Going down into the Sunken District was like going back in time. At the edge of Port Varrick, the lively chaos faded away, leaving behind a deep, tomb-like silence broken only by the sound of unseen water dripping and the wind sighing through skeletal, crumbling buildings. Structures made of black volcanic rock that were built long before people lived there were half-submerged in the marshy ground and leaned at odd angles. Their surfaces were slick with moss and the passage of time. There was a dark, cramped maze of treacherous, half-flooded tunnels and broken archways under the city. The air was cold and smelled bad from stagnant water, mildew, and the growing, obvious wrongness of the Void.
We moved as one, silent group of five shadows against the deeper dark. Leo was in front, moving as smoothly and confidently as a river at night. He led us through the dangerous terrain with an instinct that went against the darkness. Garrick came next, his hand resting on the hilt of his greatsword. His Master-level Aura was suppressed, but it made a real, comforting shield of pressure around our group. Rolan moved with a new sense of purpose, his shield at the ready and his eyes scanning every shadow. His fear was a tight, controlled line in his jaw. And Seraphina... Seraphina was our guide.
"This way," she would whisper, her voice barely a breath, and she would point to a dark tunnel. "The sickness is worse here. It feels... hungry. Her Life Sense, a beacon of purity, guided us through the corruption. It let her feel the "currents" of Void energy, which led us to its source. The Silverwood cutting in her bag glowed with a faint, silvery-green light that only she could see. It kept the darkness at bay.
The tunnels twisted deeper, the buildings looked more strange, and the air got colder. The Void taint was now a real thing, pressing against my skin and making me feel sick in the back of my throat. My sense of rhythm was a mess of conflicting sounds, and the Aether of this place was sick and corrupt.
We finally came out into a huge, round cave that was the center of the ruins. It was an underground temple of a long-gone civilization, and the high, domed ceiling was lost in the dark. In the middle, there was a raised platform made of black stone that looked like obsidian. It had a complicated, scary pattern of lines and jagged, star-like symbols that glowed a sickly purple light. This was the place where the ritual took place.
And we were too late.
A dozen Acolytes stood around the dais, their masked faces turned towards a central figure. It was not the Huntsman. It was a high priest, his robes embroidered with the same symbol etched into the stone. He was chanting, his voice a low, guttural drone that seemed to make the very air vibrate. On the altar before him lay a body—a freshly killed City Watch guard, his blood fueling the glowing runes. The ritual was already in progress.
Leo cursed under his breath. "They've started. We have to stop—"
He never finished the sentence. A voice, cold, calm, and laced with a detached amusement, echoed from the darkness behind us. "Stop nothing. You have arrived precisely on schedule."
We spun around. The tunnel we had just exited was blocked. Standing there, leaning casually against the stone archway as if he had been waiting for us all along, was the Huntsman. His dark, tailored leathers were immaculate, his steel mask catching the faint purple light, his dead eyes fixed on us. The trap had been sprung.
"The Shepherd is grateful for your diligence," the Huntsman said, his voice a chilling, emotionless rasp. "You have gathered all the loose ends in one convenient location. It makes the harvest so much simpler."
The battle erupted without another word. It was not a duel; it was a perfectly executed extermination. The Huntsman did not move to attack us directly. He raised a hand, and the very shadows in the cavern seemed to writhe and coalesce. With a sickening, tearing sound, two massive, hulking beasts of solidified shadow and Void energy pulled themselves from the darkness, their forms vaguely canine, their eyes glowing with malevolent purple light. Void Hounds.
"Garrick! The beasts!" Damian's training, my father's command, my own instinct—it all screamed the same thing. Neutralize the biggest threat.
Garrick roared, a true Ashworth battle cry, and charged the Void Hounds without hesitation, his greatsword blazing with the pure, golden light of his Master-level Aura. He met the two monstrosities in a thunderous crash of steel and shadow, his sheer power a bulwark against their unnatural strength, but he was immediately bogged down, a single, vital piece removed from the board.
At the same time, the dozen Acolytes on the dais disengaged from the ritual, drawing their curved, dark blades and swarming towards us, their movements silent and perfectly coordinated. Rolan met their charge with his shield, a lone rock against a tide of darkness, his face a mask of grim determination.
The Huntsman still hadn't moved. He simply watched, an architect admiring his creation. And his gaze was fixed on Leo. He was the true target.
Leo moved, a blur of motion, his own blades appearing in his hands as if by magic. He didn't charge the Acolytes. He went for the Huntsman. It was the only play. Take out the head of the snake.
The Huntsman smiled, a cruel, thin line visible beneath his mask. He raised his other hand, and a complex, shimmering web of purple energy erupted from the ground between him and Leo. A Void-laced trapping field. Leo, moving at incredible speed, had no time to stop. He ran directly into it.
He cried out, a sharp, choked gasp of pain, as the corrupted energy washed over him. His movements, once fluid and impossibly fast, became sluggish, his Aura sputtering as the Void Arts directly attacked his connection to his own power. He stumbled, falling to one knee, his body convulsing. The Huntsman's trap had been perfect, a specialized cage designed to cripple a speed-based Master like Leo.
In the space of five seconds, our two Masters had been effectively neutralized.
The Huntsman took a slow, deliberate step towards the downed, struggling Leo, his own blade appearing in his hand, its edge shimmering with a dark, hungry light. He was going to execute him.
And that left me, Seraphina, and the embattled Rolan, facing a dozen trained cultists and a Master-level killer in the heart of their own sanctum. The carefully laid plan had shattered into a thousand pieces. We weren't the hunters. We were the sacrifice.