The Black Spire had fallen quiet.
Only the wind remained, howling through the jagged ridges like a song too old to remember its own words. The mist had thinned, revealing the valley below—green, endless, and eerily calm after the chaos of the catacombs.
Ezra stood near the edge of the camp, tightening the straps on his cloak. His pack was light—too light for the journey ahead—but he'd long learned that excess only slowed you down.
Behind him, the rogue camp stirred with hushed movement. No one dared approach, but every eye watched him.
To most, he was a symbol now—an omen carved by thunder and blood. To a few, he was still a man.
Serah was one of them.
"You're really leaving," she said quietly.
Ezra didn't look back. "You knew I would."
"I hoped you wouldn't," she admitted, stepping closer. Her copper eyes caught the faint morning light. "The Spire changed after that night. Its qi… it's awake now. The clans will come soon."
"I know," he said. "That's why I can't stay."
Serah frowned. "You think they'll chase you?"
"They'll chase whatever's inside me," he replied. "And I'm not sure I can stop it if it wakes again."
The memory of that power—the raw, alien essence that had tried to devour him—still lingered beneath his skin. It wasn't just energy. It was a will. A storm that wanted to move.
Serah crossed her arms. "Then where will you go?"
Ezra adjusted his cloak, the faint hum of qi crackling beneath his fingers. "South. Toward the Riverlands. There's a sect there that studies elemental resonance. If anyone can help me stabilize this, it's them."
Her expression softened. "That's dangerous territory. You'll have to pass through clan borders."
"Dangerous places tend to have fewer rules," Ezra said. "That's why I like them."
Serah's lips curved into a faint smile. "You talk like an old man sometimes."
"I read too much," he said, finally meeting her gaze. "Old habits survive even in new worlds."
For a moment, they just stood there—two survivors who had shared death and thunder.
Then Serah reached into her belt pouch and pulled out a small object: a dull iron ring engraved with a single rune.
"Take this," she said. "It's a ward token. Channel qi into it and it'll cloak your presence for a short time. Won't fool a Saint, but it might buy you a few breaths."
Ezra took it carefully, studying the rune's faint shimmer. "That might be enough."
She nodded. "It always is, if you're fast."
He slipped the ring onto a cord and tied it around his neck. "Thank you."
Her gaze lingered on him. "Ezra… the people here fear you, but they also look to you. They think you can stand against the heavens."
"I don't want worship," he said softly. "I just want a chance to live without crawling."
"That's why they believe in you," Serah replied. "Because you still sound human."
Ezra almost smiled. "Don't ruin my reputation."
"Too late."
They stood in silence a little longer, the wind carrying the scent of rain from the mountains. Then Ezra turned toward the path descending from the Spire.
"I'll come back," he said quietly. "When I can control it."
"You better," Serah replied. "If not, I'll drag you back myself."
He gave a small nod, then started down the path. The mist swallowed him within moments, his silhouette fading into the gray.
Serah watched until he was gone. Only when the first crack of thunder echoed faintly in the distance did she turn back toward camp.
"Storm's following him," Ravel muttered nearby, arms crossed. "Nothing good ever comes of that."
Serah's eyes narrowed. "Maybe. Or maybe it's following because it knows he'll survive it."
The path down the mountain was steep, carved by centuries of erosion and neglect. Each step sent loose stones tumbling into the void below.
Ezra moved carefully, balancing with the ease of someone used to uncertainty. The wind tugged at his cloak, cold and biting.
Hours passed. The Spire grew smaller behind him, its dark silhouette blending into the clouds. He didn't look back.
His mind was quiet—too quiet. The wraiths' whispers had faded, but something deeper stirred beneath the silence.
Every key opens two doors.
The masked man's words replayed again and again. He hadn't lied. The storm inside Ezra wasn't just energy. It was a doorway—to power, or to something else entirely.
He stopped by a stream, kneeling to drink. The water was cold enough to sting his teeth.
When he glanced at his reflection, faint arcs of light flickered across his eyes. The storm mark beneath his ribs pulsed once, matching his heartbeat.
"Still with me, huh?" he murmured.
The reflection shimmered, as if amused.
Ezra exhaled and straightened. "Fine. Just don't bite unless I ask."
The wind answered with distant thunder.
By nightfall, he had reached the foothills. The terrain flattened into rolling grass and scattered stones, the kind of landscape that looked peaceful until you noticed the bones half-buried beneath the earth.
He built a small fire in the lee of an old ruin—a cracked stone arch covered in moss and faint runes. Its shape was familiar.
Cultivator ruins.
Ezra sat cross-legged, letting the flames reflect off his bronze skin. The warmth steadied his breathing. He reached into his pouch and pulled out the black crystal shard he'd taken from the catacombs—the remnant of the Saint's Core.
It pulsed faintly, echoing the beat of his heart.
"Every key opens two doors…" he whispered again.
He turned the shard over in his palm, feeling the hum beneath its surface. Power radiated from it—dense, restrained, alive.
A tool. A curse. A promise.
He closed his hand around it. Lightning rippled across his arm, thin as threads of silk. The crystal flared once, then dimmed—like it recognized him.
Ezra smiled faintly. "Guess that makes two of us."
He set it down beside the fire and leaned back against the ruined arch. His body ached. His mind buzzed with the faint hum of gathered qi.
And yet, for the first time since arriving in this world, he felt something close to peace.
He'd survived.
He'd learned.
And now, he was walking his own path—not the clans', not fate's, not heaven's.
At the edge of the valley, far beyond his fire's light, figures moved through the darkness.
Six riders, cloaked in black, their armor glinting faintly with clan sigils. Their eyes burned with faint crimson light.
The leader halted, raising a hand. "The Spire's resonance vanished here," she said coldly. "He's close."
Another voice answered, low and eager. "The defected one?"
"Yes," the leader said. "The Heaven's Defector. The one who bears the storm."
Her gaze turned toward the faint shimmer of Ezra's fire in the distance.
"Alive or dead," she said, "bring him to me."
The riders spurred their mounts, vanishing into the dark like shadows chasing thunder.
Ezra's eyes opened.
The fire crackled quietly. His expression didn't change, but his hand drifted toward the dagger at his belt.
The wind shifted.
Somewhere in the night, steel whispered against leather.
He sighed softly. "Guess peace doesn't last long around here."
The storm mark on his ribs began to glow again.
Lightning flickered across the valley—bright, brief, and sharp.
The Heaven's Defector was on the move again.