The fog had teeth. Now, so did Malachai.

  He stood in the skeletal ruins of what had once been a community center—now a nest of roots, bone, and black ichor. The walls trembled with wet breath. All around him, the air rippled with whispers.

  Something had moved into the fog.

  Something old.

  He felt it before he saw it. The shadows deepened. The Veil on his back constricted, pulling against his spine like a chain trying to flee.

  It stepped into view.

  A Pontianak, twisted by the Gate’s corruption. Once a spirit of vengeance, now bloated with mana sickness. Long black hair covered its body like rot-tar. Its face was split open, revealing jagged, writhing teeth across both cheeks. Her belly hung open, empty—a bleeding womb. Her eyes were hollow tunnels of void.

  She floated. Then shrieked.

  The cry shattered glass and ruptured blood vessels in Malachai’s nose.

  He stumbled, clutching his head.

  She rushed him.

  Dread Pulse (Tier III) barely slowed her. She broke through the hallucinations like they were fog. Her claws ripped across his shoulder, opening skin to the bone.

  He rolled.

  Pain flared, but he moved on instinct.

  This was the time.

  He whispered the command.

  “Womb of the Slain: Release.”

  The fog split.

  And they emerged.

  The Wicker Nun, altered. Taller now. Her wires had become bleeding chains. Her mouth—no longer a void, but a thousand tiny mouths screaming in disharmony. Her rusted nails had turned to curved hooks, glowing with faint blood-runes.

  The Shrike-Thing, too, had changed. No longer cloaked in faces—now clad in a shroud of flayed memories, images twitching across its skin. Its fingers were claws of bone-glass. Its eyes burned like lanterns lost at sea.

  They fell upon the Pontianak.

  The Nun struck first, chain-hooks dragging across the ghost-woman’s midsection. Sparks of magic and bone flew. The Pontianak wailed, batting her away.

  Shrike-Thing blurred forward, faster than before. It bit with its belly-mouth, tearing flesh from her thigh.

  She screamed.

  Malachai joined the fray.

  Crimson Hookstep flared as he dashed under her floating form. He slashed upward, rending open her spine. Black blood sprayed across his face.

  She flipped, caught him by the throat, and slammed him into a crumbling wall.

  His vision blurred.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  The Wicker Nun wrapped a chain around the Pontianak’s neck and yanked, strangling the airless beast with raw hate.

  Birthing Cry.

  A wave of Graveborn energy burst from Malachai. It disoriented her. For a moment—just a second—she faltered.

  The Shrike-Thing leapt.

  And ripped out her eyes.

  She convulsed. Screamed. Flashed with sick light.

  Then collapsed.

  Dead.

  The fog swallowed her body.

  Only a crystal and her hollow laughter remained.

  ? Mana Crystals Gained (4) Trait Fragment Acquired: Pontianak (1) New Skill Unlocked: Grievous Wail

  Unleash a piercing scream that damages all enemies and weakens spiritual defenses. Chance to stagger supernatural foes.

  Malachai panted.

  Bleeding. Grinning.

  Then it arrived.

  The fog sank.

  Something stepped through it.

  A Faceless Bishop.

  Eight feet tall. Robes of withered skin and burned scripture hung from its skeletal frame. Bells jangled from chains looped through its ribs, each toll producing no sound—only absence. Where its face should be, there was only a smooth plate of polished obsidian, endless and mirror-like

  But the reflection was wrong.

  It didn’t show Malachai.

  It showed him flayed. Crying. Begging. It showed every death he had yet to suffer, in perfect, vivid agony.

  It carried a staff crafted from a child’s spine, topped with a rusted jawbone wax-drenched in black flame. From beneath its robes slithered skeletal fingers stitched with tongues. They dragged along the ground, whispering scriptures in dead dialects.

  It didn’t speak aloud.

  It invaded his mind.

  “So this... is the Reaper. The one who stirs the scent of forgotten graves.”

  Malachai tried to move.

  Tried to speak.

  The Bishop glided forward.

  Faster than breath.

  It struck.

  A wave of null-space collapsed over his chest. Bones imploded. His lungs crushed. He tasted death in the back of his throat.

  He dropped.

  Coughing. Shaking.

  The Bishop loomed over him, the mirrored face inches from his own.

  Malachai saw his reflection again—this time crawling in a pit of dead Graveborn, reaching for help that would never come.

  “You are not worthy yet.”

  Its voice rotted his thoughts.

  “You were watched because your soul touched the Wombgate and did not scream. Few mortal breeds birth death and walk with it. My master sent me to see if you were one of the lost lines... but you are not. Not yet.”

  “My master does not waste his gaze on larvae.”

  Then it was gone.

  The fog peeled back.

  The air returned.

  The Veil whimpered.

  Malachai lay in the dirt.

  Broken.

  Breathing.

  And alive.

  But now he knew.

  Something far worse than the Bishop had looked his way.

  He didn’t know why.

  Didn’t know how.

  But he could feel it now—a gaze, ancient and cold, resting just beyond the veil of the world.

  Malachai didn’t know what had just happened.

  But if creatures more powerful than the Bishop existed... and they were interested in him?

  He would have to tread carefully.

  Because the next thing that came to find him...

  would not leave him breathing.