Chapter 10: The Scroll of Ra and the Vale of the Void

  “Run!” Zack’s shout tore through the oppressive silence of the central square. The Void’s mist—once a distant threat on the horizon—now surged through the streets like a hungry tide, swallowing abandoned houses and converging upon them.

  The group bolted toward the village exit, their footsteps muffled by the mist’s growing density. Above them, the cosmic eye pulsed, its focus a physical presence pressing on their minds, instilling a primordial panic.

  Twisted shadows danced at the edge of their vision, and the air grew colder, heavier with each passing moment. Turning a narrow corner, something lunged from the darkness—a shapeless mass of flesh and black slime, with irregular limbs and a single, glowing red eye at its center. One of Milos’s failed experiments, left behind as a profane guardian.

  “Orpheus!” Zack yelled.

  Without hesitation, Orpheus interposed himself between the creature and the rest of the group. His hands flared with dark energy as he conjured a barrier of shadows that intercepted the monster’s attack. The impact reverberated through the narrow street.

  “Go on! I’ve got this!” Orpheus ordered, his voice strained from the effort.

  Zack hesitated for a split second, but urgency won out. He grabbed K’s arm and pulled her forward, the Boy close behind. They raced down the final streets of the village, Orpheus’s battle echoing behind them, until they finally broke free of the cursed settlement’s limits and plunged into the relative safety of the twisted forest surrounding it.

  It wasn’t long before Orpheus caught up—breathing hard, dark stains spreading across his clothes, but otherwise unscathed. “That was nothing,” he declared, dismissing their silent concerns. “Just a leftover.”

  They found temporary refuge in a shallow cave hidden behind a sickly moss-covered waterfall. The air there was slightly less oppressive, though the cosmic eye’s gaze still seemed to pierce the rock.

  “We need to warn Alf,” K said, catching her breath. She rummaged in her bag and produced a small, yellowed scroll tied with a silver thread. “I have half of a Scroll of Ra. Alf holds the other half.”

  “A Scroll of Ra?” the Boy asked, curiosity shining in his voice. “Does it work from this distance?”

  “It’s our only chance,” K replied, carefully unrolling her half. The scroll seemed to hum with a faint energy. “Whatever I write here, he’ll see instantly—and vice versa.”

  Zack stepped forward, urgency etched on his face. “Write,” he ordered, voice low and rapid. “Alf, imminent danger. Milos and the King are behind this. They’re using a draining ritual in the Lower District, like in the village…” He paused, jaw clenched. “Tell him to take up the defense—and to find the hunter Ygon. Tell Ygon he owes me one. If we survive this, he’ll get his revenge.”

  K began writing with a fine stylus that produced luminous ink on the parchment. But her hand faltered when she reached Ygon’s name.

  “Ygon?” she asked, turning to Zack, disapproval clear in her red eyes. “Zack, he’s unstable! A madman! We can’t trust him!”

  “We have no choice, K,” Orpheus interjected, his voice grave as it cut through the tension. “Alf can’t defend the district alone against whatever Milos has prepared. We need every available force—even Ygon’s.” Yet a shadow of deep concern crossed Orpheus’s face as he spoke the name.

  “But why does he owe you one, Zack?” the Boy asked, watching the exchange intently. “And why would he want revenge?”

  Before Zack could answer, the Boy continued, eyes gleaming with the excitement of a story he knew well. “I heard about the two of you fighting! It was incredible! They say it happened many years ago, far from here, in a place that didn’t belong to any kingdom. You two fought for days, and the energy was so immense that it changed the land forever!”

  Zack and Orpheus exchanged a look loaded with dark memories.

  “That’s why they call it the ‘Vale of the Void’ now,” the Boy said, oblivious to the adults’ tension. “No one goes there. They say the energy from your fight attracted terrible, S-rank monsters! Ygon must be very strong to have fought you like that, Zack.”

  “He is,” Zack confirmed, voice deadpan. “And dangerous. But he pays his debts.” He looked at K. “Write.”

  With a resigned sigh, K completed the message. They watched in silence as the glowing ink faded—signaling that the message had been transmitted. Moments later, new luminous lines began forming on the scroll.

  “Understood. Situation here is… complicated. Ygon located. Message delivered. He laughed. Stay safe. Alf.”

  The brief reply—and the mention of Ygon’s laughter—brought no relief, only heightened their unease.

  “Let’s go,” Zack said, pocketing the scroll. “We can’t waste any more time.”

  They resumed their journey, now a desperate race against time and a reality unraveling around them. The forest was a labyrinth of twisted trees and shifting shadows. The ground beneath their feet seemed to pulse lightly, as if the Void’s corruption was seeping into the earth itself. The cosmic eye continued its relentless vigil—a constant reminder of the greater threat looming over them: Skull.

  Exhaustion began to take its toll. Dialogue grew sparse, limited to brief warnings or orders. The unspoken tension about Ygon hung heavy in the air, felt by every member of the group. Orpheus remained more alert than ever, eyes sweeping their surroundings, while K cast anxious glances at Zack, whose expression was an impenetrable mask.

  They traveled for hours that felt like days, crossing streams of dark water and bogs bubbling with foul gases. At times, they encountered deformed animals—skins covered in glistening pustules or extra limbs writhing unnaturally—signs that Milos’s corrupting influence—or the awakened Void itself—was spreading.

  Finally, after a grueling climb up a rocky slope, they reached a summit that offered an unobstructed view of the distant horizon.

  There it was: In Medias Res.

  The city rose against the dusky sky—an outline of familiar towers and walls. The purple-black pinnacle of the royal castle pierced the mist like a needle. They could distinguish the faint, pulsating glow of the protective barrier surrounding the city—a near-invisible dome of energy struggling to keep the encroaching mist at bay.

  A collective sigh of relief escaped the group. They were close. Home was in sight.

  But that relief was swiftly replaced by a cold apprehension. The Void’s mist pressed against the barrier on all sides, denser and more aggressive than they had ever seen. And from this distance, they could not know what awaited them within the walls. Would the ritual be complete? Would Alf and Ygon have managed to hold the line? Or were they heading toward a city already consumed by horror?

  They watched In Medias Res in silence, the distant city representing both their last hope and their deepest fear. The journey was far from over. The real test— the true horror—might only now be beginning.

  Echoes in the Sewers and Orpheus’s Debt

  The proximity of In Medias Res was a double-edged sword. The familiar sight of its distant walls—even under the siege of fog and the vigilant gaze of the cosmic eye—brought a tenuous relief, a sense of return. But it also stirred something deep and disturbing in Zack.

  As they slipped through a ravine choked with dead vegetation, seeking a blind spot in the sightlines of the distant watchtowers, the image hit him like a physical blow.

  The rough wooden floor beneath his back. The gentle warmth of a body pressed against his. Golden hair cascading over his face, and eyes—also golden—gazing back at him with a tenderness that seemed capable of melting the Void itself. Delicate hands caressed his cheek and tangled in his hair. Peace. A peace he barely remembered feeling.

  But the image wavered, like a reflection in disturbed water. The gentle touch turned rough. Those golden eyes narrowed, tenderness replaced by cold revulsion—a rage that burned. The mouth opened, and a single word escaped, first as a whisper, then swelling into a scream that echoed in his soul: “No… NO… NNNNOOOO!”

  Zack staggered, hands flying to his head as though to contain the explosion inside his skull. The silent scream of that memory reverberated through his being, leaving a trail of anguish and confusion.

  “Zack? What’s wrong?” K was at his side instantly, concern etched on her face.

  He shook his head, unable to articulate the torrent of conflicting emotions. “Nothing. Just… let’s go this way.” His voice sounded hoarse, distant.

  Ignoring the obvious path toward the visible walls, he abruptly turned into a section of the ravine that seemed to end in a landslide of loose earth and rocks. Orpheus and K exchanged puzzled looks but followed without question, the Boy close behind.

  With a strength born of desperation, Zack began heaving aside the larger stones, revealing a low, dark opening hidden beneath a natural overhang. The smell wafting from within was ancient, damp, and laden with the unmistakable odor of sewage.

  “A tunnel?” Orpheus asked, surprised. “I didn’t know there was a passage here.”

  “Few know,” Zack replied, his voice still tense. “It links the old Red Road to the lower levels. It’s the fastest way to the Lower District.”

  Without waiting, he stooped and crawled into the darkness. The group followed, plunging into the city’s forgotten belly.

  The journey through the tunnel was claustrophobic. The air was thick and fetid, and the only sounds were the constant drip of foul water and the echo of their cautious footsteps. Darkness was nearly total, broken only by the faint light K managed to conjure in her hand.

  It was K who first noticed the change in Zack. He walked at the front, rigid, his shoulders tense. The flickering light revealed his eyes—now wells of absolute darkness, fixed on some invisible point ahead. But it wasn’t just his posture. A subtle yet undeniably sinister aura began to envelop him. It was cold, laden with an ancient rage and a pain so deep it felt physically present. And there was a smell… a faint but persistent odor of dried blood and the characteristic rot of the Void, emanating from him.

  K shivered involuntarily, pressing a little closer to Orpheus. The Boy also seemed to sense it, his wide eyes fixed on Zack’s back.

  Orpheus, walking just behind Zack, observed him with silent intensity. He had seen Zack like this before—during moments of extreme pressure or when confronted with echoes of his murky past. It was as though a darker, more primitive version of Zack was fighting to surface.

  Finally, after what felt like an eternity, they saw a faint light ahead. A rusted metal grate marked the exit from the main tunnel into a wider, dry sewer channel. Beyond the grate, they could see the familiar brick walls of the Lower District’s subterranean levels.

  Zack forced the grate open with a metallic screech, and they emerged into a narrow underground corridor. The air was still foul, but recognizable. They were home. Or what remained of it.

  But what they found was… silence. An absolute, disconcerting silence. No scurrying, no shouting, no sign of the battle or ritual they had expected. Only the oppressive stillness of a place abandoned.

  That unnatural calm seemed to break something inside Zack. In the middle of the damp corridor, under the faint light filtering from a grate above, he halted. His body began to tremble.

  Then he fell to his knees. A raw sob escaped his lips, a sound loaded with excruciating pain. He lifted his face toward the opening in the ceiling, tears streaming freely down his pale cheeks, mixing with dirt and sweat.

  “Forgive me…” he choked, his voice broken. “I’m so sorry… I did something… something terrible… I know I did… Forgive me… Please…”

  He seemed to address no one in particular, speaking only to the void, the darkness, an unnamed guilt consuming him from within. The sobs shook his body, and seeing Zack—the relentless hunter, the hardened survivor—collapsed in pure agony was shocking, almost unreal.

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  K rushed to his side, kneeling and wrapping him in a tight embrace, caring little for the grime or the dark aura that still clung to him. The Boy hesitated for a moment, then joined K, his small hands pressing against Zack’s back in a silent gesture of comfort.

  Orpheus remained standing, watching the scene with an unreadable expression. There was pain in his eyes, but also an ancient understanding. He knew, perhaps better than anyone, the demons that haunted Zack.

  “He carries a heavy burden,” Orpheus murmured, more to himself than to the others. Seeing K’s and the Boy’s confused glances, he sighed. Perhaps the time had come. Perhaps Zack needed someone to remind him—not just himself—that there was light in this darkness.

  “You wonder why I follow him,” Orpheus began, his low, grave voice echoing in the silent corridor. “Why I owe my life to him.”

  He leaned against the damp wall, his gaze lost in distant memories. “I was twelve years old. A slave in the Kingdom of Luna, personal property of King Violet Don. Luna was infamous for its ‘Slave Pits.’ Nobles gambled while we fought to the death for their entertainment.”

  His face tightened slightly. “I was useless. Weak. I survived only because of Afonso. He was my sparring partner—just fifteen, but strong, skilled. He protected me, taught me, treated me like a younger brother. We won because of him.”

  A deep shadow passed over his eyes. “But Afonso’s strength drew the wrong kind of attention. The Queen… she desired him. And King Don, sick and depraved, forced her to watch as Afonso was made to… satisfy her. Afonso hated it, but he knew that if he refused, the King would place me in his stead.”

  Orpheus swallowed hard. “The secret leaked. The people began to whisper. Under pressure, King Don silenced the only witness who mattered. He killed Afonso. Brutally. Claimed it was an attempted escape.”

  “Afonso… he had a plan,” Orpheus continued. “He was in contact with a mercenary—a hunter known only as ‘Black Eyes.’ The deal was simple: Afonso would hand over an ancient, valuable scroll that belonged to the King’s ancestors, and the hunter would help him escape. With me.”

  “But Afonso died before the deal could be fulfilled. The hunter had nothing left to gain. He could have vanished. No one would have blamed him.”

  “The next day, I was scheduled to fight alone in the main arena. It was a death sentence. I was ready to die. But then… he appeared.”

  Orpheus’s eyes met K’s and the Boy’s. “Zack. He stormed the arena, not as a spectator, but like a tempest. Alone. He slaughtered everyone. The guards, the other slave fighters who resisted, the nobles in their boxes, the ministers, the generals… all who profited from our suffering. Blood flowed like wine that day.”

  “He didn’t stop there. He busted open the cells, freeing every slave. He used the resources he seized from the dead nobles to give us money, food—a chance to start over. And he took care of me. Fed me, protected me, trained me for six years until I could defend myself. He gave me a life.”

  “I never asked why,” Orpheus admitted. “I never needed to. I saw the pain in him even back then. I heard the muffled cries at night, the times he spoke to himself, battling something unseen. But I knew that, despite it all, there was a good man inside him. A man who bled for others.”

  “I left when I turned eighteen. Not because I wanted to abandon him, but because I understood that my debt wasn’t to stay by his side. It was to do for others what he did for me—save those who couldn’t save themselves.”

  He finished his story, and the silence that followed was filled only by Zack’s sobs, now tapering into a trembling, exhausted breath.

  K and the Boy looked at Orpheus, then at Zack, with a newfound understanding. The complexity of Zack—his darkness and his light—seemed a little less impenetrable now.

  Zack slowly rose to his feet, supported by K. His face was streaked with tears, but the raw agony had been replaced by a deep, almost lethargic exhaustion. He surveyed the corridor of the Lower District’s underground.

  “Where… where are they?” he murmured, his voice weak. “Alf? Ygon? Why is it so quiet?”

  The question hung in the air, charged with renewed tension. The calm was wrong. The silence was a silent scream that something terrible had happened—or was about to happen.

  They were in the heart of danger, but the enemy had not yet revealed itself. And that waiting, that stillness before the storm, was perhaps more frightening than any battle.

  Whispers in the Silent City

  The silence was wrong.

  Zack felt it even before he pushed aside the rusted grate that separated the sewers from the surface. The Lower District was never silent—not even in the deadest hours of the night. There was always the distant murmur of conversations, the occasional crash of glass from a tavern, a child’s cry, hurried footsteps of someone going home too late.

  But now, nothing.

  The pale light of dawn spilled over the deserted streets, revealing a scene that made Zack’s stomach twist. Doors hung wide open, swinging gently in the wind. Personal belongings—a rag doll, a worn-out hat, a shopping basket—lay abandoned on the dusty ground. The stench of rotting food mingled with another scent, acrid and metallic, one he recognized instantly: blood.

  “It’s like everyone left… all at once,” K murmured, her red eyes sweeping over the empty streets.

  Zack nodded, his hand never leaving the hilt of the Black Moon. The emotional collapse he had suffered in the sewers still weighed on him, but now something stronger had taken hold—a grim determination, a silent promise that he would not fail again. He would not let his weakness put others in danger.

  “Stay alert,” he ordered, his voice low but firm. “We don’t know what’s still out here.”

  Orpheus took up the rear guard, more watchful than ever. The story he had shared earlier had left him exposed in a way that clearly unsettled him. The Boy walked beside K, his curious eyes picking up details the others seemed to miss—a strange mark here, an odd shadow there.

  They advanced down the main street, each step echoing unnervingly in the silence. The shops and homes told the quiet story of a sudden, forced evacuation: meals abandoned mid-bite, chairs overturned as if their occupants had leapt up in panic, doors broken from the inside out.

  It was K who noticed first.

  “Zack,” she called, pointing at the ground. “Look.”

  Drag marks cut through the dust of the street, dozens of them, all heading in the same direction—toward the central square. Some were broad, as if bodies had been dragged; others were narrower, as though someone had tried to resist, clawing at the ground as they were pulled away.

  Orpheus knelt to examine a dark stain on the ground. “Blood,” he confirmed. “Only a few hours old.”

  But it wasn’t just the blood that drew their attention. In some places, the stains formed partial patterns, as if they had been deliberately smeared to create symbols.

  “There,” the Boy said, pointing to a nearby wall.

  Small symbols had been scratched into the stone—concentric circles, lines crossing at impossible angles, spirals that seemed to shift when viewed from the corner of one’s eye. They were the same symbols they had seen on Milos’s equipment and in the abandoned village.

  “Some of these are fresh,” Orpheus observed, running his fingers over the markings without touching them. “But others… these here are weeks, maybe months old.”

  “How did we miss this?” K asked, disbelief coloring her voice. “Were we blind?”

  “Maybe we wanted to be,” Zack replied, his voice carrying a bitterness he didn’t bother to hide.

  They continued onward, tension mounting with each new discovery. At a corner, the Boy abruptly stopped, crouching to pick something up from the ground. It was a small wooden horse, the kind of toy a child would never let go of. It was stained with blood on one side.

  The Boy held it for a moment, an enigmatic expression on his young face, before gently setting it back down, as if it were something sacred.

  When they reached the Drunken Mug, Zack’s chest tightened. The tavern that had been his refuge for so long was unrecognizable. The windows were shattered, the door hanging from a single hinge. Inside, tables lay overturned, shattered bottles covered the floor, and the massive wooden bar where so many stories had been shared was stained with dried blood.

  “Alf…” Zack murmured, his eyes scanning for any sign of his friend.

  That was when they heard it—a faint noise coming from the cellar, something being knocked over, followed by a muffled sob.

  In an instant, they were all on edge. Zack gestured silently, signaling K and the Boy to stay back while he and Orpheus investigated. With the Black Moon half-drawn, he approached the basement door, which stood ajar.

  The stench of fear was almost tangible as they descended the creaking steps. The darkness of the cellar was broken only by a thin beam of light filtering through a small crack in the ceiling. In the farthest corner, among empty barrels and broken crates, something—or someone—moved.

  “Who’s there?” Zack called, his voice firm but not threatening.

  A sudden movement, and then a figure lunged from the shadows with a desperate scream. Zack barely dodged as a broken bottle sliced through the air where his head had been a second earlier. He caught the attacker’s wrist, immobilizing them with ease.

  “Talia?”

  The young barmaid of the Drunken Mug was almost unrecognizable. Her brown hair, usually tied neatly in a braid, was disheveled and filthy. Her face, once known for its shy smile, was twisted into a mask of absolute terror. Her wide, bloodshot eyes didn’t seem to recognize Zack.

  “No! Don’t take me! Don’t take me to the square!” she screamed, struggling frantically.

  K hurried down the stairs, hands raised in a calming gesture.

  “Talia, it’s us,” she said softly. “You’re safe. No one will take you.”

  Slowly, recognition began to flicker in the girl’s eyes. Her body shook violently before collapsing into sobs. K pulled her into a protective embrace, guiding her to a crate to sit down.

  “What happened here, Talia?” Zack asked, kneeling to meet her gaze. “Where is everyone?”

  Her account came in broken fragments between sobs and moments when she seemed lost in horrific memories:

  “They came when the moon was high… they weren’t normal soldiers… their eyes… empty…”

  She hugged her knees, rocking back and forth.

  “The pale man didn’t speak, he just… pointed. And people obeyed, like… like they couldn’t resist.”

  Zack and Orpheus exchanged a grim look. Milos.

  “There were hooded figures,” Talia continued, her voice now barely a whisper. “Drawing on the square floor… a huge circle… chanting something that hurt the ears.”

  Fresh tears welled in her eyes.

  “Alf gathered some of us… he tried to fight… but that man, the pale one, he just… smiled. And Alf fell, screaming, clutching his head.”

  Zack felt cold rage building inside him, sharp as ice. His fists clenched involuntarily.

  “Then came the other one…” Her voice broke. “Tall, scarred… laughing as he watched. He said something about ‘finally, a worthy revenge’…”

  Orpheus stiffened visibly at the description. Ygon.

  “I was down here,” she continued, gesturing weakly to the basement. “I hid… I heard the screams… then chanting… then… nothing. Nothing for hours.”

  A heavy silence fell over the group as they absorbed Talia’s account. The Boy, who had been quietly observing from the stairs, finally spoke:

  “The circle is almost complete.”

  Everyone turned to him, surprised by the calm in his voice.

  “What do you mean?” K asked.

  But the Boy only looked at Zack, his eyes conveying something words could not.

  They climbed from the cellar to discuss their next move, leaving Talia wrapped in a blanket K had found behind the counter.

  “We need to see what’s happening in the square,” Zack said quietly. “Understand what Milos is doing before we act.”

  “I agree,” Orpheus nodded. “If it’s what I suspect, rushing in unprepared would be suicide.”

  “And what about her?” K gestured subtly toward Talia.

  “We can leave her here,” Orpheus suggested. “Hidden. She’s survived so far.”

  As if she had heard them—and maybe she had—Talia suddenly stood, her eyes wide with panic.

  “Don’t leave me!” she pleaded, clutching K’s arm. “Please… I’d rather die out there with you than alone in the dark…”

  Zack studied her for a long moment. The terror in her eyes was genuine, but there was something else—determination born of despair.

  “She comes with us,” he said at last.

  “Zack, she’ll slow us—” Orpheus began.

  “No one gets left behind,” Zack cut him off, his tone allowing no argument. “No one.”

  Orpheus held his gaze for a moment, then nodded in silent agreement.

  Zack quickly outlined a plan. He knew the Lower District better than most—its alleys, secret paths, and interconnected rooftops. They would use the high routes, approaching the central square from above, where they could observe without being easily detected.

  The climb was difficult, especially for Talia, who was weak and trembling. K stayed by her side, offering physical support and words of encouragement. The Boy moved with surprising agility, almost as if he instinctively knew the way.

  As they drew closer to the square, something strange began to happen. The air grew heavier, filled with a metallic scent that reminded them of blood, but also something older and deeper—like freshly dug earth and decaying flesh. The shadows in the alleys below seemed to move independently of their sources, at times reaching out with elongated, dark fingers.

  A low, almost subliminal humming began to press against their ears. Talia clutched hers in silent agony, her face contorted with pain. Even Orpheus, usually stoic, looked uncomfortable.

  Zack felt the Black Moon vibrating in its sheath, as if it were responding to the energy in the air. It was a familiar, unsettling sensation—the blade was… hungry.

  The sky above the square had taken on a strange color, as if the very light was being bent around something that should not exist in this plane of reality.

  The Boy seemed unnaturally drawn to it all, his eyes fixed on the square with unsettling intensity. More than once, Zack had to call him back when he strayed too far ahead, as though pulled by some invisible force.

  They were crossing a narrow walkway between two rooftops when Orpheus raised his hand in a warning signal. Below, a hooded sentry was moving slowly, his head shifting from side to side as if sniffing the air.

  Everyone froze. The Boy, halfway across the walkway, almost slipped on a loose tile. Zack grabbed him by the collar just in time, pulling him to safety with a silent motion.

  The sentry stopped. His hooded head slowly lifted, looking directly upward. For one terrible moment, Zack was sure they had been spotted. But then, after what felt like an eternity, the figure moved on, disappearing around a corner.

  Held breaths were finally released.

  “That was close,” K whispered.

  They proceeded with doubled caution until they reached their destination—an abandoned bell tower that offered a perfect view of the central square. Zack was the first to take position in the arched opening, his body tense as a drawn bowstring.

  What he saw made his blood run cold.

  The central square of the Lower District, normally a lively place of trade and social gatherings, had been transformed into something out of the darkest nightmares. A massive ritual circle covered the entire space, its complex symbols shifting subtly when looked at directly, as though existing partially in another dimension.

  Within the circle, hundreds of bodies were arranged in precise geometric patterns—lines, spirals, macabre constellations of human flesh. Some were clearly dead, their faces frozen in final terror. Others, more disturbingly, seemed to breathe faintly, their eyes open but empty, as if their souls had been torn out, leaving only hollow shells.

  At the exact center of the square, a column of dark energy rose as high as three men, pulsing like a diseased heart. Occasionally, arcs of black energy leapt from the column, connecting with different bodies in the circle, making them convulse briefly before falling still again.

  And moving methodically among the bodies was Milos. His pale, angular face was focused, almost reverent, as he took notes in an ancient book. From time to time, he knelt to adjust the position of an arm or leg, ensuring perfect alignment with the larger pattern.

  Hooded assistants stood at specific points around the circle, their hands raised as if maintaining some kind of barrier or field of energy.

  Talia stifled a scream at the sight. K quickly covered her mouth, pulling her back from the opening.

  The Boy watched with a disturbing fascination, his eyes reflecting the pulsing dark energy below.

  “The Seventh Configuration,” murmured Orpheus, genuine horror in his voice making Zack turn away from the square to stare at him.

  “You know what this is?”

  “Only… legends,” Orpheus said tensely. “A forbidden ritual even among the profane. It’s not just about draining life energy… it’s reconstruction. He’s… building something.”

  Zack turned his attention back to the square, cold fury rising within him as his hand gripped the hilt of the Black Moon so tightly his fingers hurt.

  Then he saw it—a familiar figure among the arranged bodies. Placed in a prominent position near the center, his body forming part of a greater symbol, was Alf. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, his eyes open but vacant, fixed on the warped sky above.

  “Alf…” The name escaped Zack’s lips like a prayer.

  And then, as if the situation couldn’t grow worse, Zack noticed another presence. At an elevated spot on the edge of the square, sitting casually on a fallen statue, was a tall man with visible scars across his face and arms. He watched the proceedings with a chilling smile, occasionally sipping from a bottle.

  Ygon.

  Zack felt something break inside him. Without thinking, he started to move, ready to throw himself into the chaos below.

  Orpheus’s hand gripped his arm with surprising strength.

  “Not now,” he whispered urgently. “Look at what he’s doing. This isn’t just a draining ritual. He’s… building something.”

  “What can we do?” K asked, tension in her voice. “There are too many of them…”

  “He’s almost done,” the Boy said, his voice unnervingly calm. “The circle will close when the moon reaches its zenith.”

  They all turned to him, surprised not just by his knowledge, but by the certainty in his tone.

  Before anyone could question him, something unsettling happened. Milos, still in the center of the square, suddenly stopped his work. His body froze completely for a moment, like a statue. Then, slowly, his head turned, looking directly at the bell tower where they were hiding.

  Even from a distance, Zack could see the smile forming on Milos’s pale face—a smile that never touched his empty eyes. He raised a hand and made a casual gesture to two of his assistants, who immediately began moving toward the group.

  “He knows we’re here,” K whispered.

  The time for observation was over. The time for action had come.