The air was thick—too thick.
That old cocktail of burnt copper and stale tonic hung in it like a ghost, clinging to the walls, soaking into the fabric of everything. Neon stirred in his hammock, the rough canvas creaking under his weight, suspended between two rusted beams with salvaged straps from decommissioned gliders. It swayed gently, just inches from the workshop's low ceiling.
Below him, chaos reigned: a battlefield of tools, scattered jars, ink-stained sigil papers, and half-finished constructs. It wasn't a room. It was a nest—part den, part lab, wholly his.
His eyes snapped open.
His breath caught.
The Battle of Bloodgate.
Even the thought of it struck like a blunt blade to the ribs.
The memory surged. Searing heat. Screaming voices. Steel and spells colliding in a storm of ash, ozone, and burning leather.
He could still smell it. Still hear it.
A tremor ran through his chest.
Then—
CLANG.
"Grah—!"
His skull smacked the ceiling pipe as he bolted upright, and stars burst behind his eyes. Gritting his teeth, he gripped the edge of the hammock, breathing hard as the memory slipped away like smoke between his fingers.
From below came the quiet rattle of a pot on metal. Something sizzled.
A familiar voice drifted up, low and dry as always—but now tinged with that unmistakable Highland rasp.
"Mornin'," Calder called out, not bothering to look up from the stove. "Or, well... good afternoon, if ye're bein' generous."
The smell hit him next—rich broth laced with garlic, boiled herbs, and something faintly alchemical. The scent scratched at his memory. Medicinal. Meant for recovery.
"Ye've been out cold, lad," Calder added, giving the pot a lazy stir with a bent ladle. The dented burner beneath it wheezed with mana sparks, patched together from spare runes and questionable wiring.
Neon blinked. His body answered before his mind caught up—dull aches in his spine, his ribs, behind his eyes.
Definitely not a dream.
Calder's voice dropped to a half-smirk. "Collapsed right after C.R.A.D.L.E showed up, ye did. Scared the ever-lovin' gears outta S.A.B.R.E., poor wee thing."
From somewhere in the corner, the faint chitter of metallic legs skittered across the floor, followed by a nervous whirr and a soft, worried beep.
---
Neon rubbed the back of his neck, fingers trailing over the tight knots along his spine. His muscles ached, stiff with sleep, the ghost of armor pressing down on his shoulders like a weight that hadn't quite let go.
"How long was I out?" he asked, voice rough—gravel dragged across rusted metal.
Calder didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he gave the soup another long stir, the warped ladle scraping the bottom of the dented pot in slow, deliberate circles. The sound echoed in the stillness, rhythmic and grounding.
Then he jerked his chin toward the narrow, grime-streaked window.
"Have a look yersel'."
Neon grunted and swung his legs over the side of the hammock. His boots landed with a muted thud onto a mess of parchment, loose bolts, and shattered glass tubing. He hissed through his teeth as he straightened, each movement tugging at bruises earned in battle. Stepping lightly over scattered cables, twisted alchemy coils, and a half-dismantled gearlock, he crossed the tight space to the window.
The glass was cracked, filmy with soot, but the scene beyond was clear enough.
The front of the workshop was still in ruins.
The wooden arch over the entrance had caved in completely. Charring licked up the walls, beams were split, and soot had swallowed the once-faded signage whole. Sunlight—amber and low—filtered through the wreckage in long slants, painting warped shadows over the muddy road outside. Mudgate's streets were unusually quiet, the usual bustle silenced by the aftermath.
A wind swept through the broken front, curling around him. It carried the acrid tang of old smoke and something worse—stale mana, the kind that left the air prickling against skin and teeth on edge.
Neon exhaled, slow.
It hadn't been a nightmare.
The attack had happened.
Behind him, Calder's voice broke the silence, low and even.
"Sun's nearly down. Ye were out a while."
Neon turned.
Calder stood at the tiny stove with a wooden bowl in hand, steam rising in soft coils. His long coat was singed at the edges, one sleeve rolled to the elbow. He gave the ladle a gentle tap against the rim of the cauldron, a habit more than anything, before offering the bowl forward.
A ghost of a smile touched his lips.
"Come on, then. Sit yersel' down. Eat."
His voice held no urgency. Just quiet insistence—something steady in a world that hadn't stopped shaking yet.
"Ye must be starvin'."
---
Neon took the bowl. The heat seeped into his fingers—comforting, grounding. He shuffled over to a wooden crate beside the workbench, each step steadier than the last, though his legs still felt like they were stitched together with frayed wire.
He sat, let out a slow breath, and gave the soup a cautious sniff.
Roots. Boiled bone. A whisper of spice.
Not just edible. It smelled… good.
He raised an eyebrow at Calder. "Wow. The old man cooks."
Without missing a beat, Calder rolled his eyes and muttered,
"Aye, an' the old man's been keepin' yer scrawny hide fed since before ye could spell 'scraps'."
A dry chuckle slipped from Neon's lips, brief and brittle.
Then it died just as quickly.
His gaze drifted past the cluttered tools, the rigged mana coils, and back to the busted front of the workshop.
Half the doorway still lay buried in splinters. The wind stirred ash from the floor.
"…I'm just surprised there's food at all," he murmured.
He stirred the soup absently, watching steam rise like smoke from the battlefield that still lived behind his eyes.
"Last thing I remember… it was like the whole Mudgate were swarmed."
His voice dropped lower.
"Netherlings. Everywhere."
Across from him, Calder finally sat down on an upturned crate, elbows braced on his knees. He wiped his hands on a soot-dark rag, the fabric already stained from a dozen previous rebuilds.
"I restocked while ye were flat on yer back, son. Lucky the butcher still owes me more favours than sense."
Neon nodded faintly and took a bite.
The taste was warm, rich. The kind that normally filled you from the inside out.
But now?
It felt distant.
Like eating underwater.
The silence that followed was thick. Even the bubbling of the pot on the burner sounded muted, like the air itself was holding its breath.
Then Calder's voice cut through it—different this time.
Sharper. Calmer. Heavy with intent.
"Now then, lad…"
Neon looked up.
Calder's eyes met his, unwavering.
"Is there somethin' ye need tae tell me?"
Neon froze, spoon halfway to his mouth.
The question landed harder than he expected.
He swallowed.
Hard.
His fingers tensed around the wooden bowl, knuckles white.
And then it all came back—
The Cathedral, haloed in impossible light.
The sigils, dormant for years, suddenly alive.
The first rune that burned.
The way the very air bent when he touched it.
The monster—twisted, snarling, all sinew and Void—eyes like black suns.
And the dagger…
The one that shouldn't have existed.
He shoved another spoonful into his mouth.
Hot. Sharp. It burned.
But it didn't drown the images.
Didn't erase the fear.
Didn't quiet the whispering truth clawing at his spine.
Not this time.
---
Neon set the bowl down with a soft clink beside him. Steam still curled from its surface, spiraling upward like smoke from a dying fire. But whatever hunger he'd felt was gone—burnt away by something colder, sharper.
He lifted his eyes to Calder.
There was heat in his stare now—not anger, not yet. But something simmering just beneath the surface. Confusion.
"Well, first…" Neon said, voice low and cracked from disuse,
"Before I say anything…" He hesitated.
"You didn't tell me you were a Crusader."
The words hit the air like a dropped wrench.
Calder blinked. No sharp reaction. No denial. Just stillness.
He leaned back slowly, elbows resting on the crate behind him.
His expression was unreadable—stone carved by time.
A long silence stretched between them.
The bubbling pot behind them continued, a distant, mundane sound in a moment that felt anything but.
Calder didn't move at first.
Didn't speak. Didn't blink.
Just let the silence settle like ash.
Then he breathed out, long and slow—
a sound heavy with time.
"Aye…" he muttered, voice rough as gravel.
"Figured ye knew. Or at least… remembered."
He scratched at his beard, soot clinging to the motion.
Neon shook his head.
Once. Final.
Calder's brows knit.
He leaned forward again, forearms resting heavy on his knees, like the weight of old battles was pulling him down.
"Yer serious?"
A low, brittle chuckle slipped out.
No humor behind it. Just tired bones.
"Suppose ye wouldnae. Ye were just a wee thing back then. A scrap of a lad. Orphaned before ye could speak proper."
A pause.
His voice softened—just a notch. Still rough, but quieter now. Honest.
"Course ye don't remember it all."
Neon turned his gaze to the floor.
And Calder didn't push. Just sat with it. Let the room breathe around the weight of what hadn't been said.
Then finally, with that same, quiet steadiness:
"Aye. I was a Crusader. Back when the world cracked and the sky bled. Back when the only wall 'tween the wee ones and the dark was a handful o' stubborn bastards like me."
He sat up straighter, just a bit, shoulders squared not with pride, but resolve.
"Wasn't glory. Was survival. An' not all of us made it."
He looked down at his hands. Weathered. Burned. Scarred by years, not weeks.
"After the dust settled, I walked. Found a bench. Fixed things. Stayed quiet."
He shrugged once.
"Didn't think it mattered anymore. Not 'til now."
---
Neon's voice came out sharper than he intended:
"You fought those things, didn't you?"
He looked Calder dead in the eye.
"Why didn't you say anything while I was getting ready to fight for my life?!"
Calder didn't flinch. Just gave the soup one last stir, then set the ladle aside.
He sat with a long, quiet breath before replying.
"Well—first off," he muttered, scratching at his temple,
"I thought it was just a wee breach."
Neon narrowed his eyes.
Calder raised a finger, counting off.
"No tear in the sky. No sudden swell o' mana. No warpin', no time slippage. Looked like a stowaway—maybe slipped through the cargo lanes or what have ye. Happens now and then."
He leaned back, sighing. His eyes looked heavy, as if they'd seen too many lifetimes.
"An' I'm old, lad. I've seen plenty, aye—but I cannae see every bloody thing."
He met Neon's gaze—steady, not harsh.
"You were the one dartin' about, actin' like the world was endin'."
A pause.
"How was I supposed tae ken it actually was?"
Neon sat in silence. The workshop groaned faintly as the wind pushed against the broken frame. The pot bubbled beside them—quiet, almost mocking.
He felt like a bottle under pressure—so much to say, no idea where to start.
Calder didn't push. Let the quiet settle like dust.
Then, with a grunt, he stood.
Walked to the bench.
Picked up a rag. Began wiping his hands, though they were already clean.
Slow. Habitual.
A stall of his own.
He glanced sideways once, just enough for the workshop light to catch the deep lines in his face. It made him look every year he'd tried to forget.
"Right then," he said at last, voice low and firm.
"Quit yer stallin'."
He tossed the rag to the side with a soft thump.
Turned.
"Out with it, boy. Tell me everythin'."
Neon didn't move at first.
Just sat there—shoulders hunched, head low, hands curled like he was holding something fragile and sharp all at once.
Then finally, a breath.
And words, quiet but clear:
"…It started at the Cathedral. Outskirts—near that old burned building."
---
Calder didn't speak. Didn't nod.
Just listened.
"Me and S.A.B.R.E. went to scavenge. Figured the basement might still have salvage. Old mana cores, copper lines—whatever hadn't been picked clean."
He exhaled, shaky.
His fingers tightened around his knees.
"Two of the sigils were glowing. I saw the Alchemy mark first."
Still, Calder said nothing.
Still, Neon went on.
"I touched it. I… I don't know why. I just had to. It wasn't like a choice—I was drawn into it."
He shook his head.
"The moment my fingers brushed it, the whole thing lit up. Not just one—all the sigils. Like a circuit waking up. Like they'd been waiting."
A pause. A breath.
"Then the ground shifted. Opened up. There was this rune—huge. Burned into the stone beneath. I've never seen anything like it."
His voice lowered.
"I passed out."
Calder shifted slightly, a flicker of concern in his eyes, but he still didn't interrupt.
"S.A.B.R.E. woke me. With a taser."
A bitter smile ghosted across Neon's lips.
"Can you believe that?"
The smile faded.
"Then we heard it. Above us."
He went still. Like he was reliving it.
"This thing… It wasn't like any Netherling I've read about. Not like the ones on the breach posters or the war logs. It was… wrong. Regenerative. Fast. Every time I landed a hit, it stitched itself back together. It wanted me to see that."
His leg bounced.
He stopped it.
Tried to steady his breath.
"I was losing. I knew it. Then—"
He reached down, carefully. Unhooked the blade from his belt.
The dagger—the Tooth.
He held it up, letting the faint light catch on the rune etched into its hilt. It shimmered like oil on water, the markings faint but unmistakable.
"Dropped from the monster." he said.
A beat.
"I picked it up. And I knew. I don't know how—but I just knew what to carve."
His voice trembled. Just a hair.
"I drew the rune. One stroke. No hesitation."
He looked Calder in the eyes.
"Then I stabbed it. In the chest."
Silence stretched.
"It exploded. Like every part of it rejected being undone."
Neon stared at the dagger.
"I waited for it to come back. But it didn't."
His hand lowered slowly, setting the blade down beside him.
"That was it."
He looked up again. Eyes tired. Older than they had any right to be.
"So I ran. Straight back here. Hoping you were still alive."
A breath left him—long and uneven. Like it had been trapped inside since the Cathedral.
"That's everything."
And just like that, the storm was out of him.
The words, the memory, the fear—emptied.
The only sound now was the quiet wind threading through the cracks in the wall.
The soup between them sat untouched, cold. Forgotten.
Outside, the slums of Mudgate lay in uneasy stillness.
Neon sat there, waiting.
Watching Calder.
Waiting to hear what his silence would cost.
---
Calder stared at Neon, his dark eyes narrowing with a flicker of something rare—surprise. A hesitation. Then confusion.
"Boy… whit d'you mean all the sigils?" His voice was low, cautious. "An' what cathedral are ye talkin' about?"
Neon blinked, caught off-guard by the question.
"The cathedral… on the edge of Cairnhelm. Past the fire-gutted row." His voice faltered but gained strength. "Me and S.A.B.R.E. — we climbed the hill."
Calder shook his head slowly, lips pressed tight, brows furrowed deeper. He searched Neon's face like he was digging for buried truth.
"There's nae such place."
The words landed heavy in the cramped workshop.
His voice was firmer now—neither angry nor dismissive. Just sure.
"Nothin' like that's ever stood out there. Ever."
A cold pit opened in Neon's stomach.
"No, wait—S.A.B.R.E. saw it too." His voice rose, edged with panic. "We were there."
He turned sharply, raising his hand.
"S.A.B.R.E., show the recording. Your memory core."
The spider bot's legs clicked softly across the metal floor. It crouched low. Its abdomen split open, casting a pale blue hologram above its frame.
The grainy footage sputtered to life:
Neon and S.A.B.R.E. creeping past rusted fences, the orange sun bleeding low across the horizon. The smell of scorched metal and ash clung to the air.
They scavenged through wreckage. The sharp scrape of metal. Wind curling through ruin.
Then—climbing the cracked hill to escape the rain—Neon pointed ahead.
Toward the impossible.
The projection panned up. Lightning flashed.
The place where the cathedral should have been.
Nothing.
Just twisted trees clawing at the sky.
Charred soil, split like old scars.
A wide, empty clearing. Abandoned. Silent.
No stone. No sigils. No towering spires.
Just absence.
Neon's breath caught.
"…What?" he whispered, voice trembling like a fragile thread.
He stepped closer to the flickering image, palm half-raised, as if the light might solidify beneath his touch.
"No… that's not right. We saw it."
Calder's voice dropped low. Heavy.
"Lad."
"There's no cathedral in Cairnhelm."
Neon's wide eyes stayed locked on the hologram. His own reflection shimmered faintly across the wavering blue.
A crack opened in his certainty.
"But… I remember it. I touched it. The sigils—they were glowing."
His gaze shifted down—to the dagger at his hip.
The faint rune etched into its hilt pulsed with eerie, living light.
He turned back to Calder, voice raw, pleading:
"You believe me, right?"
Calder's eyes never left the dagger. Never left the rune.
He spoke at last, slow and deliberate:
"…I believe ye saw somethin'."
---
Neon shook his head, stepping closer to the flickering hologram, eyes fierce.
"No—there was a cathedral. I saw it. You'll see. Just watch."
S.A.B.R.E.'s projection stuttered, then rewound with a soft, mechanical chirp. The image jumped and stabilized.
There was Neon again—grimy hands tugging at a rusted cart, scraping its wheels across cracked stone. The dull scrape echoed faintly in the silent room.
He angled the cart beneath a gnarled old tree, its roots curling like desperate claws gripping the earth.
Neon braced his shoulder, then shoved hard.
Thunk.
His real-time eyes narrowed, watching the replay intently.
"Wait—what the hell…"
The projection showed him ramming the tree again. The ancient bark cracked with a sharp snap.
A final shove—then the whole trunk gave way, crashing down with a splintering roar, dust and broken wood scattering into the dim light.
But there was no building beneath. No towering stone. No stained glass catching the last rays of the dying sun.
Only the fallen tree—and beneath its upturned roots, a dark hole.
The image zoomed in.
S.A.B.R.E.'s lenses recorded a jagged chasm, barely wide enough to crawl through.
Around the edges, sigils glowed faintly, carved into the earth like veins of molten metal, pulsing softly—alive.
Neon muttered, voice heavy with confusion, "...That's not what I saw."
Calder said nothing.
The recording moved again—Neon climbing down the narrow hole, his small flame cutting through thick shadows. S.A.B.R.E. followed, its small limbs scraping softly against rock.
The projection wavered, trembling with dust and movement—then paused, sharpening focus.
There it was.
A shape in the dark. Twisted, crawling—limbs too many, bones entwined with wire, glistening wet skin stretched tight.
The Netherling.
The hologram flickered as it lunged, static crackling across the image, but the fight was unmistakable: Neon dodging, swinging, arcane sparks flaring bright, carving desperation into the air.
Calder's breath caught—just barely.
The projection shifted, showing the dagger next—Neon's hands tracing a rune, glowing bright as it ignited.
Then—
Boom.
A blinding flash, static crackling fiercely, and the creature vanished into light.
Silence swallowed the scene.
The recording ended. The hologram dimmed.
S.A.B.R.E. folded down its lens with a quiet click.
Neon stood still, pale, arms hanging limp at his sides.
"That… wasn't a cathedral. Not even close."
His voice cracked, fragile in the stillness.
Calder stepped forward, slow and deliberate, eyes fixed on the empty air where the image had been.
"…An' yet ye remember it that way."
Neon nodded, voice barely a whisper.
"Every detail. The stone… the stained glass… the murals… I know what I saw."
The wind moaned softly through the broken walls around them—an eerie lullaby in the fading light.
Calder's voice dropped lower, rough and heavy with warning.
"Somethin' played wi' yer memory, lad.
Or maybe…"
He paused, eyes narrowing ever so slightly.
"Maybe somethin' doesnae want tae be seen."
---
Neon's eyes narrowed, voice dropping low but urgent—almost a whisper that trembled with disbelief.
"Calder… is there a Netherling that can… mess with memories? Like, make me see things that aren't there?"
Calder shook his head slowly, the deep lines etched into his face tightening wi' concern.
"Nae. Not that I ken of."
His finger jabbed toward the flickerin' image of the twisted creature lurkin' in the shadows of the hologram.
"But that one…" Calder's voice softened, growin' more serious—he sounded almost wary.
"That's a Revenant."
Neon's gaze locked onto the grotesque form pulsin' faintly in the projection—limbs twisted and unnatural, crawlin' like a nightmare made flesh.
"A Revenant?"
Calder stroked his greyin' beard thoughtfully, eyes distant, like he were searchin' through memories older than Neon's lifetime.
"One o' the greater Netherlings. Rare. Deadly. It commands the swarm—the wee ones answer tae it."
He met Neon's eyes again, voice steady but low.
"No wonder the beasts weren't coordinated. That Revenant died before it could give the order."
Calder's tone dropped to a near whisper, like he were confessing to shadows rather than speaking aloud.
"But that hole… and those sigils. They glow. Untouched. Not tampered wi'. That's real."
His gaze sharpened, piercin' through the dim light like a blade.
"And yer memory? Altered. Twisted. Somethin'—or someone—did that."
Calder's fingers twitched—subtle, restless—like he were trying catch an invisible thread unraveling the truth.
"The real question is…"
He paused, voice heavy with weight and danger not yet named.
"Who?"
A beat.
"And why?"
---
Neon's eyes sharpened, the spark of determination igniting deep inside him.
"I want to head back there. Maybe I'll find something… something I missed."
His mind spun, piecing together fragments—the cart, the cathedral, everything…
He bolted upright, breath catching in his throat.
Neon's thoughts tangled faster than a spider in a web.
"The cart! Yes, I definitely put the door there—not a freakin' tree."
He scratched his head, pacing like a confused dog chasing its tail.
"But the cathedral… burned. Along with the cart. Great."
He squinted at the air like it owed him an explanation.
"Wait—no cathedral? Seriously? I'm not losing it… am I?"
He muttered under his breath, voice dripping with sarcasm.
"Maybe the tree's just an overachieving door now. Nature's way of saying, 'Surprise!'"
Neon groaned, running a hand through his hair.
S.A.B.R.E.'s projector flickered to life, casting a tiny hologram of itself dramatically lying on a stretcher with cartoon bandages and Xs for eyes. Its soft voice echoed, dry as desert sand:
"This kid is crazy. Please, no more. Don't let me go with him again."
Calder chuckled, low and rough, rubbing his temples with a weary hand.
"You and me both, S.A.B.R.E."
He shook his head slowly, voice firm but edged with fatigue.
"Even if ye do want tae go back, the city's under full lockdown."
His gaze flicked toward the cracked window, where the fading light stretched long shadows across the battered streets—empty, silent, watchful.
"Nae one goes in. Nae one gets out. They're still searchin' for the missin'—folk swallowed by the chaos."
His eyes darkened, heavy with the grim truth.
"Everyone's on patrol. It's… intense."
Calder's voice dropped bitter and low.
"The Heights, the nobles, the Inner City lot—they're pointin' fingers. Sayin' it's our fault the Netherlings got in."
He sighed, deep and rough, rubbing the back of his neck like trying to scrub away the weight on his shoulders.
"It's not just the monsters now. It's us against each other."
Then his eyes flickered—a faint spark kindling beneath the weariness.
"But I ken someone. Maybe he'll let us investigate."
He glanced toward the doorway, voice lower now, reverent.
"He's here in the city right now—an old comrade o' mine."
A long pause.
"Omega. One of the greatest Arcanans still breathin'."
Calder's jaw tightened, respect etched into every word.
"Commander o' the Infantry battalion, I reckon."
His gaze darkened again, a flicker of frustration breaking through the calm.
"I wanted tae speak wi' him earlier—get his thoughts on this madness."
He shook his head slowly.
"But right now? He's busy tearin' the council a new earhole."
A bitter smile ghosted across his face.
"Seems the ones in charge don't take kindly to bein' told just how bad they've bollocksed it up."
Then he looked back at Neon, voice low but certain.
"Whatever's comin', lad… Omega's already in the thick of it."
"And if anyone's got answers, it's him."