I crashed into the cliffside. Stone met skin—then bone. Everything shattered. My back struck first. Then ribs. Then spine. Pain didn't strike. It ricocheted. Like a scream trapped in a bell—bouncing inside me until it had nowhere left to go.
I gasped. My mouth opened wide, but the air didn't come. It stabbed in. But then—I smiled. A smile cracked wide across my bloodied lips.
"I'm… still breathing."
My voice was brittle. Like glass run across rusted stone. Like a broken flute trying to hum again. Then I laughed. It wasn't joy. Wasn't triumph. It was the kind of laugh that came when the pain stopped being pain—and became absurd.
"Damn you, Hex."
I should've raged. Should've screamed into the wind and cursed the System that had thrown me from a tower of despair into a wall of jagged stone. But something else stirred beneath the anger. A small, slow throb. Relief. I was back.
The wind howled through the ravine—not gentle, not soft. It screamed across my skin like claws of ice, and my body—numb and trembling—felt every shred of it. I looked down.
No armor. No gear. No cloak. Just my bare skin, bloodied and bruised, painted with dust and shadow. The cold bit deep.
I remembered the Hex's words—the last ones it had spoken after I defeated the Titan. I never learned its name. I never cared to. But now, looking at my half-ruined body, I hoped it had been armor I fought. Not a god. Not a dream. Just armor.
The Hex had left behind a whisper. A breath. A name.
Rune
Chronicles:
[Shadow Key], [Forgotten King's Blade], [Dark Shroud], [Everbloom]
My fingers twitched. I focused on one: [Dark Shroud]
[Dark Shroud]: A shroud gifted by the Forgotten King to his knight.
Blessed with the king's dying will, dyed by the blackening touch of corruption.
Its blessings remain—quiet, but waiting.
Enchantments:
– [Willed Form]
– [Hide]
[Willed Form]: Forged with the same pre as the Blade. Its will is one with its bearer.
[Hide]: To vanish. Not as illusion. Not as magic. But by the will to not exist.
A Chronicle born of a corrupted king. Stained in silence. Still loyal. That was enough for now.
I reached inward. Summoned it. It came like shadowy smoke. Wrapped around my body, layer by tattered layer, as though it remembered my shape.
The armor… was pathetic. Torn. Worn out. Cracked where the gauntlets met the forearms. Blackened beyond recognition. Seventh Tier? Awakened Chronicle? It looked like it'd lost a war and been buried for centuries.
The Formless Enchantment stirred. I closed my eyes. Let thought bleed into shape. Not power—warmth. Not glory—realness. And the shroud responded. It twisted. Became gauntlets—heavy, yes, but familiar. A cloak. Tattered, but whole now. Boots I hadn't imagined, but needed. The Chronicle didn't just hear me. It knew me.
Then I saw it.
A shimmer in the corner of my vision. Faint lines. Curling. A script. Ancient. Living. Still twisting. It had followed me. I blinked. No… it had never left. That script—That thing—It came from the Forgotten Spire. It survived the fall. It chose to follow.
But… why?
The Spire hadn't been like the stories. No grand illusions. No trials made of fantasy. Only one task: Find the Script.
And I did. But it wasn't the script that haunted me—it was the question that followed it. Why did Hex send me there? Why… did Hex have my memories?
Why did it know my father?
His face—It rose without warning. Eyes tired, but kind. Hands scarred from war. A voice that used to say, "You'll understand one day." Pain surged in. Not like a wave—like a knife pulled slowly from a wound that never healed.
My lips parted, cold breath curling in the air. "I'll find it," I whispered. Each word a blade of its own. "The truth."
Then—steel sang. A blade kissed the back of my neck. Not rushed. Not wild. Deliberate.
Then came the voice. Soft as silk. Cold as frost. And every bit as dangerous:
"Who are you?"