Amir stood his post, the weight of the hand cannon a cold comfort against his ribs. The minutes
stretched like tar. Then, a prickle crawled up his spine—the unmistakable, skin-crawling sensation
of being watched.
He spun, scanning the labyrinth of corroded pipes and crumbling brick. Nothing. Just shifting
shadows and the endless drip-drip of condensation. He shook his head, trying to dismiss it as
nerves.
But then he saw her.
Across the narrow alley, half-hidden in a recessed doorway, stood a little girl. Her skin was the
color of dull parchment, and she wore a tattered, once-white gown that hung limply on her small
frame. But it was her face that froze the blood in Amir's veins. Where her eyes should have been
were only two dark, empty sockets, yet he felt the full, unbearable weight of her stare.
He blinked, hard, squeezing his eyes shut for a full second. When he looked again, the doorway
was empty.
What the hell was that? His heart hammered against his ribs. He scanned the area again, more
frantically this time, his hand tightening on the grip of his weapon. But there was nothing. No
movement, no sound except the distant, industrial heartbeat of the city.
Then, a new sound wormed its way into his ears. A soft, melodic humming. A lullaby. It was faint,
distorted, and seemed to be coming from deep within the tannery itself.
Johnathan said not to enter. The thought was a clear, sharp command in his mind. But it's been
almost an hour. No gunfire, no shouts. Just… silence. And now this.
The ghost-girl. The singing. The silence. It was a combination his gut couldn't ignore.
Screw the orders.
Decision made, Amir pushed the heavy, rust-weakened door open and slipped inside.
The smell hit him first—a suffocating cocktail of chemical rot, old blood, and the sweet, high stench
of decaying flesh. It was an abandoned factory, but it felt like a open grave. His boots crunched on
a floor of debris, bone-dry hides, and shattered glass. Massive, corroded vats, some taller than he
was, stood like silent metal tombs. Faded warning signs were peeling off their sides. Rotting leather
straps and rusted metal hooks hung from conveyor systems that looked like the skeletons of
prehistoric beasts. The only light filtered through grime-caked windows high above, casting the
entire space in a sickly, twilight gloom.He took a cautious step forward, and from the corner of his eye, a shadowy figure darted past. He
whirled, the hand cannon raised, but the aisle between the vats was utterly empty.
Then the lullaby started again, clearer now. It was coming from a side room, its door hanging off its
hinges.
His every instinct screamed at him to run. Instead, he walked toward it.
Inside the small, office-like room, she was there. The same girl. She sat on the floor, her back to
him, humming that twisted lullaby as she rocked a grimy, limbless doll in her lap.
"Hey," Amir said, his voice unnaturally loud in the oppressive silence. "Who are you? Why were you
following me?"
She gave no indication she heard him. She just kept rocking, kept humming.
"I'm talking to you!" he demanded, his fear sharpening into frustration.
Nothing.
Stepping closer, he reached a hand out. "Look at me when I'm—"
Her head spun.
It rotated a full one hundred and eighty degrees with a sound like grinding vertebrae, the rest of
her body remaining perfectly still. The empty sockets were now fixed on him. And then her mouth
opened. It didn't just open; it unhinged, stretching wider and wider, splitting her cheeks in a
grotesque, impossible grin that stretched from ear to ear. It was a rictus of pure, predatory hunger,
a void lined with needle-like teeth that defied any known anatomy.
Amir's mind, for a split second, went blank with primal terror. But then, Reil's lessons cut through
the static: "A smile that wide… that's not joy, Amir. That's a Flesh-Consuming Wraith. It doesn't
negotiate."
There was no hesitation.
He jammed the heavy barrel of the hand cannon directly into the center of that horrifying smile.
He pulled the trigger.
The report was a deafening, world-ending BOOM that shattered the silence.
At point-blank range, the .577 caliber round did not simply punch a hole. It erased. The thing's
head ceased to exist in a cataclysm of bone, brain, and black, ichorous fluid. The concussive force
vaporized the skull, sending a grisly shower of fragments and gore splattering across the walls, the
ceiling, and Amir himself. What was left of the neck stump twitched violently for a moment, then
the small body slumped forward, the wide, terrible smile gone, replaced by nothing but a ragged,
dripping void.The echo of the gunshot faded, leaving behind a ringing silence and the coppery smell of
gunpowder mingling with the rot. Amir stood, panting, his ears ringing, his face and coat spattered
with the remains of the thing that had worn a little girl's shape.
The silence after the gunshot was a liar. It promised an end that would not come.
For three full heartbeats, Amir stared at the headless corpse, the ringing in his ears the only sound.
Then, the reality of Echogard reasserted itself with grotesque finality. The black, ichorous fluid
splattered across the walls and floor began to slither, defying gravity and physics, flowing like living
oil back toward the small body. The headless form dissolved into the same viscous darkness, and
from the pooling shadow, a new shape began to rise, uncoiling like smoke given purpose.
It was tall, unnaturally gaunt, a humanoid silhouette woven from solidified night. Where its face
should have been was a swirling, silent vortex of absolute blackness, and from that void emanated
a low, guttural hum that was a perversion of the lullaby. It was a Shadow Demon, and its entire
being was focused on Amir.
Adrenaline, that deceptive fuel, screamed at Amir to fight. He raised the heavy hand cannon, its
weight suddenly feeling pathetic, and fired. BOOM. The .577 round tore a fist-sized hole clean
through the creature's torso. It staggered, the humming faltering for a second.
Then, the shadows around the wound writhed and flowed, stitching the void back together
seamlessly. The humming resumed, now laced with a sound that could only be described as dark,
amused curiosity.
"A... tickle," a voice whispered directly into Amir's mind, bypassing his ears. It was dry, multi
layered, the sound of dust settling on a forgotten coffin. "Does the gnat believe its buzz can slay
the storm?"
Panic, cold and sharp, finally pierced the adrenaline. Amir backpedaled, firing twice more in quick
succession. BOOM. BOOM. The shots passed through the creature's reforming limbs as they
became intangible, the rounds embedding themselves uselessly in the brick wall behind it with
puffs of dust.
The Demon took a step forward, not with a walk, but with a glide, its form flickering. "You carry a
scent... not of this world. A new spice for the feast."
Amir turned and ran. He burst out of the office and into the main tannery floor, his boots skidding
on the filthy concrete. He had to find Johnathan, find an exit, find anything. A shadow fell over him.
He looked up. The Demon was on the ceiling, clinging to the rusted iron beams like a monstrous
bat, its head rotated 180 degrees to watch him, the vortex of its face drinking the light.
It dropped, landing silently behind him. Amir spun, swinging the empty gun like a club. The
weapon passed through its intangible form, and the momentum sent Amir stumbling forward. A
limb of solidified shadow, cold enough to burn, lashed out. It wasn't a punch; it was a dismissive,
backhanded swat. The impact against his chest was like being hit by a steam-hammer. The air
exploded from his lungs, and he was lifted off his feet.
He didn't just fall. He was thrown backward with immense force, crashing through a rotten wooden
partition wall with a splintering roar. He didn't stop. The floor on the other side gave way—an old
maintenance shaft hidden beneath the debris. He plummeted, crashing onto a lower level with a
jarring impact that sent fresh agony through his already bruised ribs. He gasped, trying to draw
breath, but the world was still moving. The weakened metal grating of this sub-level buckled under
the force of his fall, and he dropped again, down into a deeper, colder darkness, landing finally on
a wet, stone floor with a sickening thud. He had broken through three floors, coming to rest in a
forgotten underground conduit, the very bowels of the factory.Dazed, vision swimming, he tried to push himself up. Everything hurt. The hand cannon was gone,
lost in the collapse above. He was weaponless, alone, and buried.
A soft, shifting sound came from the hole he had just created. The Shadow Demon flowed down,
its form pouring through the opening like ink dropped in water, re-forming gracefully before him.
It seemed taller here in the confined space, its presence sucking the warmth from the air.
"The gnat has found a quieter place to be devoured," the voice echoed in his skull. It advanced,
its clawed hands rising. "I will unspool you. I will learn the taste of your origin."
Amir scrambled backward, his back hitting a cold, slimy wall. Nowhere to run. He tried to summon
an illusion, to create a false wall or a distracting sound, but the psychic pressure of the creature's
fear aura was a physical weight on his mind, smothering his focus. All he could see was the void of
its face leaning in, the humming promise of an end that was not death, but erasure.
The creature's claw, sharp and colder than ice, reached for his face.
SHIIING!
A flash of silver, almost too fast to see, cut through the air. A pained, shrieking hiss—a real one, not
a mental projection—ripped from the Demon as it recoiled, a deep gash smoking on its shadowy
arm.
Standing between Amir and the abomination, holding a simple, unadorned knife that glowed with
a faint, steady, silver light, was Johnathan Blake.
"Did I not give you a simple order, you idiot?" Johnathan snapped, not taking his eyes off the
creature. His voice was tight with fury, but his stance was that of a seasoned professional who had
just entered his element.
The Shadow Demon stared at the knife, its form flickering with agitation. The playful, mocking tone
was gone from its psychic voice, replaced by a sizzling hatred. "That light... I remember it. The
sting of a dead god."
"Then remember this," Johnathan growled.
He didn't wait. He lunged, a vial already shattering at the Demon's feet. It wasn't fire or acid this
time, but a cloud of sparkling, crystalline dust that seemed to solidify the air around the creature,
slowing its movements. The Demon swiped at him, but Johnathan flowed around the attack, the
movements of a man who had fought things far worse than thugs. He was weaker, slower than the
Crimson Fury had made him, but his skill was undeniable.
The fight became a blur. Johnathan used potions to control the space—creating barriers of light,
pools of sticky resin. The Shadow Demon, for the first time, was on the defensive, its intangibility
useless against the area-of-effect alchemy. It would phase through one barrier only to find its feet
trapped in another.
Its focus was entirely on the glowing knife. Every time Johnathan feinted with it, the creature
flinched.
Seeing his chance, Johnathan baited it. He left a seemingly open path to Amir, turning his back for
a split second. The Demon took the bait, flowing past him toward the easier prey.
It was exactly what Johnathan wanted.
As the Demon materialized to strike Amir, Johnathan was already moving. He threw a potion that
wasn't aimed at the creature, but at the ceiling above it. A concussive blast shook the conduit, and
a shower of bricks and mortar fell, not harming the Demon, but forcing it to solidify fully for a
microsecond to avoid being dispersed.In that single, critical moment, Johnathan struck.
He plunged the holy knife, not into the creature's core, but into the stone floor at its feet.
A pulse of pure, radiant energy exploded outwards in a silent, expanding ring. It made no sound,
but the Shadow Demon did. It let out a full-throated, reality-rending scream as the holy light
washed over it. Its form didn't just burn; it unraveled. The solid shadows frayed at the edges,
dissolving into harmless mist. The vortex of its face contorted in silent agony before it too
dissipated.
In seconds, all that was left was the faint smell of ozone and the softly glowing knife embedded in
the stone.
Johnathan yanked the blade free, the light fading. He stood panting, his clothes stained with sweat
and grime. He looked down at Amir, who was still pressed against the wall, trembling from the
aftermath of terror and the crushing certainty of his own mortality.
Johnathan's face was unreadable. "Get up," he said, his voice flat. "We're leaving. And you are
going to explain to me exactly what you did to attract that."
Amir's voice was low, his gaze distant as he recalled the apparition. "I saw a girl… or something
wearing a girl's shape. It was watching me. I tried to understand what it was, but…"
"You nearly got yourself killed." Johnathan's voice was cold, sharp as a blade. His eyes burned with
restrained fury. "I gave you a direct order not to follow me."
Amir lowered his head, the shame hot and heavy in his chest. "My apologies," he murmured. Then,
looking up, his tone edged with dread, he asked, "What was that thing?"
"A Shadow Demon," Johnathan answered flatly. "Among the weakest of its kind."
"Weakest?" Amir's voice rose in disbelief. "That… that horror was the weakest?"
"It was," Johnathan confirmed, his expression grim. "But their weakness is a deception. They do not
hunt alone. Where one appears, a hundred more linger in the shadows. Their presence almost
always means a dark ritual has been completed nearby—something has been summoned, or
something sealed has been torn open."
Amir stared, the reality of it coiling in his gut. "You're telling me something from… from Hell itself is
walking free?"
"In a manner of speaking. Or something far older and fouler than any hell we have names for."
Johnathan's eyes swept the crumbling conduit, as if expecting the walls themselves to listen. "That
is why our only objective now is extraction. This is not a task for a probationary agent. We should
have a full tactical unit."
He produced a small vial filled with a luminescent green liquid. Unstopping it, he drank the
contents in one swift motion. A moment later, a faint, eerie light began to glow behind his eyes,
illuminating the darkness around them with an unnatural cast.
"What is that?" Amir asked.
"A concoction for low-light vision. This place is drowning in shadow. We need every advantage."
Johnathan's glowing gaze fixed on him. "Our mission now is to get you out of here alive. I will not
have a rookie's blood on my report."
"Can we not simply eliminate them?" Amir ventured."No. If a ritual has successfully called something forth, these shades will not cease until the source
is destroyed. And do not mistake their rank for simplicity," Johnathan warned, his voice dropping.
"Ordinary Shadow Demons are mindless, formless. They do not speak. They do not craft illusions of
lost children. The one you described… it should not possess such cunning."
"It felt… intelligent," Amir whispered.
"Precisely. Which suggests a singular, terrible possibility: these creatures are not acting on instinct.
They are being controlled." Johnathan's jaw tightened. "I have faced hive-minded abominations
before, but never a intelligence that commands Shadow Demons like a general on a field of battle."
Before Amir could respond, a piercing, otherworldly shriek echoed down the tunnel—a sound that
clawed at the mind. It was followed by a desperate, human cry. "Help! Somebody, please!"
Johnathan's head snapped toward the sound, then back to Amir, his decision made. "Have you
recently offered a sacrifice to your Gear?"
"No. Not since this morning."
"Do it. Now." Johnathan's command left no room for argument. "My intention was to withdraw, to
return with reinforcements. But that is a civilian. The mission has changed. Prepare yourself."
Amir gave a tight nod. He closed his eyes, shutting out the dread, the cold, the echoing scream. He
turned his focus inward, to the silent pact he had forged.
God of the Veiled Truth, I seek your strength. In exchange, I offer the sensation of my pinky finger.
From the depths of his consciousness, a whisper, dry and ancient, brushed against his soul:
Use it wisely, mortal.
Amir opened his eyes. The world had not changed, yet everything was different. A current of
potential hummed in his veins. The power to twist perception, to build lies into temporary reality,
was once again his to command.