The city of Blackwall was a jagged scar on the coastline of Oakhaven. It was a place of iron, soot, and secrets, where the wealth of the merchant lords was built directly atop the bones of the destitute. As Kael approached the gates, shrouded in the tattered grey cloak he had taken from the bandits, he felt the city's mana—a greasy, industrial hum that tasted of coal smoke and suppressed magic.
His Stasis Ring was failing. The cracks in the white metal had grown wider, and the "weeping" effect was no longer triggered only by anger. Every hour, a few drops of dark, violet-tinged blood would escape from the corners of his eyes, staining the inner lining of his hood. He was a walking anomaly, a beacon of forbidden power that he was desperately trying to dampen.
THEY SMELL US, the God whispered, its voice a rhythmic thrum in Kael's head. THE MAGES IN THE TALL TOWERS... THEY SENSE THE SHADOW IN THE SUN. WHY HIDE, KAEL? LET US TURN THIS PIT OF IRON INTO A SEA OF GLASS.
"Be silent," Kael muttered, his hand tightening around the Stasis Ring to stifle its discordant vibration.
He entered the city through the 'Low Gate,' the entrance reserved for laborers, lepers, and the desperate. The guards here didn't check for identification; they only checked for coin. Kael tossed a copper into the guard's palm, his hand gloved in stained bandages to hide the violet lightning scars.
Once inside, the sheer scale of Sam Willer's success hit him like a physical blow.
Every third building seemed to fly the green-and-gold banner of the Willer Merchant Guild. There were posters plastered on every soot-stained wall: Willer Guild—The Future of Oakhaven. Stability through Commerce. Lord Sam Willer, The People's Patron. There was even a bronze bust of Sam in the central square of the lower district, depicting him as a noble visionary with a kind smile.
The sight made the "Stable Agony" in Kael's marrow spike into a white-hot fury. Sam had taken the "Age of Ash" gold and Kael's "death" and turned them into a seat at the table of the elite. While Kael had been breaking and reforming in the crushing dark of the sea, Sam had been building a monument to his own betrayal.
Kael's vision blurred as a fresh tear of blood escaped his eye. He turned away from the statue, his breathing heavy, and pushed deeper into the 'Gut'—the subterranean slums where the poorest of the poor lived in the shadow of the city's great iron foundries.
He found what he was looking for in a damp alleyway near the docks: a soup kitchen run by an old woman with white hair and hands gnarled by a lifetime of labor.
Kael sat in the furthest corner of the damp cellar, his hood pulled low. He watched as the woman, whom the others called 'Mother Martha,' served bowls of thin, watery broth to a line of skeletal children and injured laborers. She didn't have much, but she spoke to each person with a warmth that reminded Kael so much of Elara that his heart ached.
When Kael's turn came, he didn't reach for the bowl. Instead, he saw a young boy sitting by Martha's feet, his leg swollen and turning a necrotic shade of blue—the same 'Mana-Rot' Kael had seen in Cresthaven.
"He won't last the night," Kael said, his voice a low rasp.
Martha looked up, her tired eyes squinting at the hooded stranger. She didn't flinch at his tattered appearance or the faint scent of ozone that followed him. "I know, traveler. The Academy mages won't come down here, and I don't have the silver for a guild-doctor. All I can do is keep him warm while he passes."
Kael felt a flicker of his old self—the boy who loved the Emerald Jungle—rise through the layers of shadow. He reached out and placed a bandaged hand on Martha's arm. Her skin was cold, her pulse weak. She was exhausted, giving everything she had to a world that gave her nothing back.
"You have been kind to these people," Kael whispered. "Kindness is a rare currency in this city."
He stood up and walked toward the boy. The other beggars hissed and drew back, sensing the strange, heavy pressure Kael radiated.
"What are you doing?" Martha asked, her voice trembling but not with fear—with hope.
Kael didn't answer. He knelt beside the boy. He could feel the God in his mind snarling, wanting him to use the "Blood Arts" to simply end the boy's suffering. Kael ignored it. He focused on the "White Sun" at his core, the pure healing energy Elara had taught him to cultivate.
He forced the mana through the cracked Stasis Ring. The ring shrieked, a tiny spark of golden light leaping from the metal.
"Primordial Art: Rebirth of the Marrow," Kael commanded.
A soft, golden glow illuminated the dark cellar. It wasn't the violent, blinding light of the "Blood Weeper" in the forest; it was a gentle, humming warmth. The violet rot in the boy's leg didn't evaporate—it was purified, the toxic mana converted back into life-force. The swelling vanished. The boy's breathing, once shallow and rattling, became deep and steady.
The cellar went silent. Martha fell to her knees, clutching her rosary. "A miracle... a saint..."
Kael stood up, his legs wobbling. Every time he used the "White Sun" through the broken ring, it felt like his veins were being filled with molten lead. He turned to Martha and pressed a gold coin into her hand—one of the last "Age of Ash" coins he had managed to keep.
"Use this for the children," Kael said. "And if anyone asks, tell them the Light was here."
He turned and vanished into the shadows of the alley before the crowd could swarm him. He was the "Blessed Hero" of the Gut within the hour, a rumor of a hooded saint who wept blood but healed with a touch of the sun.
But the saint was dying.
Kael leaned against a damp brick wall, coughing. Dark violet blood splattered against the palm of his hand. The Stasis Ring was no longer just cracked; a small piece of the white metal had flaked off. He was leaking too much mana. If he didn't fix the ring, he would go into a "Mana-Burst" that would level the city block and alert every Academy mage in the kingdom.
He needed an Artificer. But not a guild-approved one. He needed someone who worked in the cracks of the law.
He spent the next few hours navigating the "Underground"—the hidden markets that existed in the sewer tunnels beneath Blackwall. Here, stolen artifacts, forbidden scrolls, and black-market mana-crystals were traded under the light of dim, purple-glowing lichen.
He eventually found a shop marked by a single, rusted gear hanging over a door. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of oil, ozone, and old parchment. Clocks ticked at different speeds, and shelves were packed with broken golems and experimental lenses.
At the workbench sat a man who looked like he was made of spare parts. One of his eyes was a spinning brass telescope, and his left arm was a mechanical limb that moved with a series of tiny, precise clicks.
"I don't do repairs for beggars," the man said, not looking up from a complex rune-plate he was etching. "And I don't do charity."
"I have gold," Kael said, stepping into the light. "And I have a problem that only a 'Cracked' Artificer can handle."
The man, known in the underworld as Silas the Cracked, looked up. His mechanical eye whirred, zooming in on Kael's hand. He froze. The brass telescope eye clicked several times in rapid succession.
"That... that's not guild-metal," Silas whispered, standing up so fast his chair toppled. "That's White Stasis-Steel. 'Age of Ash' craftsmanship. Where did you find such a relic?"
"It's mine," Kael said. He pulled back his hood, revealing the mask of drying blood and the glowing, violet-gold eyes. "And it's breaking. Can you fix it, or should I find someone who isn't afraid of a little shadow?"
Silas walked around the counter, his mechanical arm reaching out tentatively toward the ring. "Afraid? Lad, I've been waiting forty years to see a piece of Primordial Art. But look at you... you're a walking core-meltdown. The ring isn't breaking because it's old. It's breaking because you are too much for it. You're trying to pour an ocean into a thimble."
"Can you stabilize it?" Kael asked, his voice low and dangerous.
"I can reinforce the housing," Silas said, his mechanical eye spinning with excitement. "I can use 'Void-Iron' to create a secondary dampener. It will stop the weeping for a while. But it will cost you. Not just gold."
"What else?"
Silas looked toward the upper city, where the lights of the Willer Guild towers shone brightly. "The Willer Guild... they recently acquired a shipment of 'Star-Core' crystals from an excavation site. I need one to power my latest invention. They're kept in the Guild's central vault. You want your ring fixed? You bring me a Star-Core. I believe a 'Blood Weeper' like you wouldn't have much trouble getting inside."
Kael felt the God inside him grin. This was perfect. It wasn't just a mission for Silas; it was an excuse to set foot inside Sam's temple.
"The vault," Kael echoed, a cold, vengeful smile touching his lips. "I think I can manage that."
"Good," Silas said, returning to his workbench. "But be warned, lad. The Willer Guild doesn't just hire guards. They hire Academy dropouts and 'Blood-Contracted' mercenaries. Sam Willer is a man who protects his gold with more than just locks."
Kael turned to leave, his grey cloak billowing behind him. He looked at his bandaged hand, the Stasis Ring humming a low, ominous note.
"He can have his gold," Kael whispered. "I'm coming for his peace."
The "Blessed Hero" of the slums was gone. The "Vengeful Wraith" was heading for the towers.