---
Pain blossoms across Marcel's shoulder as he tears the blood-soaked cloth from the gash. The wound should've been worse. It should've needed stitches. But beneath the crusted blood, the skin is already knitting itself back together.
He winces, fingertips brushing the edge of fresh scar tissue. It still hurts—burns even—but it's healing. Fast. Too fast.
> [System Recovery Mode: Passive Regeneration Active – Source: Integrated Relic Protocol I]
Another gift from the shard.
But every gift demands a toll.
He breathes in slow, letting the air settle heavy in his lungs. They're still in the tomb chamber beneath the wellhouse. The air is thick with dust and memory. Tarin sits nearby, arms wrapped around his knees, eyes distant.
"I could've died," Tarin whispers. His voice shakes. "He had the knife to my throat. I thought—I thought I was going to die."
Marcel doesn't answer immediately. He remembers the look in the hunter's eyes, the cruel stillness. He remembers the way the shard pulsed, how the world slowed around him, how his body moved on instinct—not his own, but something older. Like a memory pressed into his blood.
The shard had taken over.
"I saw something in you," Tarin continues, voice raw. "You weren't… you. Not all the way. You moved like a monster."
"I know." Marcel's voice is low. Tired. "It wasn't just me. The shard—it's more than just power. It remembers things. Makes you feel things that aren't yours."
> [Legacy Surge: Residual Echo Detected – Combat Signature Matches Pre-Domain Conflict]
He closes his eyes and leans back against the wall, trying to ignore the cold chill seeping through the stone. When he'd first picked up the shard, it had been a whisper. A presence. Now it was a storm. Every time he unlocked a new relic, every time he used its power, it pressed deeper into him.
Not just physically—mentally. Like something heavy settling behind his eyes. Thoughts that weren't his. Flashes of memories he couldn't have lived.
He looked to the murals again, their worn edges etched deep into the ancient walls. Massive scenes of war and mourning, of crowns forged in flame and thrones broken by blood. The Original stood again and again, apart from the Nine, always veiled in light and silence.
The weight of history presses against him like a second skin. Every step through this place feels like treading on sacred ground soaked in ghosts.
Marcel rises, limbs stiff. The shard thrums weakly beneath his skin, almost as if sleeping now.
The relic had granted him strength—inhuman strength. In the clearing, he had moved faster than thought, struck harder than flesh should allow. But it came at a price. Every surge left him feeling hollow, like something inside him was wearing thin. Like his bones weren't meant to carry this much power.
"You should rest," he says, glancing back at Tarin. "We'll leave soon. Before they send more."
Tarin nods, but the fear hasn't left his eyes. Not just fear of the hunters.
Fear of him.
Marcel sits in silence as his thoughts spiral. What if the shard wasn't just awakening old relics—but awakening something in him?
Something ancient.
Something dangerous.
> [Next Integration Point Detected: Northwest of Current Location – Coordinates Masked]
> [Warning: Memory Load Approaching Threshold. Recommend Stabilization Ritual Before Next Use.]
He exhales sharply.
"Great," he mutters. "Now it wants rituals."
The tomb waits in silence around them.
And above, the stars begin to shift.