The South Tunnels did not just echo with the sound of approaching boots; they hummed with a predatory frequency. The blue light of the Academy's mana-lanterns didn't dance or flicker; it was a cold, unwavering glare that carved the shadows into sharp, geometric shapes. This was not a search party; it was an extraction unit.
Kael Light stood at the end of the vaulted corridor, his iridescent grey eyes reflecting the encroaching blue. He could feel the weight of the "Soul-Steel" armor before he even saw the men wearing it. Soul-Steel was a forbidden alloy, a mixture of lead, silver, and the pulverized remains of mana-vessels taken from executed criminals. It was designed for one purpose: to act as a cage for the intangible.
Behind the line of twenty armored Harvesters, a mechanical platform rumbled forward on silent, rubber-coated wheels. Atop the platform sat a series of glass cylinders and copper coils—the "Siphon Array"—and beside it, strapped into a high-backed wheelchair, was the ruin of Sam Willer.
"There he is," Sam wheezed, his voice sounding like dry leaves skittering across a grave. He pointed a trembling, skeletal finger at Kael. "The... the anomaly. See his eyes? The 'Perpetual Dawn' is active. He's... he's ripe for the taking."
Alaric stepped forward, his High Overseer robes replaced by a functional, lead-lined tactical cloak. He held a staff topped with a "Soul-Magnet" crystal, which was already beginning to glow with a hungry, pulsing light.
"Kael Light," Alaric said, his voice stripped of its earlier hesitation. The Council of Sages had spoken; the morality of the act had been buried under the necessity of the resource. "By decree of the High Academy, your physical vessel is forfeit. Your core will be preserved for the advancement of the Kingdom. Do not resist, and we will ensure the extraction is... merciful."
Kael looked at Alaric, then at the rows of Harvesters who were already spreading out to encircle him. Finally, his gaze settled on Sam.
"You told them how to kill me, Sam," Kael said. His voice was no longer a rasp; it was a clear, resonant tone that seemed to vibrate in the very marrow of those who heard it. The internal stalemate he had achieved during the moon's peak had given him a frighteningly calm clarity. "You traded the secrets of my soul for a few more years of breathing."
Sam gripped the armrests of his wheelchair, a desperate, ugly spark of life in his clouded eyes. "I gave you... the world, Kael! I made you... a legend! It's only fair... that you give me... my life back!"
"Fairness is a merchant's lie," Kael said softly.
THEY WANT TO EAT US, KAEL, the God's voice whispered from the depths of his soul, no longer a roar, but a cold, calculating hum. THE ARCHITECTS OF ORDER HAVE BROUGHT THEIR SPOONS. SHALL WE LET THEM TASTE THE SOUP? SHALL WE SHOW THEM THAT A SUN CANNOT BE CAGED IN LEAD?
"Stay back," Kael warned, raising his hand. The 'Reforged Sun' on his finger glowed with a soft, iridescent light, the Star-Core acting as a steady anchor. "I have no quarrel with the Harvesters. I only want the man in the chair."
"A core does not make demands," Alaric countered. He slammed his staff into the ground. "Siphon Ritual: The Vacuum of the Void!"
The Harvesters didn't draw swords. They struck the ground with their Soul-Steel gauntlets, activating the etched runes. Suddenly, the air in the tunnel was sucked away. It wasn't just the oxygen; it was the ambient mana. A localized vacuum of absolute zero mana-pressure formed around Kael, designed to force his internal core to expand outward to fill the void—a process that would effectively pull his soul out through his pores.
The pain was unlike anything Kael had ever experienced. It wasn't the bone-breaking agony of the curse; it was an ontological stripping. He felt his "White Sun" core being stretched, his mana-veins screaming as they were pressurized by the vacuum.
"AGHHH!"
Kael fell to his knees, his iridescent eyes wide with shock. He saw his own mana—a beautiful, shimmering mist of gold and violet—beginning to leak from his fingertips, drawn toward the glass cylinders on the extraction platform.
"It's working!" Sam cackled, his withered body leaning forward in the wheelchair. "I can feel it! The air... it's getting warmer! Harvest him! Drain every drop!"
Kael's vision began to blur. He saw the Harvesters closing in, their Soul-Steel nets ready to throw over his "leaking" body. He felt the Dark God within him beginning to panic, the entity's shadow-essence being pulled along with the starlight.
IF WE GO, THE SLUMS DIE WITH US, the God hissed. THEY WILL USE OUR LIGHT TO POWER THEIR FOUNDRIES AND THEIR WAR-MACHINES. WE WILL BE A SLAVE UNTIL THE END OF TIME.
"No..." Kael gasped, his forehead hitting the damp stone.
He thought of Martha. He thought of Pip. He thought of the "Little Suns" in the city who were even now watching the blue glow from the tunnel entrances. If he was harvested, the Academy would hunt them down next to see if any "residue" remained in their blood. He was their shield. If the shield broke, the rot would consume the Gut.
He reached for the 'Reforged Sun'. He didn't try to stop the "Pull." He used the Star-Core to invert it.
Silas had said the Star-Core was a miniature white dwarf. In physics, such a star was defined by its density and its refusal to be consumed.
"Ancient Art: The Collapse of the Heavy Star!"
Instead of allowing his mana to be pulled out, Kael collapsed his external aura inward, into the Star-Core. For a heartbeat, he became a point of absolute, infinite density. The vacuum created by the Academy's ritual was suddenly met with a gravitational well it couldn't comprehend.
The blue light of the Siphon Array flickered. Then, it turned red.
The glass cylinders on the platform didn't fill with Kael's mana; they began to crack as the machine tried to pull on something that was now unpullable. The copper coils began to glow white-hot, the energy flowing back from the machine into Kael's ring.
"The feedback!" Alaric shouted, his staff vibrating so hard it shattered the crystals in the walls. "Shut it down! Reverse the polarity!"
But it was too late. Kael stood up, his body wreathed in a terrifying, iridescent corona. He wasn't weeping blood anymore; he was weeping pure, liquid light.
"You wanted the sun, Alaric," Kael said, his voice a thunderous echo that shook the foundations of the city. "Here it is."
Kael didn't cast a spell. He simply released the "Push."
A shockwave of iridescent energy erupted from the Star-Core. It wasn't a wave of fire or force; it was a wave of "Overwhelming Presence." As it hit the Harvesters, their Soul-Steel armor didn't break—it melted into slag, the metal unable to hold its form against the primordial frequency. The Harvesters were thrown backward, their internal mana-vessels temporarily neutralized by the "Dawn."
The extraction platform disintegrated. The glass cylinders turned to dust.
The shockwave hit the wheelchair.
Sam Willer was thrown from the platform, his frail body rolling across the wet stone like a bundle of dry sticks. He lay in the dark, gasping, his cataracts now absolute white. He was blind, broken, and alone.
Kael walked toward him. The iridescent light of his aura illuminated the tunnel, making the damp moss on the walls grow at a visible speed, flowers blooming and dying in seconds as the "Perpetual Dawn" passed over them.
Kael stopped over Sam. He looked down at the man who had been his brother.
Alaric was slumped against a pillar, his staff broken, his eyes filled with a defeated awe. He didn't try to intervene. He knew that the Academy had just tried to cage a force of nature with a bird-trap.
"Please..." Sam whispered, his hand clawing at the air, trying to find Kael's boots. "The... the notes... I can... I can fix it... don't leave me... like this..."
Kael looked at Elara's journal, which lay in the mud, half-charred by the shockwave. He reached down and picked it up. He felt the weight of her words, the love she had for a boy who was now a monster-saint.
"You can't fix a broken covenant with more gold, Sam," Kael said. He knelt, his iridescent eyes peering into Sam's soul. "You sold my light for your youth. Now, you have neither."
Kael didn't kill him. He didn't even strike him. Instead, he placed a single finger on Sam's forehead.
"Healing Art: The Threshold of Rot."
He didn't heal Sam's body. He stabilized it. He froze Sam in his current, eighty-year-old state. He ensured that Sam would not die of old age for a long, long time. But he also ensured that Sam would never feel the warmth of the sun again. To Sam, the world would forever be a cold, grey, and silent tomb.
"Live, Sam," Kael whispered, echoing Elara's final words to him. "Live with what you've built."
Kael stood up and turned toward Alaric. The High Overseer looked at Kael, expecting a killing blow.
"Tell the Council," Kael said, his voice carrying the weight of a thousand years of Aethelgardian history. "The 'Anomaly' is leaving Blackwall. If you follow me, I will turn your Academy into a jungle. If you touch the people of the Gut, I will return and turn your city into a grave."
Kael looked toward the shadows of the South Tunnels. He felt the "Little Suns" waiting for him at the surface. He felt their love, their hope, and their fear.
He knew then that he couldn't stay. As long as he was in Blackwall, he was a target. And as long as he was a target, the people he loved were the bait. To save them, he had to become the "Wandering Wraith."
"Martha... Pip..." Kael whispered into the dark. "I'm sorry."
Kael turned and walked deeper into the tunnels, toward the secret paths that Silas had told him about—paths that led out of the city and toward the Western Wastes.
The iridescent light faded as he moved further away, leaving the South Tunnels in a heavy, pregnant silence.
Alaric sat in the dark, looking at the broken machine and the sobbing, immortal old man in the mud. He realized then that the "Order" of the world hadn't just been challenged; it had been made irrelevant.
A new age had begun. The age of the Blood Weeper.