Morning came late to the Black Spire.
The sun struggled to pierce the thick veil of mist that hung over the ruins, turning the world into shifting silhouettes. The rogue camp was already awake — sharpening blades, muttering chants, tightening armor straps worn smooth by survival.
Ezra stood at the edge of the clearing, his hood drawn low. The blue flicker of his qi shimmered faintly beneath his skin. Even when he tried to suppress it, the air around him seemed charged, restless — as though lightning waited for his breath to give it form.
He could feel eyes on him.
Whispers followed wherever he walked now — quiet, reverent, and sharp with envy.
"The Heaven's Defector…"
"He broke Ravel's fire core in three strikes."
"Serah's keeping him close… maybe too close."
Ezra ignored them. He had no interest in followers or titles — not yet. Power without foundation was a blade without a hilt, and he refused to grasp it carelessly.
But this morning, even he could sense the change in the air.
Serah approached, her copper eyes glinting beneath the mist. "You sleep as lightly as a hunted wolf," she said.
"Sleep's a luxury," Ezra replied. "I don't have many of those left."
She smiled faintly. "Good. You'll need that edge."
She gestured toward a group assembling near the outer cliff — five cultivators, all hardened, all scarred. They wore mismatched armor and carried weapons etched with runes that didn't belong to any clan.
"The Spire's lower catacombs opened last night," Serah explained. "Earth cracked open by the storm you brought down. My scouts found traces of relic qi — not natural. We're going down to claim whatever's still breathing."
Ezra studied her expression. "You're inviting me?"
"I'm warning you." Her gaze sharpened. "If you come, you fight by my command. The catacombs have swallowed better cultivators than any of us. We're not the only ones who sensed the opening — and if the clans arrive first, it'll be slaughter."
Ezra was silent for a long moment, his thoughts turning.
Opportunity always wore the face of risk. And something deep inside him — the same instinct that had pushed him to survive, to ascend — whispered that this was more than a scavenger's run.
"I'll go," he said finally. "But I follow no one's command."
Serah smirked. "Then at least try not to get us all killed."
The descent began at dusk.
The entrance lay beneath a ridge of fractured stone, its mouth breathing cold air that smelled of ozone and decay. Torches barely lit the path — the walls shimmered with black crystal veins that pulsed faintly like the veins of a living thing.
Ravel walked ahead, still nursing his pride but keeping his distance. The others moved with blades drawn, chanting low mantras to keep the darkness at bay.
Ezra followed silently, his senses stretched thin. Every step felt heavier, as though the mountain itself was resisting their intrusion. His Stormfang mark burned faintly, reacting to something deep below.
"Feel that?" Ravel muttered. "Qi distortion. The air's… bleeding."
He wasn't wrong. The deeper they went, the more the world warped. Shadows moved against the torchlight, and whispers brushed against Ezra's mind — faint, indistinct, like memories that weren't his.
Serah stopped suddenly, raising a hand. "Form up."
Ahead, the tunnel widened into a vast cavern. A lake of black water stretched across the chamber, reflecting faint glyphs carved into the ceiling. In its center rose a platform of ancient stone — and upon it, a single corpse sat cross-legged, skeletal hands clutching a black crystal core.
The qi radiating from it was suffocating.
Old. Heavy. Endless.
Ravel's eyes gleamed. "A Saint's Remnant… maybe even a Primordial core."
Serah's expression hardened. "No one touches it until I—"
The air snapped.
A ripple tore through the cavern, and the corpse's hollow eyes flared open — twin coals of ghostly light. The black lake erupted, birthing shapes that shouldn't exist: half-shadowed figures twisted by greed and death, echoes of cultivators who'd perished here long ago.
"Defensive formation!" Serah shouted. "Now!"
Ezra didn't move. He was already surrounded.
The wraiths lunged — dozens of them, shrieking, their claws dripping qi that burned like acid. His mind narrowed to instinct. Lightning roared to life around him, cutting arcs through the dark like a divine judgment. Each strike that met his hand turned vapor into light, each kill feeding the absorption mark on his chest.
He felt the power rush in — cold, pure, ancient — and it answered him. The tattoo across his ribs expanded, swirling with glowing sigils that pulsed to his heartbeat.
Serah saw it — the storm gathering, the unnatural control.
Her eyes widened. "He's absorbing them… raw essence—"
Ezra's aura erupted, scattering the remaining wraiths in a single crack of thunder that made the cavern tremble.
The silence that followed was absolute.
Steam rose from the black lake, glowing faintly in the lightning's aftermath. Ezra stood at its edge, his breathing calm, his eyes faintly luminescent with azure light.
For a long time, no one spoke.
Then Ravel let out a shaky laugh. "Saints above… he's feeding on them."
Serah's voice was quiet, almost reverent. "No… he's evolving."
Ezra said nothing. He could feel the new energy spiraling within him, foreign yet familiar — fragments of will and memory fusing with his own. The line between self and storm blurred, but he stood unmoved.
Above the cavern, thunder rolled faintly again — though the sky was miles away.
That night, the rogue camp whispered anew.
The Heaven's Defector had descended into the depths — and returned alive.
But for the first time, even Serah couldn't tell whether he was still fully human.