Elarion's boots splashed through the fog-draped alleys of Vyrn, the port city's labyrinthine streets twisting like veins of shadow under the dim glow of Aetheric lanterns. The crash of the tavern window still echoed in his ears, mingled with the distant shouts of Arcanum agents scrambling in pursuit. He pressed a hand to the Kainos Mirror pendant at his neck, feeling its subtle hum—a reminder of the infinite mana coursing through him, a gift from the enigmatic system that had reshaped his fate.
The system. It flickered in his mind's eye like a spectral interface, overlaying his vision with faint, ethereal text:
[System Notification: Mana Reserves - Infinite. Adrenaline Surge Activated: +20% Agility for 5 minutes.]
He didn't question it now; survival came first. Ducking into a narrow crevice between weathered stone buildings, he whispered an incantation from the memories he had received earlier, drawing on the boundless energy. Shadows coalesced around him, weaving a cloak of obscurity that bent light away from his form. The Arcanum hounds would need more than keen eyes to track him tonight.
Vyrn was a haven for the desperate and the daring—a sprawling coastal sprawl where Freeholds merchants haggled over smuggled relics, elven spies whispered in hidden groves, and Netherkin whispers slithered from the sewers. But tonight, it felt like a trap closing in. Elarion's predecessor—the original soul in this body—had been scavenging ruins for scraps just to survive while on the run. Now, with memories merged and power amplified, Elarion aimed higher. He had the power, he had the means, his mind bursting with plentiful ideas on how to apply this power of his in a way to carve out his own path.
But Kirael, the smuggler, was key. The one-eyed sailor in the tavern's corner was his alias, or so the memories suggested. The message to the barmaid—"the storm approaches"—was a code to abort the meet and rendezvous at the docks. If Kirael had intel on the Key of Sypherion, it could buy Elarion the sanctuary he craved: a pocket dimension to evade pursuers, store artifacts, and plot his next moves.
Footsteps pounded nearby, accompanied by the crackle of arcane communicators. "Fan out! The rogue can't have gone far. Seal the gates!"
Elarion smirked beneath his hood. With infinite mana, he could teleport across continents if he wished, but subtlety was his ally. He slipped toward the harbor, where the Abyss of Echoes lapped against creaking piers, its waters shimmering with faint Aetheric leaks. Ships bobbed like ghosts, their sails furled against the night wind.
There, under a flickering lantern, stood a grizzled figure with a patch over one eye, puffing on a pipe. Kirael. The smuggler glanced up as Elarion materialized from the shadows.
"You're late, Seeker," Kirael grunted, his voice like gravel. "And you brought heat. Arcanum's crawling all over the Bloody Stag."
Elarion lowered his hood slightly, revealing his scarred face. "They came for me, not you. The Key—do you have the location?"
Kirael eyed him warily, then nodded toward a weathered map tucked in his belt. "Aye, but it's not free. The Well of Sypherion's depths hide more than relics. Guardians, curses... and competition. Word is, a Netherkin cult's sniffing around the same node."
Elarion's eyes gleamed. "Name your price. With what I offer, you'll sail richer than any Freeholds lord."
As they haggled in hushed tones, a distant howl pierced the fog—not a beast, but something planar. The night was far from over.