PRELUDE // Calm Before the Storm
Vertigo faces a reaper's trial
Since he is the one with power hollow
Lest he be in salvation's denial
"Just find the crystal, you good-for-nothing!" Shafts of light scoured the scarlet rocks, shimmering over the shallow waters of the dim cave, searching for the unmistakable azure glow of the exotic crystal. Five filthy miners, clad in worn uniforms, thrust their lights into crevices as they lay flat on their backs. A dignitary towered over the weary workers, gazing at them scornfully from behind dark spectacles, hiding his expression. Sneering, he stepped back and rushed them on, berating them with pure venom. As the workers chipped the rocks with weary faces, a freezing gale blew through the cavern. The vibrant gems strewn across the floor lost their color, becoming hollow stones devoid of meaning. Time seemed to slow to a halt, the air became heavy and every moment stretched to an eternity. From the coiling mist of darkness, a serpent-like voice hissed out, every syllable a coil of menace and venom flowing through the air.
"Return, Vertigo. Finish the job. Fulfill your deal."
A raspy voice hissed, spewing black smoke from its disembodied jaw lined with curved, dark fangs.
"I don't have the time, Fractious. Time is a hefty price," Vertigo replied, unfazed by his guest, clenching his jaw in irritation.
"Very well, but I have something to make it worthwhile," the mysterious creature offered as it manifested suffocating darkness. Slowly, a bloody upper jaw rose from the deep fog, coiling like a snake. The bone mouth locked with the lower jaw in a loud crack. From the depths of darkness, a whirlpool formed in the throat of the dealmaker's maw. The spinning light spat out ten resonant crystals, peacefully singing in the cold silence. The crystals breathed life into the air, like a bubble of color in a black, soulless world, repelled by the tainted bones of Fractious.
"Tch, well, you've got me. What do you spirits want?" Vertigo spat.
"We need you to finish your assignment. They are still alive. You're lucky to be alive. Kill them, and the Resonance will be yours, my partner," whispered Fractious, a cunning grin twisting his grotesque face.
CHAPTER 1 // Marksman
An ancient prophet fire are to swallow
Two has blood shed over the New Moon's gaze
One who does not have a fate to follow
Another arrow thudded dully against the old bullseye target, embedding itself in the insufficient black of the five-point sector.
"Tssk, you serious? Honestly, you're wasting my time. I can't teach you anymore," Choros sighed impatiently. Had it only been a couple of weeks since he began tutoring Gabriel? Time seemed to crawl whenever he tried teaching him, but to no avail.
"I know, I'm rubbish at archery... but please?" Gabriel begged as he reached for his depleted quiver. Twing! Another shot sailed through the air, somehow missing the target worse than the first. Choros shook his head. The kid thought that if he "ambushed" the target, the arrow might hit.
"Don't sweat it, kid. They pretty much let anyone into the procedure anyway."
"Anyone? Duelists are the apex of this world! There's no way they'd let just anyone in."
"Monsters from the Deeptide aren't hard to hunt; the only problem is their high amount of Vis."
"That's why I need as much training as possible."
Choros crossed his arms.
"I could pay you more. Need any Deltastones?"
"No need. I don't want any."
"I could get you som—"
"Final. Give it up. You'll get in, regardless," Choros cut him off. With those words, Choros flickered and burst into azure particles, leaving a scorched crater of Vis energy behind. Gabriel collapsed in a heap on the ground. He knew the hunter's trial would be in two weeks, his only shot at qualifying for the procedure. But as dusk set in, he was reminded of a more immediate problem—getting home before the twilight bells rang, signaling the end of the brilliant sun and the rise of the dangerous Deeptide creatures. Fumbling inside his leather pouch, Gabriel pulled out his ember lamp, a family heirloom, and began hurrying through the half-drowned city streets.
Gabriel collapsed onto his soft bed, his fingers aching from long hours of target practice. All for nothing, he thought, as he hung his brilliantly glowing lamp over the coat rack. He closed his eyes, trying to drift off to sleep, but his mind stubbornly refused to let him rest.
Sighing, Gabriel sat up and walked to the bathroom, deciding to wash his face. His dark hair was a mess, slightly curled but also spiky, giving him a disheveled appearance. His eyes, which had always shifted color since birth for some peculiar reason, were now a deep royal blue. A scar ran from the top of his lip to his chin, a mark left by the attack in his childhood that had claimed his mother's life.
He wasn't particularly muscular or strong, but he wasn't weak or overweight either. His attire had been woven by his father when he was twelve—before the attack that killed his mother and separated them.
After washing, Gabriel returned to his bed and closed his eyes once more. Slowly but surely, sleep began to claim him.
BRRRR!
What? At first, the weary boy brushed it off as the twilight bells. After all, it was the time for them. But the twilight bells would shine through his window. This? This was different. Gabriel sat up, disoriented and tired. He slipped into his shoes and searched for the source of the sound. Then he spotted it. Raven messages were common after Vis-reliant communication systems had mysteriously failed. Most letters were now delivered by birds, with recipients incanting the inscription to hear the sender's voice. This was the same—a folded piece of papyrus delivered by a silent bird. Gabriel recited the incantation, and a subtle voice whispered out.
"Who am I? To most, a ghost. A man who stole something from reality—but a speaker of truth. They sought to imprison me, silence my voice. They wanted me dead, Gabriel, and that is why I never will be. Every two weeks, I will deliver a truth about this world. This will be the first truth. How much do you know about this world? The authority is not what you think it is. That's a story for another time. Do you know how names are formed? Sadly, not many do. Neither do you. Names... they decide your destiny. The fate of your life is rooted in the name given to you by the heavens. That's why I've been so interested in you, Gabriel. Most names can be deciphered. People's destinies, unraveled. But yours? Gabriel doesn't come from anywhere. It doesn't mean anything. It has no origin, no destiny. That is why I believe you are the only person who gets to decide their own. There was only one person named Gabriel—the Hero of God...
Time's up. That is my first truth. This world will be unraveled, one secret at a time."
Gabriel stared down at the note, dumbfounded. Who wrote this? What did it mean? Questions swirled in his mind like a whirlpool. Before he could try to answer any of them, the note burst into flame, blazing with an unnatural intensity. Light swirled, consuming everything in its path. Blue Vis shot out, shredding the remnants of the note into atoms and particles. Before Gabriel could process what was happening, the note was gone—erased from existence.
The next day, green hills sparkled with life. Birds chirped, flowers bloomed, and Gabriel was—utterly lost. The signs along the path were a confused jumble, leading him astray. The sky was a soft blue with lightly scattered clouds, perfect weather for a picnic but miserable for wandering aimlessly in a scorching hot field. Gabriel surveyed the landscape, searching for anything resembling a landmark. After what felt like hours, salvation appeared—a figure in the distance. Gabriel broke into a run.
"Excuse me, sir, I'm lost!" he called out breathlessly.
"Aren't we all?" The old wanderer grinned, his face weathered but kind.
"Do you know the way to Conduit City?" Gabriel asked, wiping sweat from his brow.
"I'd tell you here, but I'm headed to the Lost Temple. Care to join me? I'll trade you directions."
Gabriel hesitated, but the wanderer didn't seem dangerous, and the thought of wandering aimlessly for hours longer made his legs ache. "Alright, you've got me. Just don't make it long!"
5 HOURS LATER
"I'm never going on a detour again," Gabriel groaned, his legs burning from the trek.
"Fair enough," the wanderer chuckled.
The two stumbled into the partially ruined castle that served as the Lost Temple. It was stunningly beautiful despite its dilapidation. Dust blanketed the carpet, but the shafts of light pouring through cracks in the black stone created an ethereal atmosphere. Gabriel, though awed, felt as if his knees were being stabbed with a thousand white-hot razors.
They trudged toward the shrine in the grand hall, each step echoing in the vast, empty space. Gabriel knelt beside the statue, brushing dirt and moss off an ancient stone tablet.
"I've never seen this one before. What's it called?" Gabriel asked.
"No one knows his name," the wanderer replied, his voice suddenly hushed. "It is forbidden, even by Deeptide itself."
"You say Deeptide like it's a person."
"The Deeptide is unpredictable, with a mind of its own," the old man muttered darkly.
"Back on track—who is he?" Gabriel gestured toward the statue.
"The Hero of God's partner. The Unspoken One. Blessed with the curse of godhood."
"What does that even mean?"
"That tablet is written in Gammaridge, is it not?" The wanderer's eyes widened with excitement.
"Gammaridge! My family's language, passed down through generations!" The wanderer shuffled past Gabriel, clutching the rock like a prized possession. As he read the inscriptions, light began to twist and dance through the air. Song lyrics flowed, visible as notes of energy curling around the statue, filling the air with music. Slowly, the stone figure began to glow with yellow Vis.
The song ended with a soft hum, but its effects remained. With a quiet click, something opened beneath the Unspoken One's sculpture. From the hidden compartment emerged a figure long forgotten—forsaken by time itself. A prophet in the image of the cursed king.
Suddenly, Vis spewed from the statue, cobalt sparks and flame bursting forth. The rock giant was consumed in a blaze of gold and sapphire. Within the column of fire, a figure began to form—red particles swirling together as cloth materialized, wrapping around the shape. Eyes appeared, glistening with moisture, while strands of hair flowed from thin air. As the Vis cooled, the figure fell to the floor, her true form revealed.
"Who… what year is it? 116 ARC? 178?" the woman asked, her blonde hair cascading down her back. She wore a snakeskin cape, a dark jacket draped over her frame.
Gabriel, stunned, stammered, "N-not to alarm you, but… it's 368 ARC."
"What? But… I was imprisoned in 76 ARC. They said—no, they promised I would be freed by 180 ARC. They said I just needed to be gone for a while…"
"Who imprisoned you?" the wanderer asked softly.
"That rat from the Fourth Ascension… Neos Theos, he called himself. Bastard," she spat, her face contorted in fury.
"Neos Theos? I remember someone with that name," Gabriel said cautiously.
"But that's not important. Right before the ritual ended, he said something I will never forget." Her voice trembled, and her eyes clouded with distant memories. "He said the Hero of God isn't—"
Crunch!
Strelitzia clasped her chest, blood gushing from her jacket. Gabriel gasped, rushing forward, but she held out a hand to stop him.
"No…" she whispered. "He said… the Hero of God… isn't dead…"
Then, with a flare, golden flames erupted from her body. Blue Vis shone from a crack forming in her side, azure rays bursting from her in a storm of light and blood. The prophet's life slipped away before Gabriel's eyes. Her last desperate glance seemed to say, Please get my message. It was worth my life.
Her body collapsed to the cold stone floor, lifeless.
The wanderer and Gabriel dashed to her side, but it was too late. The traveler cradled her corpse in his arms, sorrow etched into every line of his face.
"I can't imagine the misery she must have endured… trapped for 290 years. We must give her a proper burial. Let her rest."
They marched onward, the sun now cold and dull, casting long shadows over the earth. When they reached a small hill, the elder knelt beneath a spindly tree.
"We shall lay her here. My family has long searched for prophets. Since the purge a couple years ago, few remain." They spent the next half-hour parting the soil and gently laying Strelitzia to rest.
After the burial, the elder stood and turned to Gabriel, his expression grim and full of sorrow.
"Conduit City, yes? Head left until you see the dog statue, then take twenty steps right until you find a tree. Turn right again, and you'll see a huge rock. Keep going left from there, and you'll reach the city."
"Thank you," Gabriel said quietly. "Don't give up on the art of divinity. There's still hope."
The wanderer nodded, his eyes glistening with something between hope and sorrow. He turned and jogged off into the distance.
Gabriel blinked, wait, where had he gone? There was no way the man could have disappeared so quickly. It looked as if he had simply vanished into a veil of mist. Something was off. Gabriel tensed, feeling the air grow heavy with the crackle of ozone and the faint scent of Vis and smoke.
Fire.
But who? They were in the middle of nowhere—how could anyone launch an attack?
Instinctively, Gabriel dove for the nearest cover, a long slab of stone. As he landed, he felt the sharp sting of a rock tearing through his shirt. Sitting up, Gabriel's eyes widened with a sickening realization.
The long stone wasn't a rock at all.
All around him, towering structures of metal and glass loomed in eerie silence—echoes of a civilization long buried. The city, once thriving, had been devastated, its buildings reduced to hollow shells. Faint traces of Vis still lingered in the air, crackling like static. Blood still stained some broken structures, many pieces of city smouldering with flame.
Before Gabriel could even gasp, he became acutley aware of a figure standing behind him. Gabriel seized his long bow and whipped around, an arrow already nocked in his bow.
But there was no fearsome villain. No hideous creature from the Deeptide.
It was a soldier.
His black, glassy eyes stared out from beneath a high-class helmet, strapped tight as if it could never be removed. His face was similar to a puppet, if the creator had no idea what an emotion was.
"You have an audience with High Honorius of the Fourth Legion," the soldier announced, his voice cold and mechanical.