ProlixalParagon’s fur prickled at the steady scrape-drag of something heavy moving through the south passage. The sound was slow, deliberate — no frenzied predator, but something old, something patient.
His fingers tightened around the hilt of his dagger.
Kaelthari held her bardiche close, the gleaming blackened blade catching firelight. The chains and charms strung between her curled markhor horns quivered with a faint, anxious jingle. Ralyria’s spear was already leveled, her pale, artificial eyes tracking the dark with eerie precision.
Marx crouched lower, twin carving knives gleaming with a faint ember flicker at the edges — not from any core, but from the Ember Reaver’s own dangerous draw on life and flame.
And then the thing came.
A crude, humanoid form, cobbled together from jagged stone, moss-slick bone, and tangled mats of vine. Its face was little more than a cracked skull mask, twin hollow sockets glowing with a sickly, blue-green mana light. Its every movement left behind streaks of damp rot, the scent of old earth and fungal decay thick in its wake.
A mana-forged warden. ProlixalParagon’s stomach knotted.
The creature raised a moss-clad arm, and in that instant, PillowHorror moved.
The Quang’s tall, elegant form shifted like a ripple in water, silver and ebony robes whispering around him. His tail flicked, gills flexing with a sharp intake of the chamber’s heavy air. With a flick of his wrist, a chakram — a broad, metal ring engraved with swirling water and wind sigils — slipped into his grasp.
A low, menacing purr curled from PillowHorror’s throat. “I was hoping for a challenge.”
Before anyone else could strike, the Quang lunged, the chakram singing through the air in a wide, arcing throw. The weapon cleaved clean through a section of vine-bound torso, severing it with a hiss of displaced mana as water-infused magic followed in its wake. The chakram whipped back toward PillowHorror’s waiting hand with a flash of spinning metal.
The mana-beast shuddered, but barely slowed.
Ralyria darted in next, spear stabbing toward a knotted cluster of lichen near its hip. The blow struck deep, blue-green light spilling out in a quick burst. She twisted the spear free, her voice steady this time. “It… bleeds.”
Kaelthari’s voice was a quiet breath. “Now.”
ProlixalParagon rushed forward, dagger striking at an exposed vine tether near the creature’s knee. The cut severed a key length, and the beast staggered. Marx was already moving, flames licking along the edge of one knife as he buried it into the monster’s side. The burst of fire consumed old moss and brittle vines, filling the air with a foul, acrid reek.
The warden howled, a sound like stone grinding against stone.
PillowHorror grinned, rows of predatory teeth gleaming in the shifting light. “Not done yet.”
He spun the chakram in one hand, then dismissed it mid-motion with a flick of mana, stepping in bare-handed. His movements were liquid grace — his fists driving in with sharp, precise strikes enhanced by gusts of wind magic, each blow sending shockwaves rippling through the creature’s form. Water magic clung to his skin, mist curling from his knuckles with every impact, seeping into the stone and vine, weakening it.
A heavy backhand from the beast came toward him — PillowHorror slid beneath it, tail flicking as he surged upward with an elbow strike that cracked stone.
Kaelthari followed, a brutal overhead swing cleaving deep into the beast’s shoulder, her bardiche tearing free with a spray of mana mist.
ProlixalParagon felt the pulse of ley-lines in the stone floor now, the chamber’s dormant power reacting to the violence. The room trembled faintly.
“Ralyria — the core!”
Ralyria pivoted, spear flashing out, plunging into the blue-green glow at the creature’s chest. Mana flared, pulsing out like a breath — then collapsed.
The beast crumbled, stone and bone clattering to the floor, the chamber falling silent but for the lingering echo of clashing weapons and labored breath.
Dust settled.
PillowHorror flexed his knuckles, letting the residual mist of his magic fade. “Well,” he said with a pleased, low chuckle. “I knew this place wasn’t abandoned.”
ProlixalParagon met the Quang’s sharp, amused gaze. “Not what we expected to find down here.”
PillowHorror’s tail flicked again, releasing a subtle spice-like scent into the air. “In places like this, it rarely is.”
Somewhere deeper in the earth, the stone trembled once more — and the ruin held its breath.
The silence that followed the mana-beast’s collapse was thick and unkind.
The stink of scorched moss and old bone lingered in the damp air. Every breath tasted of earth, wet stone, and something older — a heavy, metallic tang ProlixalParagon couldn’t quite place. The ley-lines beneath the floor still hummed faintly, disturbed by the violence.
PillowHorror stood at ease amid the ruin, the faint sheen of mist curling around his scaled form. His chakram hung idle at his side, robes of silver and black flowing softly with every idle flick of his tail. The Quang’s sharp-toothed grin remained, a predator’s smile more than a greeting.
Arelis spoke first, his voice thin but clearer now, some of the brittle desperation burning through his fear.
“I… came here to prove myself,” he said, eyes flicking to the strange, foreign sigil on the pedestal and back to the Quang. “To face the trials, survive the depths, and… earn my place as a paladin of Lidos.”
At the name, PillowHorror’s grin tightened — not in fear, but amusement. A low, rolling sound escaped his throat, a kind of purring chuckle.
“How quaint,” the Quang murmured. “Still clinging to the mountain’s shadow.”
ProlixalParagon frowned. His grip on his dagger loosened, though not by much. “You said something back there. About honoring what came before. What’s that supposed to mean?”
PillowHorror’s gleaming yellow eyes fixed on him, the weight in that gaze a little heavier than a casual reply warranted.
“I am here,” the Quang Consul said softly, “to clear what was stolen. This ruin — this so-called temple — was not built for your sun-crowned mountain god. It belonged to another. A god older than your pantheon’s petty thrones.”
His voice, low and liquid, sent a faint chill down ProlixalParagon’s spine.
“The god’s name is Dedisco.”
The name meant nothing to him. No recognition sparked. Not even a half-remembered quest hook. Just a cold, unfamiliar weight in the air after it was spoken.
ProlixalParagon blinked. “Who?”
PillowHorror’s grin only widened. “Forgotten by most. Forbidden by the rest. Locked away when the world was young and inconvenient truths didn’t suit your gods’ new order.”
The claim rolled uncomfortably through the room, even if it landed on empty soil in ProlixalParagon’s mind.
Arelis, however, had paled again — though this time it wasn’t from fear of the creature they'd fought.
He hesitated. Then, voice low and desperate:
“If… if I cleared the trials down here… faced the dungeon and survived… would it matter whose temple it was? Could I… still become a paladin? Even if it wasn’t to Lidos?”
The question hung there, fragile and aching.
Kaelthari’s gaze dropped to the floor. Ralyria’s grip tightened on her spear. Even Marx, for all his bluntness, didn’t crack a joke.
PillowHorror stepped closer, the scent of earth and cold spice curling from his tail glands.
“That,” the Quang purred, “depends on whose eyes are watching when you finish. The mountain god won’t claim you. Not here, not ever. But there are… others… who welcome the lost. The forsaken. The ones left behind by their kind.”
Arelis’s throat worked in a tight swallow.
ProlixalParagon wanted to step in — to tell the elf not to throw himself on a promise made by someone like this, in a place like this. But what did he have to offer? What path? What sanctuary?
None.
The elf’s question hung unanswered in the cold air.
And somewhere deeper in the ruin, the stones trembled again — as if the world itself waited to see what choice would be made.
The stink of scorched moss and old rot still clung to the chamber, the silence afterward thick enough to press against their skin. ProlixalParagon’s ears twitched in the hush, catching only the distant, patient drip of water and the low hum of ley-lines beneath the floor.
Arelis stared at the fallen guardian’s remains, his sword trembling in his grip. But it wasn’t fear anymore. The brittle sharpness in his face had settled into something colder.
“The temples,” Arelis murmured, voice raw but steady, “the gods… they’ve all turned their backs on me. Lidos… the others. Left me to rot.”
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No one answered. Even Marx said nothing, though the fire-dampened gleam in his knives spoke volumes.
Arelis laughed — a small, bitter sound in the hollow dark. “So why not serve one they fear? If… if Dedisco would have me, why not?”
ProlixalParagon’s gut twisted. The name was nothing to him. No quest text. No tutorial mention. But the weight of it hung thick in the air.
PillowHorror’s voice was a low, purring thread of sound.
“A wise truth, elf,” the Quang murmured. “Your so-called gods built their thrones on the bones of the defiant. They erased what challenged them — buried the old names, but the earth remembers. The ley-lines remember. And so do we.”
His yellow eyes gleamed in the flickering light as they turned toward the south passage.
“This was not Lidos’ house. It was built for Dedisco — the Pale Tide, the Eclipsed One.” The titles rolled off his tongue like old poetry. “The god of balance. Destruction and rebirth. The wheel that breaks and builds. Your pantheon called him ruin and locked him away, fearing what his truth would cost them.”
Kaelthari shivered, her tail flicking, charms on her horns chiming softly in protest.
PillowHorror pressed on, the scent of storm-wet stone and sharp minerals curling faintly from his glands.
“Most who call to him find their gifts in Infernal or Shadow,” he said, voice thick with a reverent, unsettling satisfaction. “But Dedisco is not so limited. He grants Fire for those who would burn it all down, Water for the inevitable tide, and Blood for those willing to give of themselves to see the world remade.”
ProlixalParagon’s skin prickled. The idea of one god wielding so many affinities — and none of them gentle — made his stomach knot.
He kept his voice low as they began moving deeper into the southward passage, the ancient stone damp underfoot.
“And what’s your part in this, PillowHorror?” he asked. “Why are you here?”
The Quang’s smile returned, the gleam of sharp teeth catching the dim light.
“I’ve come to reclaim a place stolen by cowards,” PillowHorror said softly. “This temple was defiled by Lidos’ followers — desecrated, their sun crowned over a forgotten altar. Then abandoned when the earth turned against them. Now it rots, crawling with things they left behind.”
His chakram spun lazily in one hand as he walked. “I mean to clear it. To wake what still sleeps below.”
Arelis’s voice came again, hoarse, fragile. “If I clear the trials… if I survive this place… even if it’s not for Lidos… would Dedisco claim me? Would I be… paladin enough for him?”
PillowHorror’s head turned slightly, tail flicking in an unreadable gesture.
“That depends,” the Quang murmured. “On whether you’re willing to let go of the world that cast you out.”
They pressed on in silence after that, the passage sloping down, torchlight struggling against a gloom that felt thicker than mere dark. The ley-lines thrummed beneath them — old, slow things remembering.
And the Pale Tide waited.
The passage narrowed as it sloped downward, the walls close and damp with slick patches of moss and weeping cracks. Every step sounded too loud in the close air — boot leather scuffing stone, a soft jingle of Kaelthari’s charms, the occasional faint scrape of Ralyria’s spear haft against the ancient walls.
The ley-lines thrummed faintly underfoot, stronger here. ProlixalParagon could feel them — a low, steady pulse in his bones, a strange pressure behind his eyes like some vast, sleeping thing slowly turning beneath the earth.
Then the passage opened.
The new chamber spread wide and round, a hollowed vault held by ancient pillars half-swallowed by creeping roots and hanging curtains of withered moss. The air here was thick with dust and old, cold stone. Strange sigils ringed the walls — neither the sun-crowns of Lidos nor the unfamiliar spiral of Dedisco’s mark, but something older still, etched so deep in the stone that they seemed more fossil than carving.
At the far end of the chamber, a crumbling stone altar hunched beneath the leering faces of long-eroded statues. Pools of standing water ringed the floor, disturbed only by their arrival. The heavy silence was a thing alive.
ProlixalParagon’s gaze swept the room, instinct searching for threat. But it wasn’t a foe that caught his eye — it was something far rarer.
Tucked in the far corner, half-swallowed by fallen masonry and overgrown roots, was a low, heavy table. Wood, scorched by time and warped from centuries of damp, but unmistakable in its design. Ornate brass fittings clung stubbornly to its sides, and a heavy iron clamp still hung from one end. The faint shimmer of old, dormant glyphwork ghosted across its surface.
One of the Lost Workbenches.
His breath hitched.
It wasn’t labeled, no marker or quest prompt blinking over it — but his blood knew it, his hands knew it. It even bore the same crescent-moon insignia hammered into the brass — the mark of the Master Tinkerer’s Circle.
His quest.
His workbenches.
ProlixalParagon stepped toward it, his pulse hammering louder than the hum of ley-lines. Dust clouded the air with each cautious footfall.
“Paragon?” Ralyria called softly behind him, noting his sharp turn and focus.
“It’s… it’s one of mine,” he murmured, his voice rough, almost disbelieving.
PillowHorror’s gaze followed his, though the Quang’s expression remained a shadowed smirk. “So even the scraps of your kind’s discarded histories find their way here,” he mused, voice like silk on wet stone. “Curious.”
Arelis, visibly weary, leaned on his sword. “A workbench? What does it matter?”
ProlixalParagon didn’t answer. Not yet.
He approached the ancient table, brushing aside moss and debris with careful hands. The old glyphs sparked faintly at his touch, mana reacting to his presence — a half-dead ember reigniting.
The system prompt blinked faintly in his periphery.
ProlixalParagon let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
He wasn’t supposed to be here. Wasn’t supposed to have found this. But here it was, sunk into a temple no one was meant to walk, buried beneath gods too old and dangerous for polite history.
He ran a hand over the warped wood, feeling the faint resonance of ancient craft beneath the rot. His workbench. His path.
And somewhere beneath it all — the ley-lines stirred again, growing warmer.
Behind him, the others waited, weapons still drawn.
And ahead, the ruin remained dark and watchful.
ProlixalParagon’s fingers ghosted over the surface of the ancient workbench, brushing aside clumps of brittle moss and crusted grime. The old wood groaned faintly beneath his touch, the faintest shimmer of residual mana rippling across the brass fittings.
Up close, he could see it clearer now — the faint outline of etched runes along the table’s rim, a loop of sigils wrapping around the lip of the work surface. Half-faded, half-buried beneath corrosion and time, but enough remained to stir old study notes in his head.
Tinkerer’s Cipher Line.
A security measure. A puzzle-lock.
The mechanism to unlock it wouldn’t be a brute force thing. It would require understanding the sequence of glyph alignments, like a combination lock forged from arcane logic. And he could tell, by the soot-blacked patterns and scorch marks on the brass, that some fool in the past had tried to force it open — and paid the price.
He swallowed and knelt beside it.
“Paragon,” Marx called, keeping his voice low, one hand never leaving the hilt of his knife, “is this the time?”
ProlixalParagon didn’t look up. “It’s the time if it keeps us alive later.”
His thumb traced the sequence. Six sigils. Four slots. Two rotations. He recognized the old logic. No keys — just mana-sensitive glyphs that needed to be touched in the correct order.
Ralyria shifted, standing a few paces off, her spear in hand. “Movement… west passage. Faint.”
The ley-lines hummed a little louder.
“Just a minute,” ProlixalParagon murmured.
He braced his palm against the table’s center rune — a warped crescent shape, the Master Tinker’s mark — and felt a thin pulse of recognition thrum beneath his skin. The old mechanism flickered, and a set of four brass-dented glyph tiles rose from the table’s surface, each bearing a faded symbol.
He remembered this.
Earth. Spark. Breath. Coil.
They needed to be pressed in a sequence that mirrored the build-order of a core-drive device — earth to anchor, spark to ignite, breath to temper, coil to contain.
ProlixalParagon flexed his fingers, then pressed Earth.
A soft click.
Spark.
Another, sharper click, the glyph briefly lighting with dull amber light.
Breath.
A tremor passed through the table.
He hesitated, breath catching. The last tile was Coil — but which direction to turn it? Left would bleed mana. Right would bind it.
He closed his eyes, remembering an old scholar’s note: “A coil always tightens against its own flow.”
He turned it left.
The table shuddered, the runes flaring with sudden brightness.
There was a soft hiss, and a hidden panel along the workbench’s underside slid open with a reluctant scrape, revealing a long, narrow compartment lined with tarnished copper.
Inside, swaddled in brittle oilcloth and dust, lay a narrow blueprint scroll bound in a brass case, the insignia of the Master Tinker’s Circle stamped into its cap.
ProlixalParagon exhaled sharply, the tension in his shoulders bleeding away for a breath.
“Got it,” he whispered.
Kaelthari edged closer, wary eyes scanning the gloom. “We… need to move.”
Behind them, the west passage gave a deep, guttural groan — not of earth, but of something vast shifting in the dark.
PillowHorror’s grin widened. “The ruin doesn’t like being robbed.”
ProlixalParagon tucked the blueprint case into his satchel, latching it tight. Whatever was coming, they couldn’t linger here.
He rose, flicking one last glance at the workbench — and then back to the yawning passage ahead.
“Let’s go.”
And together, they pressed on — deeper into the ruin’s waiting throat.
The west passage groaned again — not the natural moan of shifting stone, but something deeper. Heavier. A low, grinding sound, as if old bones and broken weapons scraped against one another in a slow, deliberate drag.
ProlixalParagon’s fur bristled.
Kaelthari’s charms rattled, her grip tightening on her bardiche. Ralyria took a half-step forward, spear leveled, her pale gaze narrowing.
Marx cursed under his breath, heat already flickering at the edge of his fingers.
PillowHorror’s smile, maddeningly, only grew. His tail twitched once — a social cue ProlixalParagon couldn’t place but that carried the scent of dark anticipation.
Then it appeared.
A figure emerged from the gloom — tall, its proportions wrong. Not a MOB of flesh or simple construct of stone, but something in-between. It moved with a jerky, sinew-tight shamble, its body formed from broken armor, shattered bone, and coiling, black-veined roots bound together by shimmering strands of blue-green mana. Bleached skulls clung to its form like grotesque ornaments, eye sockets burning with ghost-light.
Where its chest should’ve been, a sunken hollow swirled with faint, misty flame — a flickering shade of corrupted ley-line energy.
And behind it… came more.
Half-seen shapes in the gloom — figures of patchwork bone and vine, mana-forged beasts loping on twisted limbs, some bearing weapons of rusted iron half-fused to their flesh.
Arelis made a choking sound in his throat.
“What… are those?” he whispered.
PillowHorror’s voice was a smooth, low purr.
“Remnants. What’s left of Lidos’ faithful when their god turned his face away and left them to rot in the dark.”
The first of the things stepped fully into the chamber, water pooling around its half-rotted feet. It raised a rust-pitted axe forged from fused bone and metal, and the sunken hollows of its skull-face burned brighter.
ProlixalParagon didn’t hesitate.
“Form up!” he barked.
Kaelthari and Ralyria moved at once, weapons raised. Marx flared flame from his fingertips, knives glinting.
PillowHorror’s chakram spun lazily into his hand, the edge catching the faint blue-green light of the ley-lines.
“I would run now,” the Quang murmured, voice a velvet coil. “But this seems far too fun.”
The things let out a hollow, echoing wail — a sound like wind howling through the ribs of a dead leviathan.
And then they charged.
ProlixalParagon’s dagger came up, his pulse pounding, ancient blueprint still warm in his pack, the ley-lines alive with old hunger.
And the chamber erupted into chaos.