Rocks and debris crumbled from the walls, their fall punctuated by sharp clatters on the cavern floor, mirroring the elder's collapse. His distorted body lay in a twisted heap, the once-commanding presence reduced to a pitiful remnant. Blood pooled beneath him, its dark sheen glistening faintly in the dim light, flowing freely from countless wounds. His inhumane use of blood as a weapon had ultimately backfired, draining him of life. Each ragged, shallow breath was a struggle, his defiance reduced to the faintest flicker, fading with every moment.
Nearby, Warren panted heavily, his chest rising and falling in desperate rhythm as he struggled to steady his breath. His body trembled under the strain, his every movement a reminder of how far he had pushed himself. He glanced down at his hand, watching as the unnatural warping effect dissipated. The air around it, which had twisted and cracked like fragile glass mere moments ago, now stilled. The calm was jarring, a stark contrast to the chaos that had just unfolded.
The price of their victory was evident. Warren's legs wobbled, his breaths growing uneven as the adrenaline faded. The immense pain he had absorbed and reflected was catching up to him, and his body now rebelled against the punishment it had endured. A violent shiver coursed through him, his form sagging as exhaustion overwhelmed him.
Silas, seeing his companion falter, moved without hesitation. He caught Warren as his knees buckled, steadying him before he could collapse fully. Silas's sharp gaze scanned Warren's pale face, noting the faint rise and fall of his chest. He was alive—unconscious, perhaps, but breathing. Relief flooded through Silas, though he knew they couldn't linger.
With a soft grunt, Silas adjusted Warren, lifting him onto his back. Warren's weight pressed down on him, lighter than Silas had expected but still a burden on his fatigued body. Silas groaned as his aching muscles protested, but he steadied himself and rose to his full height.
The cavern was eerily quiet now. Only the faint drip of water and the elder's labored, fading breaths disturbed the stillness. Silas didn't look back at the broken figure of his opponent. The fight was over, and there was no point dwelling on it.
As he turned, his eyes caught sight of something he hadn't noticed before: a door on the far side of the cavern. Faintly illuminated by a soft, natural light, its presence was subtle yet undeniable. Its surface was worn, etched with faint patterns that hinted at age and mystery. In the heat of the battle, it had been invisible, obscured by the dust and chaos.
Without hesitation, Silas began moving toward it. Each step was slow and deliberate, the weight of Warren on his back and his own exhaustion pressing heavily upon him. Every movement was a test of his resolve, but the sight of the door—and the light beyond—drove him forward.
The door loomed closer, its surface seeming almost warm in the gentle glow of the light. Silas paused for a moment as he reached it, steadying himself. A cool draft seeped through the edges, carrying with it the promise of something new.
He leaned into the door, pushing it open. The hinges groaned, their sound echoing through the cavern. As the door creaked wide, a soft, golden light spilled into the dim space, washing over Silas and Warren like a soothing balm. It wasn't harsh or blinding; it was gentle, warm, and full of promise.
What lay beyond wasn't immediately clear, but it didn't matter. The light alone was enough—a beacon of hope after the suffocating darkness of the cavern. Silas stepped forward, leaving behind the bloodied battlefield and the broken remnants of their opponent.
Some minutes of walking passed, each step heavy with exhaustion but steadied by determination. The narrow passage beyond the door carried them upward, and the light ahead grew steadily brighter. It wasn't just light; it was the light of the outside world, unmistakable in its purity.
"We're getting closer," Silas murmured softly, his voice more for himself than for the unconscious Warren. Each step felt lighter than the last, buoyed by the sight of the world beyond.
Finally, the passage widened, spilling them into the open. Silas stepped forward into the sunlight, its warmth washing over him like an embrace. The sky stretched wide above them, a brilliant canvas of blue unmarred by clouds. The fresh air filled his lungs, a stark contrast to the damp, heavy air of the cave.
For a moment, Silas simply stood there, letting the relief sink in. They had made it. Whatever trials awaited them, this moment was a reprieve, a reminder that there was still beauty and life beyond the battles they fought.
With Warren secure on his back and the sunlight guiding their way, Silas took another step forward. The cavern and its horrors were behind them now, and the path ahead, though uncertain, was bathed in light and hope.
Silas traversed the rocky surface with care, each step measured as he navigated the uneven terrain. The soft crunch of gravel beneath his boots and the occasional groan of shifting rocks were the only sounds accompanying him, but his mind wasn't on the path ahead. It was on the lingering threat behind.
One thought gnawed at him relentlessly: now that he and Warren had escaped the cavern, Thomas and Keith might seriously finish the job. Silas's grip on Warren tightened at the idea, his jaw clenching in frustration and unease.
Sure, he'd gained a new ability in that harrowing fight, but that didn't mean much when the odds were stacked so heavily against him. He was only one person, burdened by an unconscious partner, and Thomas and Keith weren't just anybody. Together, they were a deadly pair—resourceful, ruthless, and willing to do whatever it took to survive.
Silas's breath hitched as the weight of reality pressed on him. Warren was the reason they'd made it out alive, the driving force behind their victory against the elder. Without Warren's counterattacks and sheer resilience, Silas doubted he'd even be walking right now.
He glanced over his shoulder instinctively, scanning the horizon for any sign of pursuit. The expanse behind him was empty, but he couldn't shake the feeling that danger was looming just out of sight. He adjusted Warren on his back, shifting the unconscious man's weight to distribute it more evenly.
Then another thought hit him—a far more chilling one. What if I don't come back next time?
Silas swallowed hard, his throat dry despite the fresh air around him. He didn't fully understand how or why he had returned after dying before. It was a phenomenon he barely had time to question, let alone test, and one he'd started taking for granted. But something felt different this time. His gut told him that the tiny thread keeping him tethered to life was fraying, and if it snapped, there'd be no second—or third—chances.
The thought made his steps falter for a moment, but he forced himself to keep moving. The horizon ahead was still bright, still promising. Silas wasn't ready to give up—not for himself, not for Warren, and not to the two who had betrayed them.
Each step forward felt heavier than the last, but Silas pressed on, his determination unyielding. He wouldn't stop. Not until they were truly safe.
The last thirty minutes felt like an eternity to Silas. His steps dragged, his boots scraping against the uneven ground as exhaustion weighed heavily on his shoulders. He had no destination in mind, no clear goal other than to keep moving forward. Every muscle in his body screamed for rest, but the cold air showed no mercy, biting at his exposed skin and making his pale face flush red. His breath clouded the freezing air, his nose running uncontrollably, but none of it mattered compared to the weight of Warren on his back.
He had tried everything to wake him, shaking him, calling his name softly, even patting his cheeks—but Warren remained unresponsive. Each attempt that failed made Silas's chest tighten with worry. Warren was still breathing, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, but his unconscious state refused to break.
"If only I wasn't so—so useless…" Silas muttered bitterly under his breath, the cold air carrying his words into the void. His voice cracked slightly, the edges of frustration, guilt, and fear blending together. "If I wasn't so… so codependent, you wouldn't have had to push yourself this hard."
The words stung as they left his lips. He knew they were true. Warren had done so much—taken so much—and all because Silas couldn't hold his own when it mattered most.
The pain in his chest spread, pulling his thoughts to a place he hadn't wanted to go. He couldn't stop the memories from surfacing, the echo of his sister's laughter haunting the silence around him.
Sarina.
Her name felt fragile in his mind, like a shard of glass he couldn't bear to touch too hard for fear it would shatter completely. The guilt he felt now was nothing new—it was a weight he had carried for years, ever since they had been separated. Their parents' deaths had ripped their sibling relationship apart, and Silas had never stopped blaming himself for what happened afterward.
He had tried to convince himself she was okay, but the questions never stopped tormenting him. Did she eat enough? Is she doing okay? Does she go to school? Does she even have a place to live? Is she lonely? The worst question of all, though, was the one he feared the most: Does she even remember me?
His throat tightened, and his legs faltered for a moment before he forced himself to keep moving.
"Please," he whispered hoarsely to no one, his breath quivering. "Please don't let her end up like me. Don't let her… don't let her give up."
The words caught in his throat, thick with the weight of his emotions. His free hand curled into a trembling fist at his side as tears stung his eyes, threatening to freeze on his cheeks.
Meeting Warren had been both a blessing and a curse. In Warren, Silas saw someone who reminded him too much of Sarina. His instinct to protect had gone into overdrive, desperate to shield Warren from the same struggles he himself had endured. But now, as he carried Warren's unconscious body through the biting cold, he couldn't help but feel he had failed him, too.
His voice broke completely as he murmured, "Sarina… are you out there?" His lips trembled as the tears finally spilled over, hot streaks cutting through the cold on his face. "Please, don't give up. Please… don't lose hope. I'm still trying, I promise. I'm still—"
The words died in his throat as the grief choked him, the sound of his strained breathing filling the silence. The only answer to his plea was the relentless wind, whistling through the barren expanse. He bowed his head slightly, shielding Warren from the worst of the cold, and continued walking.
Each step felt heavier than the last, but he pushed forward, his only solace the faint hope that somewhere out there, Sarina was still alive—and that she still believed in him. Even if he couldn't forgive himself, he hoped she could. And that hope, fragile as it was, kept his feet moving.
.
..
…
The cold was unbearable. The wind howled like a chorus of unseen predators, each gust cutting deeper into Silas's already raw skin. He pressed on, one foot after the other, moving by instinct alone. The eerie feeling of being watched clung to him, an oppressive weight that refused to lift.
"Cold… it's cold… Warren… safety…" Silas mumbled, his breath fogging the air. Then, his foot struck something. Not hard, not soft—something in between. He froze, dread pooling in his chest. Slowly, he looked down.
An arm.
The severed limb lay in the snow, pale and lifeless. The edge was jagged and uneven, torn by something savage. Deep bite marks marred the flesh, like a beast had ripped it free in a frenzy. Silas's stomach churned, heat flushing his body in a sick wave of panic.
Whose arm…?
Two rings adorned the fingers—one on the middle, the other on the pinky. Silas's breath caught as recognition struck him.
"Keith…" he whispered, his voice trembling.
Blood splattered a nearby tree in violent streaks, too much for just an arm. Silas realized the truth: Keith wasn't the only one who had died here. Both he and Thomas had met something far worse than the fate they'd tried to inflict on him and Warren.
Karma, cruel and merciless.
But even as he thought it, bile rose in his throat. To be torn apart, limb by limb, and devoured alive was a punishment beyond imagining.
The sense of being watched grew stronger, pressing down on him like a heavy hand. Whatever had done this was still nearby. Silas forced his legs to move, stepping back shakily. "Keith…" he muttered, his voice hollow. "What… did this?"
No answer came, only the wind's howling roar. Silas turned and marched forward, carrying Warren on his back. The image of the severed arm and the blood-soaked tree burned into his mind, haunting each step he took.
Silas broke into a sprint, every nerve in his body screaming at him to move faster. Whatever had torn Keith apart could still be out there, and Silas had no intention of being its next meal. His boots crunched against the frozen ground, his breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps that matched the frantic pounding of his heart.
The trees blurred past him as he ran, shadows flickering in the corner of his vision like they were chasing him. And then, through the maze of skeletal branches, he saw it: smoke, rising in lazy spirals beyond the treetops.
For reasons he couldn't explain, Silas veered toward the smoke. It could be a fire. Maybe there's safety there… warmth… people. The thought pushed him forward, though his legs screamed for rest. He clung to the hope like a lifeline, the weight of Warren on his back a constant reminder of what was at stake.
The closer he got, the clearer the source of the smoke became. A chimney. Solid, made of brick—attached to an actual house. Not a ramshackle shelter or a hastily constructed lean-to, but a real, well-built home.
The sight of it nearly brought Silas to his knees. Relief flooded through him, but it was tinged with disbelief. What was a house like this doing out here, in the middle of nowhere? Who lived here? Questions swirled in his mind, but he pushed them aside.
Safety was all that mattered now.
.
..
…
Silas stood in front of the building. No, calling it a house would be an insult. What loomed before him was no mere house but a towering structure—a mansion that seemed plucked straight from the pages of a fantasy novel. Its design was nothing like the modern mansions that once graced high-end neighborhoods. This was something else entirely: grandiose, ancient, and foreboding. It was the kind of mansion you'd imagine standing resolute in a world of knights and dragons.
"A good ninety percent of it's covered in greenery," Silas muttered, his voice hoarse from exhaustion. His eyes traced the vines and moss that wrapped around the mansion like skeletal hands. The structure's majesty was marred by time and neglect. Its once-pristine stone walls were weathered and cracked, overtaken by nature.
In front of the mansion stood a simple garden post. No flowers adorned it—just barren, lifeless soil. Silas knelt, prodding at the dirt with his fingers. The ground was stiff and unyielding, untouched for what felt like years. Maybe the harsh weather made planting impossible, or perhaps whoever lived here simply didn't bother.
Silas straightened and marched toward the front door, which loomed ominously beneath the mansion's towering facade. He tested the handle, and to his surprise, it creaked open with little resistance.
"Not locked? Bold choice for someone living in a mansion like this," Silas muttered under his breath. He hesitated on the threshold, unease prickling at the back of his mind. What if this was a trap? What if someone expected his arrival? Still, retreat wasn't an option—not with Warren's life hanging in the balance.
"Too late now…" Silas sighed as he stepped inside, the door groaning behind him. "Let's hope whoever lives here isn't a lunatic."
His thoughts turned bitter as he recalled the betrayal he and Warren had endured just hours ago. "Doubt my luck's that good," he muttered to himself, trudging forward.
The mansion's interior was dimly lit, cold, and eerily quiet. Dust blanketed every surface, and cobwebs hung like curtains in the corners. It felt like stepping into a forgotten relic of another time.
After a few moments of wandering, Silas finally found what he was searching for: the source of the smoke. A modest fireplace crackled in the corner of a spacious room, its flame small but steady. Relief flooded Silas as he knelt by the fire, carefully lowering Warren's unconscious body beside it.
He shrugged off his coat, laying it over Warren like a makeshift blanket. The shivering man needed warmth more than he did. Silas then hovered his own hands near the fire, letting the flickering heat wash over his frozen fingers.
"How long has it been since I've felt this?" he murmured, a tired smile breaking across his face. The warmth was a balm for his aching body, and for the first time in hours, a tiny flicker of comfort returned.
But the moment was fleeting. The sound of footsteps echoed from deeper within the mansion. Silas shot to his feet, his body tensing like a coiled spring. His hand darted to his dagger as he turned, ready to defend himself.
What he saw wasn't a beast or a bandit but a woman.
She was stunning. Her long, blonde hair curled delicately at the ends, catching the dim light like spun gold. Her emerald eyes sparkled with an almost unnatural vibrancy, and her cheeks were kissed with a rosy hue. But what unnerved Silas most was her calmness—too calm. No normal person would react this nonchalantly to a stranger breaking into their home.
"Welcome," she said, her voice soft and melodic. "It's nice to see a new face."
Silas didn't lower his dagger. Her demeanor set him on edge, and her pleasant smile only made him more wary.
"What does that mean?" he demanded, his voice sharp. "Were you expecting me?"
She tilted her head slightly, her expression serene. "Not at all. The fact that you're here now simply means you were meant to be. The Garden of Commodity doesn't just accept anyone."
Her words hung in the air, and Silas felt his pulse quicken. "The Garden of Commodity?" he echoed, his voice tinged with disbelief. "What does that even mean?"
But the woman didn't answer. Her calm smile didn't falter, and her bright eyes seemed to look straight through him.
Silas tightened his grip on his dagger, his mind spinning. Her words didn't make sense, but something about the way she spoke—the certainty, the serenity—unsettled him.
As the fire crackled softly behind him and the frostbitten memories of the forest loomed fresh in his mind, Silas realized one thing: he had stepped into something far greater than he could comprehend.