The glowing core seemed to fuse with his sternum. Simon felt roots of white light sprouting from that central point, weaving through broken ribs, torn muscles, exposed nerves. Each pulse of the core was a wave of agony; his gasp turned into a roar as bones realigned with wet "cracks,", cracked vertebrae welding together, necrotic flesh being consumed and replaced by new tissue, pale and pulsing with inner light.
Nolan's shadowy figure watched, motionless. His empty-slit eyes didn't reflect the core's light; they seemed to absorb it. Merely awaiting an outcome that, for him, was already determined.
"He shouldn't have more than twenty percent chance of survival at most, Nolan? Could he still die?" asked the childlike voice, hovering in the obscuring mist.
"No, he won't. Indeed, you were right: he has great potential," Nolan replied. His attention was fixed on Simon, or rather, on his project being constructed before him.
When the worst pain subsided, replaced by a deep, steady throbbing echoing in every cell, Simon opened his eyes. The sight awaiting him was impossible. His body – mangled, blackened by acid, missing an arm – was now enveloped in a faint, silvery-white aura. Where there had been charred flesh, there was now new skin, cold to the touch like marble, crisscrossed by fine luminous tracings following the paths of veins and arteries. He saw the core. Not with his eyes, but with an overwhelming internal perception. It pulsed within his chest, a tiny, furious sun, radiating lines of force that branched throughout his being. It was terrifying. It was glorious.
"A pity, but the acid was far more troublesome. Your face has quite an ugly scar. Perhaps when you reach a higher Rank, you can regenerate it fully," Nolan spoke, observing Simon's face. The voice didn't come through his ears; it echoed directly in Simon's mind.
With awkward, mechanical movements, like a puppet on strings, he got to his feet on the soaked floor, unsteady but upright. The lost arm hadn't returned – a stump still bandaged with dirty rags hung from his shoulder. But the debilitating pain was gone, replaced by the sensation of being filled with a contained river of lava, ready to overflow. His gaze, now clear and incandescent with an opaline light, met Nolan's empty slits.
"Well... my part of the bargain is complete. As for your arm, I have something in mind. You won't need to reach a higher Rank for a replacement," the shadow announced, its voice cold. "Now, you have your power. Fulfill your part. Torgon Fortress awaits. And Sophia..." Nolan made a calculated pause, the darkness around him rippling. "...I believe if you delay even a little, you might witness something you wouldn't wish to see."
Simon yearned for revenge. It was no longer an abstract desire; it was physical fuel burning in his gut. But despite his improved condition, he possessed no more monsters to summon nor sufficient physical power to enact his will.
Then, as if reading his thoughts, the shadow who called himself Nolan extended a hand made of dark mist. In it lay a small pendant on an iron chain with a greenish crystal.
Simon hadn't seen it up close before, but he imagined what the object was: a summoning amulet.
A very rare artifact, crafted from a mana core. Mana cores are what allow the summoning of monsters; when used in this mysterious technology, they can summon a monster stored within it without the need for a summoner, regardless of Rank. It was even possible for an ordinary person to summon a transcendent monster.
But, for naturally obvious reasons, they were not well-regarded, much less used. After all, the price was the core of a summoner.
He carefully took the pendant in his hands, his gaze illuminated. What kind of monster could be in there? Certainly something magnificent that could aid him in his purpose.
Before Simon could examine the artifact further, the dark mist beside Nolan stirred like disturbed water. From it emerged a small, unexpected figure: a little girl appearing no older than ten. Her hair was like the night, black and straight, falling to her waist. Her eyes, however, drew all attention – they were like two bright, deep rubies. She wore a simple black dress, almost Victorian in cut, and her skin was a cold, pale white like snow.
"I can help!" Her voice was the same childlike voice that had echoed in the darkness, but now it had a clear origin. She hopped forward with supernatural grace, stopping before Simon with a smile that revealed small, razor-sharp teeth. "I'm more fun than any old thing stored in an amulet!"
Nolan emitted a low sound that could have been a muffled laugh or a sigh of resignation. With a fluid motion, his hand of dark mist retrieved the greenish pendant from Simon's hands before he could react.
"As you insist—" said Nolan, his cold voice carrying a strange tolerance. "I'll wait for you outside. Don't take long." His shadowy figure dissolved into the gloom, flowing through the open cell door and leaving Simon alone with the childlike creature.
The little girl turned fully to Simon, her ruby eyes fixed on him with disconcerting intensity.
"I'm Melina," she announced, giving a small curtsey.
Simon nodded, also bowing to her. He wouldn't lack manners, even in the presence of a supernatural creature.
Seeing Simon's reaction, Melina's smile widened, revealing more of those pointed teeth— "A gentleman! Truly rare in these dungeons. But let's not waste time with etiquette now."
Before Simon could answer, Melina's small, icy hand gripped his with surprising strength. The world blurred in the blink of an eye. It wasn't teleportation – it was a dive into shadows. The solid stone of the wall became cold, dense mist against his skin, like passing through a curtain of black water. A sensation of free fall, followed by new flooring under his feet. They were in an empty corridor. Before Simon could catch his breath, Melina was already dragging him again. Wall after wall dissolved before them: the darkness swallowed matter as if it were smoke, revealing new spaces – an abandoned storeroom, a dark staircase, an empty barracks.
Until they emerged under a night sky sprinkled with stars. They were in a large inner courtyard of the fortress, surrounded by high walls. Smoldering torches cast dancing shadows on the stones. In the distance, a narrow, shadowy tower rose against the moon.
Melina's nose twitched, sniffing the air. Her ruby eyes shone with recognition.
"Ah, yes!" she pointed towards the tallest tower. "The girl is up there. Smell of fear... and jasmine." She turned to Simon with a mischievous grin. "Let's go! Look at the charming prince rescuing his beautiful princess." She gave a sharp little laugh.
Simon opened his mouth to respond, but Melina was already moving. With a sudden tug that almost threw him off balance, she dragged him back into the shadows. Simon felt like a sack of potatoes being hauled through layers of darkness. Brief glimpses flashed: the damp base of the tower, worn stone steps, a cell with rusty bars... until the darkness dissipated.
They were in a tiny, windowless stone cube, lit only by a smoky torch. In the center, chained to a ring in the floor, was Sophia. Her dress was torn, her face marked by bruises, but her eyes – when they lifted and met Simon's – shone with a mixture of disbelief and heartrending relief.
"Si...mon?" Her voice was a thread of hoarse hope.
Melina released his hand, retreating into the deeper shadows of the corner, her sharp teeth visible in a satisfied smile.
"There, gentleman," she whispered, the rubies of her eyes fixed on the cell's iron door. "The princess is before you. Now all that's left is to defeat the dragon... and his henchmen. They already know we're here."
The heavy sound of boots running up the tower stairs began to echo.
*****
Mauro, a burly man with forearms thick like oak roots, spat on the stone floor. The bitter taste of cheap beer still clung to his tongue. His chainmail creaked over a faded green gambeson – the one his 12-year-old daughter Diana had clumsily patched the previous winter. A zigzag scar cut through his left eyebrow, a memento of a border skirmish. As he adjusted his gear, his calloused fingers touched the small piece of clothing like a treasure.
"Another night in this cursed fortress," he grumbled, his voice heavy with weariness. "When this war's over, I'll buy a little house in the country. Diana wants goats… and you, Lennart?"
Beside him, Lennart – barely sixteen, with patchy fuzz on his lip – gripped his halberd like a lifeline. His ill-fitting breastplate rattled over narrow shoulders. Sky-blue eyes, wide open, scanned the courtyard shadows.
"Country life would be good... but I'd rather go to a small town and remain a soldier," said Lennart, before being interrupted by noises. "Hear that?" he whispered, his knuckles white. "Like... laughter."
Mauro snorted. "Rats. This pile of stones is infest—"
Ba-Dum.
Something hit him – a change in pressure that sucked the warmth from the air.
Lennart paled. "It wasn't rats, Mauro."
His eyes, wide, fixed on the deep shadows gathering in the corners of the old stone fortress. They weren't static. They crawled, sliding over the rough walls like black oil, clumping and separating with unnatural fluidity. A chill ran down Lennart's spine – not from the lingering sudden cold, but from the instinctive dread of that furtive movement.
"Over there..." he whispered, voice catching in his throat, a trembling finger pointing towards a darker archway. "In the shadows... they're moving..."
Before Mauro could turn fully or Lennart could find clearer words, the heavy silence was shattered.
"ALERT!" The shout came from above, shrill, raw with panic. It was one of the lookouts on the north wall. "INTRUDERS!"
As if the first shout were a lit fuse, others followed, a cascade of hoarse, terrified voices echoing through the courtyards and corridors.
"FROM THE WEST! MOVING FAST!"
"TO ARMS! INVADERS!"
"DEFEND THE SOUTH GATE! THEY'RE EVERYWHERE!"
Mauro snorted again, but this time it wasn't disdain. It was the hoarse sound of a man confronted with the invisible enemy already within the walls.
Up above, boots hammered the stone. A captain led the group, his face a map of scars beneath a sallet helm. Riveted plate armor encased his barrel chest, each step echoing like a funeral drum. His black eyes, sharp as obsidian shards, scanned every shadow.
"Prisoner's cell! NOW!"
Six veterans followed, formation tight as a clenched fist.
The air turned glacial. Breath steamed, but no sound escaped—only the "clink" of armor and the hammering of hearts.
On the final landing, they froze.
Sophia's cell door—three-inch iron reinforced with spells—stood wide open. Intact. Unlocked.
From the shadows at the back of the cell, a figure detached itself. With silent steps that made her seem to float, a woman emerged from the darkness. Her eyes gleamed like blood-rubies beneath a fringe of hair black as moonless night, falling in silken waves to her waist. Her black dress, fluid and indecently tight, molded sinuous curves as she advanced. Full, crimson lips curved into a smile that promised pleasure and perdition...
"Hello, boys," she whispered, her voice sweet and hypnotic. "Don't you want to have fun with me?"
The captain slammed his visor down with a "clack".
"Back to hell, demon!" — he bellowed.
And hurled a spear that pierced the woman's waist with deadly precision.