The High District of Blackwall was an insult to the sky. While the 'Gut' was buried in soot and damp earth, the heights were a forest of white marble and polished iron, illuminated by thousands of mana-lamps that burned with a steady, expensive glow. At the center of it all stood the Willer Merchant Guild Headquarters—a tower that rose like a jagged obsidian spear, its tip lost in the low-hanging industrial clouds of the city.
Kael stood on a rooftop across the plaza, his grey cloak whipped by a cold, salt-tinged wind. He looked at the tower, his eyes weeping a slow, rhythmic trail of violet-tinged blood. The Stasis Ring on his finger was screaming now, a high-pitched psychic whine that only he could hear. It felt like a hot iron band, the white metal groaning as his mana core pulsed with the proximity of Sam's legacy.
SO MUCH COLD GOLD, the God purred in his mind. THE MERCHANT HAS BUILT A FORTRESS OUT OF YOUR BROKEN BONES, KAEL. SHALL WE TEAR IT DOWN? SHALL WE TURN THE MARBLE INTO DUST?
"Not yet," Kael whispered, his breath hitching as a sharp spike of pain shot through his ribs. "The Star-Core first. I cannot kill him if my own magic consumes me."
He stepped off the ledge. He didn't fall; he dissolved.
Using an "Ancient Art" Elara had called the Shadow-Stalker's Veil, Kael turned his physical form into a silhouette of smoke and ink. To any guard looking toward the roof, it would have appeared as nothing more than a passing cloud. He drifted across the plaza, a silent phantom of vengeance, and clung to the sheer obsidian wall of the tower.
The infiltration began not with a bang, but with a series of precise, surgical manipulations of the tower's defenses. Sam had spared no expense; the walls were etched with detection runes that would sound an alarm the moment any unauthorized mana touched them. Kael, however, didn't use modern magic. He didn't try to "break" the runes. He used his Healing Art to "soothe" them, whispering a primordial frequency into the stone that made the sensors believe his presence was merely a natural fluctuation of the city's ambient mana.
He climbed the exterior of the tower like a spectral spider, his fingers digging into the microscopic grooves of the obsidian. At the fortieth floor, he found a ventilation grate protected by a series of rotating silver blades—an anti-mage measure meant to shred anyone attempting to fly inside.
Kael didn't slow down. He focused a sliver of "White Sun" mana into the Stasis Ring.
"Transmutation: Brittle Age," he commanded.
The silver blades didn't stop, but the metal suddenly turned as fragile as dry glass. Kael moved through the spinning arc, his shoulder brushing the blades. They shattered into a thousand glittering shards that fell silently into the vents.
Inside, the tower was a labyrinth of opulence. The air smelled of expensive incense and aged parchment. Kael moved through the secondary corridors, avoiding the main halls where 'Gold-Plated' guards—mercenaries clad in mana-resistant armor—patrolled with heavy halberds.
As he neared the central elevator shaft, he saw a painting on the wall. It was a massive oil portrait of Sam Willer. He looked older, his face fuller, wearing a robe of emerald silk and a crown of woven gold. He looked every bit the 'People's Patron' the posters claimed him to be.
Kael stopped for a heartbeat. He looked at the painted Sam, then at his own bandaged, blood-stained hands. The irony was a physical weight in his stomach. He had given Sam the world, and Sam had given him a grave.
HE LOOKS WELL-FED, the God laughed. I WONDER IF HE STILL DREAMS OF THE RUINS. I WONDER IF HE REMEMBERS THE SOUND OF YOUR LEG SNAPPING.
Kael reached out and traced a single, violet-stained finger across the painted Sam's throat. "He will remember," Kael whispered.
He descended the service shaft toward the sub-levels. The vault was not at the top of the tower; it was buried deep beneath the foundation, anchored to the city's bedrock. As he moved lower, the temperature dropped, and the mana grew denser, saturated with the defensive spells of the Academy.
The vault door was a masterpiece of magical engineering. It was a ten-ton slab of 'Mana-Null' iron, etched with a 7-Ring defensive circle that was linked directly to the city's power grid. To open it through standard means would require a key held only by Sam and the High Overseer.
Kael knelt before the door. He felt his bones begin to vibrate—a premonition of the coming full moon. He didn't have much time.
He placed his palms against the iron. He didn't try to pick the lock. He began to "weep."
He allowed the Dark God's influence to flare. His toxic, violet-marbled blood began to pour from his palms, coating the iron door. In the "Ancient Arts," blood was the ultimate medium. It carried the intent of the soul. Kael's blood was no longer human; it was a solvent of pure agony.
The iron began to hiss. The 7-Ring circle flickered, its golden light struggling against the encroaching violet rot.
"Ancient Art: The Serpent's Tooth," Kael growled.
The door didn't open. It dissolved in a vertical line, the 'Mana-Null' iron turning to rust and ash where Kael's blood touched it. He stepped through the gap, his breathing labored, his hood now soaked in crimson tears.
Inside, the vault was a cavern of light. Piles of gold, crates of mana-crystals, and rows of enchanted weapons filled the space. But Kael ignored the wealth. He moved toward a central pedestal where a single, crystalline orb pulsed with a soft, rhythmic starlight.
The Star-Core.
As his hand neared the crystal, the air in the room suddenly solidified. A massive, shimmering blue barrier snapped into existence, pinning Kael against the floor.
"I knew the rats in the Gut were whispering about a saint," a voice rang out from the shadows of the vault. "But I didn't expect the saint to be a thief."
A man stepped into the light. He wore the high-collared robes of an Academy dropout—the 'Blood-Contracted' mages Silas had warned him about. His skin was tattooed with glowing blue runes, and his eyes were entirely black, the mark of someone who had traded their humanity for artificial mana-capacity.
"You're the 'Blood Weeper,'" the mage said, his voice mocking. "The slums think you're a god. To me, you just look like a very expensive bounty."
The mage raised his staff, and a 5-Ring circle materialized with a crack like a whip. "Chain of the Heavens!"
Ten glowing blue chains erupted from the floor, lashing around Kael's arms, legs, and neck. They were designed to drain the mana of the target, weakening them until they collapsed.
Kael felt the chains bite into his flesh. He felt his mana being sucked away. But the mage had made a fatal mistake. He was trying to drain an ocean with a straw.
LET US SHOW HIM THE DEPTHS, KAEL, the God roared.
Kael stopped fighting the chains. He stopped holding back. He reached up and grabbed the Stasis Ring on his finger, and with a violent twist, he snapped the remaining housing of the white metal.
The suppression was gone.
The vault erupted in a shockwave of raw, unmitigated power. The blue chains didn't just break; they vaporized. The mage was thrown backward, his barrier shattering like glass.
Kael stood in the center of the vault, his cloak burned away, revealing a body etched with violet lightning. Four massive, terrifying rings of golden light—now heavily marbled with dark purple shadow—materialized behind him. They weren't just circles; they were rotating gears of cosmic destruction.
"You... you're not a 1-Ring..." the mage stammered, his eyes wide with a terror that surpassed death. "Those rings... they're... they're Ancient..."
Kael didn't speak. He moved.
He was a blur of violence. He didn't use a spell; he simply grabbed the mage by the throat. The man's artificial mana was consumed by Kael's touch, his tattoos fading as his very life-force was sucked into the void of the curse.
"Tell Sam," Kael whispered into the man's ear as he began to weep blood directly onto the mage's face. "Tell him the interest is due."
Kael tossed the unconscious, mana-drained mage aside. He turned to the pedestal and grabbed the Star-Core. The crystal hummed in his hand, its pure starlight fighting against the shadow of his touch.
The alarms were finally sounding. Above him, he could hear the heavy boots of the Royal Guard and the rhythmic chanting of a full Academy strike team. The tower was waking up.
Kael looked up at the ceiling. He could feel Sam. He was up there, in the penthouse, safe and warm.
"Not today, Sam," Kael said.
He didn't exit through the door. He funneled the Star-Core's energy into his own core, creating a feedback loop of staggering proportions.
"White Sun: Supernova!"
A pillar of pure, golden-violet fire erupted from Kael's position. It tore through the bedrock, through the foundations of the tower, and shot upward through the central shaft. The Willer Guild Tower groaned, its obsidian walls cracking as the energy vented through the top like a volcano.
In the chaos, Kael used the smoke and the mana-interference to vanish.
Ten minutes later, he was back in the sewers, his body smoking, his hands clutching the Star-Core. He was broken, his bones already beginning to snap in the early stages of the pre-moon cycle. But he had the prize.
Far above, in the penthouse of the burning tower, Sam Willer stood at his window, looking down at the smoking crater in his vault. He wasn't angry. He was pale. He touched the obsidian shard in his pocket, which was vibrating with a frantic, terrified rhythm.
"He's alive," Sam whispered, his voice trembling. "He's in the city."
The heist was over. The war had officially begun.