dark essences. I'm still mastering it, but it's powerful. The first time I used it, it was like I've used it before."
'Was it because I handled this kind of stuff before the execution?'
Marshy sniffed, skeptical but intrigued. "Sounds like a plan crafted in hell itself. But how am I fitting into this dark picture again?"
"I don't want you to be a part of this."
"Stop trying to be a damn hero, brat. Doing this alone, you'll die. No matter what kind of power you have. I have my reasons for helping take down the Empire, especially Bramwell whom everyone is scared of."
"…"
'She's right. Doing this alone would mean a higher chance of losing. She has herbs, which I can possibly craft into things.'
Gunn said to her, "You've got the shop, the connections. I need inside knowledge. The Empire constables trust you for their healings; they don't need to know you're also feeding information to their enemy."
Marshy smirked. "True enough. They yap a lot when they come for their healing crap. Might pick up something that can help us."
Gunn's voice dropped to a whisper fraught with urgency. "I need names, Marshy. Those who authorized my execution. They die first."
Marshy's face hardened, the stakes clear to her. "I'll try my best."
"And I'll need updates on the movements of the Empire's forces, any chatter about those black crystals they're using. Those crystals might are amplifying their powers, and if we understand how, we can turn their advantage against them."
"Finding the root and origins of those crystals are a priority. What was it like fighting someone with it?"
"Monstrous. Distorted beings, it's like they lost themselves. But they're strong."
"Distorted. The fact that the Empire is going such lengths to display law and order is fucking bizzare."
"The lengths Bramwell is willing to go is entertaining. I'll take away everyone whom he's close to."
"Now you're starting to sound like them. Don't let it consume you, brat."
"It already has."
"Mhm. Dark edgy you are. Let's have an overview then. Att the helm, we have Chief Bramwell, a man so fearsomely efficient and enigmatic that even the shadows whisper his name with a shudder. One word from him, and the gears of the entire Empire shift. His authority is unchallenged, absoluteâ€"much like the rules of gravity. Then there's the matter of our law enforcement. Not just any bobbies walking the beatâ€"no, we have Empire Constables. Clad in armor, faces hidden behind helmets shaped like snarling wolves, each one is a walking emblem of fear and order. They roam the streets, disrupting even the thought of dissent with their mere presence. Public executions? An absolute public favorite. The town square becomes an amphitheater of dread as individuals, chained and shamed, are paraded before their final curtain falls. These spectacles aren't merely about punishment, you see. They're about broadcasting power, embedding the inevitability of fate that awaits the unruly." Marshy's voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, "And let's not skim over our spices. alchemy and black crystals. When the Empire senses a tilt in their favor during skirmishes, out come these little tricks. Black crystals to amplify whatever dark alchemy they've concocted. It's like watching an alchemist turn lead into gold, only much more... explosive." She leaned forward, her expression mockingly dramatic, "And automatons! Oh, those clever contraptions that patrol alongside our Constables. Thornville isn't just behind the veil of the this era; it's a chessboard of steam-powered pawns and knights, each step calculated to maintain the Empire's grip."
"Then we shouldn't waste time."
"Also today, they're having a memorialâ€"."
Creak…
Gunn and Marshy turned their heads towards the door.
The old door to the herb shop creaked ominously as a figure emerged from the shadows of the twilight-lit street outside. The constable, dressed in his usual garb but bearing an uncharacteristic grin, stepped inside and closed the door behind him with a definitive thud. The dim candlelight flickered as if recoiling from the dark energy seeping off him, casting macabre shapes against the walls.
Gunn, sitting calmly with his arms folded, did not alter his stance, his eyes narrowing slightly under the brim of his shadowed face. Marshy, by contrast, straightened up from her stool, instincts honed from countless fights alerting her to the menace now before them.
The constable's skin was a sickly dark gray, and his eyes, pitch black, were bleeding a glowing red substance that seemed to simmer with malice. He held his right hand aloft, a black crystal nestled within his palm, pulsating with a sinister light. The air around him vibrated slightly, as if the darkness itself burned like cold fire.
"Did you think.. I wouldn't notice you, Gunn? Your scent…it stinks," he hissed, the sound more like gravel grinding on gravel.
Marshy clenched her fists, a surge of adrenaline igniting within. "Who the fuck are you?" she demanded, her voice low and dangerous.
Ignoring her, the constable's smile twisted further as he fully embraced the black crystal. His form began to shift grotesquely, bones cracking and skin stretching, as he transformed into a monstrous, humanoid creature, black and red crystals protruding from his morphing body like the jagged teeth of some nightmarish beast.
With a demonic roar, the transformed constable launched himself at Gunn, the intent to kill gleaming in his horrifically transformed eyes. But before he could reach his target, Marshy acted with swift precision borne from their shared past of dark dealings.
Dropping to one knee, she slammed her hand on the rugged wooden floor. Darkness swirled like a sudden storm around them, shadows twisting and writhing up from the ground. Shadowy hands, extensions of her will, shot out from the pulsating darkness, grabbing at the constable with iron-like grips.
The constable struggled, his grotesque body writhing against the shadow hands, but the dark energy only tightened, holding him in an unbreakable embrace. Using the distraction, Marshy moved, a blur of speed and purpose. She appeared above the constable, almost teleporting through the murky air, and with a ferocious yell, drove her fist down on his head.
The impact was catastrophic. The constable's head smashed downward with such force that the wooden floorboards beneath him splintered and cracked wide open, sending fragments flying like shrapnel. The monstrous body twitched once, then lay still, the shadows gradually receding but leaving the room colder, as if they'd absorbed the very warmth of life around them.
Hardly had the dust settled from the constable's brutal end when the door burst open once more, creaking under the haste of several boots thundering into the shop. The other constables, their faces drawn with shock and weaponry clutched tightly, halted abruptly at the sight before them.
Marshy stood her ground, her stance unyielding as her eyes met each of their gazes steadily. Gunn was nowhere to be seen, his presence erased as if swallowed by the shadows themselves.
"You're comrade here just ran in and tried to kill me, so I killed him. Any questions?" Marshy declared boldly, her voice reverberating off the walls, carrying the weight of the truth and a challenge.
The constables exchanged uneasy glances, the remnants of the grotesquely transformed constable's body a stark and unnerving evidence of her words. One of them, a sergeant perhaps, by his insignia, stepped forward, his brow furrowed.
"He… he ran off alone," the sergeant stated, his voice uncertain. "Didn't say a word to any of us. Was acting odd all day, kept clutching that," he nodded towards the black crystal, now dulled and cracked beside the fallen constable.
Marshy thought, 'A Lone Ranger. A bastard looking for glory and promotion. A chance to kill Gunn and bring the head to Bramwell, wanting to get the glory for himself. We got lucky.'
Murmurs spread among the group; the constables were clearly disturbed, their eyes darting from the body to the shattered crystal and back to Marshy.
Marshy eyed them sharply, her mind racing. She was well aware of the precarious stance she held within the town valued yet always under scrutiny.
The sergeant locked eyes with her, a silent communication passing between them. "Marshy, your skills with herbs… they've been useful to the Empire. You know, any normal person who'd killed a constable, it wouldn't matter why; we'd be under orders to..." He trailed off, his implication clear enough in the tense air.
The constables seemed to collectively decide that pressing charges or enacting immediate revenge would not only be complicated but potentially detrimental given Marshy's unique contributions. They shuffled uncomfortably, their duty wrestling with pragmatism.
Marshy's posture relaxed minutely, but her voice stayed firm. "I defended myself, nothing more. Those crystals are corrupting more than just the mind, and you know it." She gestured to the crumpled form on the floor. "Tell your superiors that."
The sergeant nodded slowly, his eyes lingering on the black crystal with a mix of fear and disgust. "We will. And... we'll clean this up. And if you see anything strange.."
"I definitely would not be letting you guys know, because you're all too nosey."
"You wouldn't say that to Chief Bramwell's face."
"You're damn right."
As they filed out, leaving her once again alone in her dimly lit shop, Marshy couldn't shake the feeling of being watched, the weight of the Empire ever looming, despite the temporary reprieve. She knew this was far from over, but for now, the shadows were her allies, and she, a necessary player in the intricate game that continued to unfold around the sinister influence of the black crystals.