The air in the cavern still hummed with residual thunder.
Steam coiled above the black lake like phantom breath, fading into the cracked ceiling. The wraiths were gone—reduced to motes of qi that had already merged into Ezra's veins. But their whispers lingered, faint and cold, brushing against the edges of his thoughts.
"You fed on their souls…"
The voice wasn't Serah's. It came from the darkness beyond the platform, deep and measured, as though it had been waiting.
Ezra turned, his hand instinctively brushing the dagger at his belt. The Stormfang mark along his ribs pulsed once in warning.
A figure emerged—a man draped in tattered robes, his face hidden beneath a silver mask etched with ancient runes. His presence didn't ripple the air like a cultivator's aura should; it bent it, subtly, as though the world had made room for him.
Serah's hand went to her sword. "Who are you?"
The masked man's tone was calm, almost kind. "A remnant. Like the rest of this grave."
He stepped closer, unhurried. The torches dimmed in his wake.
"But unlike them, I still remember what it means to hunger for more."
Ezra's eyes narrowed. "You're not human."
The man tilted his head. "Neither are you, not anymore."
The words landed heavy.
Ezra didn't answer. He could still feel the energy of the wraiths coursing through him—qi that wasn't entirely his, memories that weren't his own. A battlefield under crimson skies. A name whispered by dying lips. Fragments, flashing and gone.
The masked man stopped a few paces away. "Tell me, Heaven's Defector—how does it feel to consume another's will?"
"Necessary," Ezra said.
"Ah," the man murmured. "Then you'll survive."
He lifted his hand and the corpse on the platform began to crumble—its bones dissolving into dust, leaving only the black crystal core behind. The relic's pulse echoed like a heartbeat, slow and ancient.
Serah raised her blade. "You can't take that—"
"I'm not here for it." The masked figure turned his gaze to Ezra. "I'm here for him."
The cave trembled.
The black lake erupted once more—not with wraiths, but with luminous tendrils of liquid qi that lashed upward like serpents. They struck toward Ezra, wrapping around his arms and chest before he could move. The Stormfang mark blazed in protest, lightning tearing through the tendrils, but it wasn't enough to break them.
The energy wasn't hostile—it was testing him.
Pain surged through his body, a storm inside his bones. His knees hit the stone, sparks dancing around him. The masked man watched, silent and unmoving.
"Stop it!" Serah shouted, lunging forward—but her sword met an invisible barrier, repelled by the force of the storm.
Ezra's breath came ragged. His vision blurred as something deeper than qi stirred inside him—a second pulse, faint but steady. It resonated with the black crystal's rhythm.
"Prove yourself," the voice whispered.
"Or drown with the rest."
Ezra's jaw tightened. "I've drowned before."
Lightning erupted from his core.
The tendrils shattered. The cavern filled with blinding light as the storm roared to life, shaking the entire mountain. For an instant, every rune on the walls flared in answer.
Then silence.
When the light faded, the lake was gone—evaporated into mist. The masked man stood unharmed, watching Ezra with unreadable eyes.
"Well done," he said softly. "The Spire has chosen."
Ezra staggered to his feet, sweat and blood streaking his arms. "What did you do to me?"
"I gave you a key," the man replied, turning toward the shadows. "But remember—every key opens two doors."
Before Ezra could speak, the figure dissolved into smoke—vanishing as though he'd never been there.
Only the black crystal core remained, pulsing faintly.
Serah approached slowly, blade still drawn. "Ezra… what was that?"
He stared at the crystal, its glow reflecting in his lightning-lit eyes. "A warning," he murmured. "And a promise."