The night draped over Mortelune like a velvet shroud, torn by flickering, sickly lights. The air hung heavy, thick with humidity and drifting ashes, while lanterns swung from iron hooks, swaying gently in the wind. The city seemed to hold its breath, as if something darker than usual lurked behind its crumbling facades.
Silas walked at an unhurried pace, hands tucked deep into the pockets of his long leather coat. His footsteps echoed across the damp cobblestones, each sound fading into the thick fog that slithered along the ground. Mortelune lived in perpetual twilight, but tonight the darkness felt denser.
The few civilians he passed kept their heads down. Those who ventured through these streets never lingered, their shoulders burdened by crude rifles and blades strapped tightly to their belts, as though even a trip to buy bread required an armory.
The soldiers were no different. Patrols roamed the shadowy quarters, heavily clad in black leather and wielding exotic weapons that glinted beneath the rare pools of light. Their eyes were sharp, hardened by years of surviving Mortelune's streets. Mercy was a luxury this city refused to grant.
Silas slipped into a narrow alleyway, stopping beneath a decaying sign that dangled precariously from rusted chains. Faint lettering, barely legible, had been carved into the cracked wood: The Broken Crow.
He pushed the door open without a sound. The bar inside was as dim as the streets outside, faintly illuminated by flickering oil lanterns lining the walls. The patrons—mercenaries, bounty hunters, and drifters—glanced his way as he entered, before resuming their murmured conversations.
Silas strode toward the counter where a broad-shouldered man lazily wiped a cracked glass. His head was shaven clean, and a scar cut diagonally across his right eye.
"Silas," the man greeted with a slight nod. "Been a while. Haven't seen you since the last purge."
Silas leaned against the bar, signaling for a drink with a tilt of his head.
"Haven't had the time. But something's dragged me back to the underbelly."
The bartender raised an eyebrow.
"Job?"
Silas smirked faintly, though no warmth touched his gaze.
"Something like that. Pour me a V-blood extract."
The bartender paused, eyeing him carefully.
"You sure? That kind of drink draws the wrong kind of attention."
"Trouble already found me."
The man grunted but retrieved a dark bottle from a locked chest behind the counter. The liquid he poured into the glass was thick and red, almost opaque, reflecting the lantern flames like coagulated blood.
Silas lifted the glass to his lips, savoring the sharp, metallic burn as it slid down his throat. This was no ordinary wine—V-blood was a rare distillation, drawn from the veins of ancient creatures hunted beneath Mortelune. Some whispered that drinking it allowed mortals to glimpse the veil separating their world from the demonic.
"So, what brings the old hunter back?" the bartender asked, leaning on the counter with folded arms.
Silas swirled the glass absently, watching the red liquid shimmer beneath the lantern's glow.
"The Black Duke knocked on my door tonight."
A heavy silence settled over the bar.
"I see…" the bartender muttered, his grip tightening around the bottle's neck.
"You heard any rumors about the ruins beneath the Temple of the Obsidian Blade?" Silas asked without looking up.
The bartender shook his head slowly.
"No one sane goes there. It's a graveyard. Those who enter don't come back. They say the Blade's shadow still lingers, even after all this time."
Silas didn't respond immediately. He downed the rest of the drink in one motion, placing the empty glass back on the counter with a soft thud.
"That's exactly what I needed to hear."
He placed a few tarnished coins beside the glass and turned toward the door.
"Watch yourself, Silas," the bartender called after him, voice low. "The ruins aren't what they used to be. They're hungry now."
Silas didn't answer.
As he stepped out into the street, the fog had thickened, and the air felt colder. The pale moon above cast a faint, ghostly glow that struggled to penetrate Mortelune's dense shadows.
The ruins awaited.
And Silas knew they wouldn't wait alone tonight.
***
The streets of Mortelune stretched behind Silas, swallowed by thick, silent fog. In front of him stood a rusted grate, half-hidden behind abandoned crates and rubble. He crouched down, brushing the debris aside before slipping his fingers into the gaps of the cold metal.
The grate groaned as it gave way, revealing a shaft of darkness that descended beneath the city. A familiar stench wafted up — a foul blend of rot, stagnant moisture, and something else, something unnatural that lingered just beneath the surface.
"Still as welcoming as ever…" Silas muttered, stepping into the gloom.
The stone steps spiraled down, slick with moisture. The echo of his footsteps stretched out ahead of him, vanishing into the abyss, as if the city itself held its breath. When he finally reached the bottom, the darkness was absolute, broken only by faint lanterns hung at irregular intervals.
The city beneath the city.
Silas moved forward, the ground shifting in places beneath his boots. Around him sprawled the ruins of an ancient settlement, swallowed by the earth long ago. Crumbling buildings, shattered statues, and the remains of collapsed bridges lay scattered in every direction. This place existed on no official map — a graveyard forgotten by time, known only to demons and the foolish enough to seek out what should have remained buried.
But silence was never truly silent here.
Murmurs slithered through the alleys, curling through the air like hungry ghosts. Now and then, Silas caught sight of faint shapes moving at the edges of his vision, vanishing behind broken walls. Low growls echoed intermittently, punctuated by the scrape of metal or claws against stone.
He paused, scanning the desolate expanse of the ruined city.
In the distance, a tower loomed — untouched by the decay that consumed the rest of the landscape. A solitary monolith standing defiantly against the destruction around it.
His destination.
Silas pressed on, his pace steady but cautious. He passed crumbling walls and stepped over fallen columns. The deeper he went, the more oppressive the atmosphere became. He could feel the weight of unseen eyes following his every movement from the shadows.
A deep growl rumbled through the air.
Silas stopped.
Emerging from the mist ahead was a figure, low and predatory.
It was a wolf… or at least, what was left of one.
Its body was a grotesque fusion of flesh and metal. Rusted plates jutted out from patches of its fur, and glowing green veins pulsed beneath its blackened skin. From its maw extended an unnatural bone-like scythe, curling forward like a demonic extension of its jaw.
The wolf stepped closer, its slit-pupiled eyes burning with a malevolent gleam.
"Charming…" Silas muttered, shrugging off his coat.
In a fluid motion, he drew a short silver blade from beneath his cloak. The weapon glimmered faintly in the lantern light, etched with arcane symbols along its edge.
The abomination lunged without warning.
Silas sidestepped, narrowly avoiding the downward slash of the creature's scythe-jaw as it crashed into the stone where he once stood. Sparks erupted as the blade-like bone struck the ground.
Silas countered immediately, his sword slicing toward the wolf's flank. But the creature was fast — unnaturally so. It twisted away, retreating a step before launching forward again.
What followed was a deadly dance.
Silas moved with practiced precision, his strikes fluid and calculated. Every movement reflected the experience of a man who had survived far worse. Yet, the abomination was no ordinary beast. It adapted, growing more aggressive with each exchange.
Breathing harder, Silas stepped back, evaluating the situation.
"You're tougher than you look…" he muttered.
The wolf crouched low, preparing to spring once more.
This time, Silas decided to end it.
He extended his free hand toward the creature, slowly forming a small, crimson sphere in his palm. The orb pulsed with heat, casting flickering red light across his face.
Raising his arm, Silas pointed his index finger at the beast as though wielding an invisible gun.
"Fire Bullet."
A flash of red streaked through the air. The sphere detonated in a burst of flames, piercing through the creature's body.
The wolf froze mid-step. A moment later, it collapsed, flames devouring its flesh and metal plating alike.
Lowering his arm, Silas watched the smoldering remains fade into the darkness.
He sheathed his sword, pulling his coat back over his shoulders.
The distant tower still loomed ahead — a beacon of shadow in this sea of ruins.
"Almost there…" he whispered, resuming his path through the forgotten city.