The male barracks were a long, low hall carved from the same black rock as everything else in this damned pocket dimension. Rows of cots, a lingering smell of sweat, blood, and cheap soap. It was louder than I expected—muttered conversations, the clink of gear being cleaned, the groan of someone nursing fresh wounds.
I moved to the cot assigned to me, my body one throbbing symphony of pain. The fight with the Spore Nyx had left its mark. My ribs were a hot cage of agony with every breath, and my left arm felt stiff and heavy. The acidic sap had left red, weeping welts on my forearms.
I glanced around. Most of the recruits were in clusters, talking in low tones about their own missions—a botched raid on a goblin nest, a successful retrieval of some glowing moss from a cave system. No one paid me much mind.
I found the quartermaster's station—a grilled window cut into the stone wall at the hall's end. Behind it sat a grizzled human with a scar bisecting his lip and a permanent squint. His name, stitched on his stained jerkin, was Hacks. He was cleaning his nails with a knife, looking profoundly bored.
I stepped up to the window. He didn't look up.
"I need a private training cell for six hours," I said, my voice rough. "And a vial of mid-grade healing salve. The stuff that actually works."
Hacks slowly lifted his eyes. They were the color of mud. "Private cell's ten silver for two hours. Mid-grade salve is fifteen. You got that kind of credit, pup? Don't look like it."
I didn't flinch. I pulled one of the gold coins from my pocket and placed it on the counter between us with a soft, definitive clink.
The bored expression vanished from Hacks' face. His eyes widened a fraction, then darted left and right. He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a greasy whisper. "Where'd a fresh recruit get a full gold mark, eh?"
"The Blightwood pays in more than fungus," I said, keeping my tone flat. "Is it enough or not?"
He stared at the coin, hunger warring with suspicion in his mud-colored eyes. A gold mark was a month's pay for a low-level guard. For him, it was a bribe that could buy real comforts in the outside world.
"It's enough," he said finally, his hand snaking out to cover the coin. It disappeared into his jerkin. "Cell B-7. Down the left corridor, third door. Salve will be inside. Don't cause a disturbance. And for your sake, pup, don't flash that kind of coin around here again. There's folks who'd cut your throat for the copper in your teeth."
He shoved a heavy iron key through the grate.
"Noted," I said, taking it.
Cell B-7 was exactly what I needed: a ten-foot square of bare stone with a single glow-crystal and runes etched into the walls that dampened sound. On a small shelf sat a clay pot of greenish salve that smelled sharply of medicinal herbs and crushed crystal. I locked the door behind me.
The silence was immediate, a relief after the constant low-grade noise of the barracks and the psychic scream of the Blightwood. I stripped off my tattered, sap-stained shirt, wincing as the fabric pulled at the burns.
I applied the salve. The relief was instant and profound—a cooling numbness that seeped into the burns and a deep, bone-deep warmth that spread around my bruised ribs. Good stuff. Worth the silver.
As the pain receded, my mind, always churning, turned to the mission. To Mara.
She was a puzzle. Talented, arrogant, fiercely independent. She saw the world in terms of purity and corruption, fire and ash. She was exactly the kind of person the cult would love to twist into a fanatic. Or the kind who would burn out in a glorious, useless explosion.
I needed her to be something else. A tool. A shield. Maybe, eventually, a weapon I could point.
Our exchange in the Skimmer had been a start. I'd shown her a glimpse of my philosophy—cold, pragmatic, utilitarian. I'd given her a reason to see me as more than just the "Academy boy." I'd presented ruthlessness as intelligence.
The next step was to create dependency. To make my survival necessary for hers. To offer her something the cult's blunt, brutal training couldn't.
I was planning this, running scenarios in my head, when a sudden, violent shudder passed through the very stone of the pocket dimension.
It wasn't like the hiccup I'd caused. This was deeper, more… authoritative. The glow-crystal flickered. A deep, resonant gong sounded, once, twice, echoing through the rock as if the mountain itself had been struck.
My heart slammed against my freshly salved ribs. What now?
I pulled my shirt back on and moved to the cell door, unlocking it and stepping out into the corridor. The muted silence of the sound-dampening runes fell away, replaced by a rising tide of noise from the main barracks hall—shouts, questions, the clatter of people getting to their feet.
I merged with the stream of recruits heading towards the training yard entrance. The air was thick with tension and a new, foreign scent cutting through the familiar smells of sweat and stone: ozone, old parchment, and a cloying, expensive perfume.
We spilled out into the yard. The usual red crystal light was joined by two new, glaring sources.
A platform of polished black obsidian had been conjured in the center of the yard. On it stood three figures.
My blood ran cold.
On the left, massive arms crossed over his chest, was Gareth. The Soul-Scourge. He looked the same—plain leathers, that face like a forgotten cliff, eyes of dirty ice sweeping over the crowd with palpable contempt. His presence was a physical chill, a sucking void that made the soul inside me recoil.
On the right stood a woman. She was tall, willowy, dressed in robes of pristine white and grey that seemed to repel the grime of the place. Her hair was silver, pulled into a severe bun. Her face was ageless, sharp, and utterly devoid of emotion. But it was her soul I felt first. My new Soul-Sense flared in alarm. Hers was not a fractured mess like mine, nor a corrupted sludge like the cultists'. It was a terrifyingly ordered latticework of pure, crystalline light, but with cracks of absolute blackness running through it.
[Monarch's Gaze - Target: Inquisitor Valeria]
[Cultivation: 5th Order, Rank 3 (Inquisitor Path). No System Class (Pre-4th Order). Affinity: Light/Order (Corrupted). Threat: Catastrophic.]
A 5th Order monster. A Shadow Vatican Inquisitor.
But it was the man in the center who made my skin crawl for a completely different reason.
He was younger than the others, maybe in his late twenties. Handsome in a soft, dissipated way. He wore extravagant robes of deep violet silk embroidered with gold thread that depicted scenes that made my eyes want to slide away—twisted figures in ecstatic agony. His dark hair was oiled, his lips full and perpetually curved in a slight, knowing smirk. He held a slender, crystal-topped cane he didn't need.
And his eyes… they were a vibrant, unnatural amethyst. They roamed over the assembled recruits with a lazy, possessive hunger. They lingered on the female recruits, on the younger boys, tracing lines with a palpable, greasy interest that made my stomach turn.
He leaned on his cane, surveying us like we were livestock at an auction he was considering buying from.
"My, my," he said, his voice a smooth, cultured baritone that oozed like syrup. "This is the fresh crop? A bit… rough, don't you think, Inquisitor? Though some have a certain… rustic charm." His eyes settled on a beastkin girl with fox-like features, and his smile widened.
Inquisitor Valeria didn't look at him. "Our business is not with the chaff, Lord Cassian," she said, her voice like glass shards on marble. "We are here for the report on the Soul-Conduit Stabilizer. And the census of viable vessels for the Harvest of Penitent Souls next cycle."
He waved a dismissive, bejeweled hand. "Yes, yes, the boring bits. But one must appreciate the material one works with, no?" His amethyst gaze continued its leisurely tour, dripping with lewd appraisal.
Brukus, the hulking Warden, stood at the base of the platform, head bowed. "The Stabilizer is functioning at ninety-eight percent efficiency, Inquisitor. The minor fluctuation was a pressure valve release. The census is being compiled."
Inquisitor Valeria's cold eyes scanned the crowd. They passed over me without a flicker. "See that it is. The High Cardinal expects the tithe on schedule. The souls of the faithless are the mortar for the New Dawn." Her gaze snapped to Brukus. "We will also be selecting a handful of promising Acolytes for a… special purification ritual at the Sunken Cathedral. To strengthen their connection to the Divine Void. Have your candidates ready."
A "purification ritual." It sounded like a one-way trip to becoming a soul-battery with extra steps.
Lord Cassian's eyes lit up. "Ooh, selection! I do love a good talent show. Perhaps I can help evaluate… suitability." He licked his lips.
Gareth finally spoke, his gravelly voice cutting through Cassian's oiliness. "The kid from the Academy. Where is it?"
Brukus gestured vaguely towards the barracks. "Among the recruits. He performed adequately on his first mission."
Gareth's icy eyes swept the crowd again. I kept my head down, my aura clamped tight, my soul-sense pulled in. I felt his gaze like a physical searchlight, scraping over my spiritual contours. It lingered for a heartbeat that felt like an hour.
Then it moved on.
"Watch it," Gareth grunted to Brukus. "Blank pages have a habit of getting scribbled on by the wrong hands."
With that, the Inquisitor turned. A portal of shimmering white and black light spiraled open behind the platform. Without another word, she stepped through. Lord Cassian gave the recruits one last, lingering, hungry look, winked, and followed.
Gareth paused at the edge of the platform. He looked directly at Brukus, but his words carried. "The quarry collapse. The conduit fluctuation. Coincidence has a stink to it. I don't like coincidences."
Then he, too, stepped into the portal, and it snapped shut.
The obsidian platform dissolved into black smoke.
The training yard was left in a ringing, terrified silence.
I exhaled a breath I didn't know I was holding.