Chapter 32: The First Core
The Rift-Veiled Labyrinth swallowed light as Kael pressed deeper, every step echoing against obsidian stone warped by riftlight. Jagged spires clawed upward into shadow, like the fossilized bones of some long-dead titan. Black stone twisted in coils, hollowed by time and cursed breath—veins of violet shimmer laced through them, pulsing softly, like wounds that refused to heal. The threads of shadow magic slithered through the cracks, moving as if aware, coiling like vipers.
Kael moved with purpose, each bootstep crunching over black ash—the remains of the Thread-Wolves' fall. Their final howls still echoed in his ears, their rift-flame leaving scorch marks not only on the stone but on the edge of his cloak, the memory etched into the fibers. Blood crusted along his forearm, stiffened where it had dried across his cheek. His runes, those intricate symbols carved into flesh and fate, glowed a dull blue now, drained after wielding Fate's Requiem.
Still, the Tyrant's whisper came, sharper this time.
"Now…"
Not a command. A lure. A thread. Tugging.
Kael followed it. Alone. No Gavyn to brace his flanks with spear in hand. No Maraen to throw her locket into the fray with divine precision. No Lysa's calming laugh, her coin quiet in his pocket. Just Kael—dagger drawn, a hunter cast into a city alive with hunger and malice.
The air thickened as he advanced. Rift-ash floated in dense clouds, biting his lungs with every breath, coating his tongue in metallic dust. The hum of the rift deepened, vibrating through his bones. The spires parted into a vast plaza, ruins of arches half-swallowed by the void. At its heart, the rift-core awaited—a jagged crystal the size of a cart, its pulsing violet light casting twitching shadows.
The threads coiled around it like a hurricane frozen mid-spin.
Kael's runes flared, the symbols syncing—pulsing—to the rhythm of the core. The voice returned.
"First cut…"
Kael's fingers grazed his pack. The coin Lysa gave him shifted softly—light as breath. He gritted his teeth. That weight felt heavier now. In the void of silence and ash, the absence of his team echoed loudest.
Something moved. But it wasn't like before—not a beast or stalker or scout. This shadow walked like a man.
It stepped from the rift's edge.
A humanoid figure, tall and gaunt, cloaked in robes stitched with shadow-thread, the black and violet of the Tyrant's own sigils shimmering across its back. Its face was a broken mask of gray stone, fissures bleeding violet fire. Its eyes were hollow caverns, twin voids of flickering flame. It bore a staff—long, rune-etched, the core of it coiling with live threads.
A corrupted Weaver.
No… worse. A Cleric—an Ashen Cleric.
Gifted-tier, Kael thought. No… more. Near-Initiate. This thing had once been human—Weaver-trained, perhaps even devout.
Now, it served the Rift.
Its voice rasped like wind through the bones of the dead.
"Kael… Unshackled…" It raised its staff. "Cleanse…"
The Tyrant's whisper braided into its chant, a silk thread through decayed cloth.
Kael tightened his grip on the dagger, its runes igniting with pale fire.
"Human once," he muttered, lowering into a fighter's stance. "Not anymore."
The Cleric moved.
Rift-Flame Surge!
Violet fire screamed forward in a tidal wave, fifteen meters wide. It melted stone as it came, turning the earth to slag.
"Damn it!" Kael hissed. Thread Step: Phantom Blitz!
Threads snapped, his form flickering—first left, then right, then again—becoming a blur of motion as teleportation chained. He barely escaped. The fire roared past, heat lashing his back, cloak edges curling in the inferno's wake.
"Too wide," he grunted, landing hard, rolling behind a shattered column. His dagger rose—runed light flickered.
Thread Dance: Tempest Cascade!
A dozen luminous strands lashed out, spinning in a furious storm around him. They whistled through the air and struck the Cleric—slicing through robe, flesh, shadow. The creature hissed—its voice a static howl of rage and memory.
The Cleric retaliated—its staff spun, igniting again.
Shadow-Thread Barrage!
Dozens of thickened violet spears burst from its staff—faster and heavier than the Thread-Wolves' claws. They tore through stone, through columns. One missed Kael's ear by inches.
"Stronger than I thought…" Kael braced.
Thread Wall: Reflecting Tempest!
A swirling disk of thread-blades shot out in a barrier. Half the barrage slammed into it—rebounding in gleaming arcs. A few found their mark. One pierced the Cleric's arm, tearing robes, exposing cracked stone-bone beneath.
"Back off!" Kael growled, but others broke through—one slicing his shoulder open. Blood spattered the stone.
He staggered.
The Cleric raised its staff high—twisting.
Rift-Ash Vortex!
A spiraling storm of black ash and violet light exploded outward, pulling everything inward. Air vanished. Light died. The whole world seemed to scream.
Kael's eyes burned. His limbs slowed.
"Too strong…"
But his runes pulsed.
Rune Reset: Blink Strike!
Five seconds rewound. Time snapped backward. He reappeared behind the vortex's birth, untouched.
He leapt high.
Thread Step: Sky Fang!
Threads wrapped around him like wings, launching him upward—he flipped midair, dagger spinning in his hand.
"Need more…" he muttered, heart racing.
The vortex roared below like a draining void, pulling at his boots, his thoughts.
Phantom Thread: Rift Dash!
Kael surged—light bursting behind him, threads snapping with the force of the motion. Twenty meters closed in an instant—he landed behind the Cleric, dagger flashing.
Thread Dance: Razor Weave!
Glowing threads carved arcs across the Cleric's back. It staggered. Shadow bled from the wounds, spraying oily mist into the air. The core inside its chest pulsed faster.
But the Cleric turned—its staff flared.
Rift-Flame Chains!
Ten meters of burning thread lashed out like whips. They coiled, twisting to trap.
"Trap me?" Kael spat.
Rift Dash!
He vanished again, dashing through the chains—threads slicing its arm mid-move. One chain grazed his leg—searing pain erupted. Flesh bubbled.
"Damn it!" He dropped low, swept his hand forward—
Nightmare Lash!
Spectral threads erupted, wrapping around the Cleric's head. They tightened, draining thought, draining will. The chant faltered.
"Break."
But the Cleric screamed.
Shadow-Thread Barrage! again—wider, faster, raining threads like a violet storm.
Kael spun.
Reflecting Tempest!
The barrier caught the worst of it. Shards exploded from both strikes—some buried in the Cleric's chest, its mask cracking. Others pierced Kael's side.
He stumbled.
"Gifted-tier, almost Initiate…" he whispered through gritted teeth, blood soaking his cloak.
Rune Pulse: Weaver's Wrath!
His runes exploded in power—pulses of pure light surging into his threads.
Tempest Cascade!
The storm of slashing threads doubled, then tripled, a hurricane of glowing death. It struck the Cleric full-on, tearing through robe and flesh and the stone of its mask.
Cracks split it open. Ash poured from the gaps.
The Cleric, reeling, roared once more.
Rift-Ash Vortex! returned—twice as powerful.
Kael knew it was the end—its last gambit. He could feel the Tyrant's threads inside the attack, woven tight.
Thread Ascension: Fate's Requiem!
Kael's blade vanished into light. His entire form burst outward—threads flaring upward, forming a twenty-meter spiral of thread-blades and light arcs that slashed into the storm.
The two forces met.
Light against ash. Thread against shadow.
The storm shattered. The Cleric screamed—its chest exploding in a burst of violet flame. Its staff cracked, falling to ash. The rift-core behind it dimmed, light fading.
Kael dropped to one knee, gasping for breath.
Ash settled slowly like black snow. Blood trickled down his side, his shoulder. His runes flickered, weakened. Fate's Requiem had drained him again. But the Cleric was gone.
"Stronger than Ashka…" he murmured, wiping blood from his lip. "Faster. Deadlier." He sheathed his dagger with trembling fingers.
He rose slowly, boots crunching bone-dust.
"Initiate's shadow," he said. "That's what it was. Just the shadow of what's ahead."
The Labyrinth stretched out before him—rifts pulsing further north. New shadows stirred in the distance.
"One down," Kael whispered. His hand twitched—Rift Dash's echo still humming in his blood.
He turned his eyes northward.
"Their threads grow darker…" he muttered, jaw tightening. The Tyrant's whisper returned, insistent.
"Now…"
He stood tall, lone figure in a grave of ash and riftlight.
A weaver against the rising storm.
And he walked on.