Niko reached for his sword and slid it into the worn loop on his belt. It felt heavier now—not because of its weight, but because of what it meant. He wasn't carrying it just to survive anymore.
He was carrying it to grow.
To change.
He stepped out into the dim corridor, the flickering lantern Iri had turned off now a distant hum behind him. The hall whispered with faint echoes of the House's breath. As he reached the ladder again, he spotted a faint glow etched into the wall—a rune of protection, shaped like an upward spiral, humming gently.
"Just for the jump, huh…" he muttered, cracking a small grin.
Without hesitation, Niko jumped. The rune activated in an instant—energy thrumming around his boots, cushioning his ascent. He passed each rung he'd once clawed up for fifteen painful minutes in mere seconds.
Landing with a soft thud, he kept running.
He was starting to get used to Iri's magic. The feel of it. The way it moved, timed, reacted.
The hallway loomed quiet, the battle long over, but the air still remembered. Burnt walls, fractured stones, a gash in the far ceiling that had barely begun to mend.
He turned sharply at the fork where Iri and Juno had faced off.
The corridor grew darker.
And colder.
But he didn't stop.
His boots echoed against the floor as he sprinted into the gloom. There—at the far end—a door stood slightly ajar, almost hidden in the shadows.
His fingers wrapped around the cold handle.
He pushed.
The hinges creaked open with a low groan, and light spilled out—not bright, but wide. Wider than anything before.
Before him stretched a new hallway—towering, vast, almost cathedral-like in size. The air shimmered faintly with power. Shadows danced across high stone arches and rune-scarred pillars. Faint footsteps echoed in the distance.
This wasn't just another hall.
This was something else.
Something bigger.
.
.
Niko stepped through the massive door—and froze.
The corridor beyond was nothing like the rest of the House. It stretched wide like a canyon of stone, but it buzzed with life. Dozens—no, hundreds—of people filled the space. Vendors called out prices from market stalls set against the walls. Tables were laid with fruits, gear, spices, and glowing trinkets. Lanterns floated in slow circles above, casting a warm, golden light. Voices mixed with laughter. A breeze passed through, impossibly gentle, as if this place belonged to another world entirely.
It didn't feel like the House.
Niko walked slowly, eyes darting between all the movement. Eventually, he stopped a tall man unloading crates near a cart filled with what looked like dried meat.
"Hey," Niko asked, still taking in the scene. "How do you guys even live here? This is the House, right?"
The man looked at him, a little surprised. "This isn't just the House, kid. We're near the entrance to the Pale Arc."
Niko blinked. "The… Pale Arc? What's that?"
The man chuckled, tossing a wrapped bundle into the cart. "It's a place layered under the House. Floors stacked on top of each other. We call them rings. Each one's different. And unlike the rest of this cursed place, the House doesn't control the Pale Arc. Not completely."
Niko looked around again, stunned. "So… it's safe?"
The man hesitated. "Parts of it, yeah. Like this one. But don't get too comfortable. Some of the rings down there… they're worse than anything the House throws at you. Not all of the Arc is peaceful. Some of it's wild. Unstable. Dangerous."
Niko glanced back toward the corridor he came from, then back to the life-filled hallway ahead.
He wasn't just in the House anymore.
He was at the edge of something much bigger….
Niko continued down the lively hall, his steps light, eyes scanning the strange and wonderful faces around him. Warriors in cloaks, hooded merchants whispering over runes, children playing with little glowing stones that shimmered in the air. It was like a city had bloomed inside the bones of the House.
He kept walking, deeper into the pulse of the market. Then something slowed him.
A tent—larger than the others, made from old, sun-faded cloth and stitched with unfamiliar symbols—sat quietly at the edge of the street. Unlike the other stalls, no one crowded around it. No noise came from inside. Just the low flicker of a lantern's flame dancing beneath the flap.
Curious, Niko approached.
Inside sat an old man, legs crossed on a thick mat of layered cloth. His hair was long, grey, and wild, cascading down his back and shoulders like a waterfall of ash. He wore no shirt, only a pair of baggy black pants that seemed worn from years of use. His body, though weathered, was solid—his frame carved with lean muscle, his skin marked with scars that told stories of war.
Niko stopped just outside, clearing his throat. "Uh… hello."
The old man opened one eye slowly, and it was as sharp as a blade. For a moment, they just stared at each other. Then the man gave a small nod and replied calmly, "Hello."
Something about the way he said it sent a chill down Niko's spine. That voice held strength. Not loud or proud—but deep, centered. Real.
Niko almost left then, assuming he'd interrupted the man's peace. But something tugged at him—curiosity, maybe, or instinct.
He turned back.
Stepping fully into the tent, Niko asked, "You're… strong, aren't you?"
The old man said nothing.
Niko's hand instinctively touched the hilt of his sword. "Would you spar with me?"
The tent grew quiet. The market's sounds outside faded, as if even the House paused to listen.
The old man's second eye opened.
He studied Niko, slowly. Not judging. Not impressed. Just… measuring.
Then he said, "If you're asking for pain, boy, you came to the right tent."
And he stood.