Shar waited at the entrance of a ragged tent. Battered by elements far harsher than it was designed for, its once-tanned leather now lay faded and worn. Perhaps it had once been a luxurious thing, but that time was long past. Now, stretched across rocky terrain broken only by patches of grass-thin fungi, it stood as a stark reminder of the survivors' plight—for as threadbare as the camp was, it was the finest shelter they had left.

When they first entered the Forest, every man had a tent of his own. Theirs was to be an extended campaign; they had not come unprepared—least of all the Seer's blade. But even she had not foreseen how swiftly events would unravel. The Dungeon, ever guileful, allowed them a fleeting sense of stability. Their encampments were erected, their patrols grew slack. For three weeks, the Forest feigned peace before revealing its true horrors.

Back then, a tent like the one Shar stood before had been merely passable. She remembered discussions about whether it was even worth maintaining. She never would have imagined that, one day, it would be considered esteemed lodgings.

Incensed voices drummed through the flap of the tent's partition. Though muffled, the strain in each of the four voices was unmistakable.

Shar had not been entirely insensitive to the quandary faced by the other group leaders, but whatever patience she once had for their uncertainty had long since expired. A week of excessive back-and-forth followed her scouting of the six-armed giant approaching the survivors' campsite—and it had worn thin.

Her will be done—whether we stay or go is a mere detail, she thought, sighing as she pushed aside the hanging drape and stepped into the tent.

'We'll have to risk the Forest,' said Franklin Whatever-his-name-was. Shar thought he had mentioned his family name once, but it did not matter—he was a dead man come what may. It made no sense to grow overly familiar.

'Didn't think you'd lose your mind as well as your nerve!' Anton shouted, his tone dripping with derision. 'There's twenty of us but only one of it!'

Shar found Anton fascinating. In defiance of their grave circumstances, he carried himself with a quiet strength that demanded attention. She never found him among the bed-wetting sops, griping at the whirlwind of winds they had sown.

They had been enticed into the Dungeon Cell, that much was true. But they had entered of their own volition. They all had their reasons—however vapid those might have been. For most, it was ambition—a chance to progress beyond the limits of their middling Harmonic purity. The settled floors held no real challenges, only weak Dungeon-Spawn unfit for the third step of the Servant Inheritance.

After reaching the second step, scratchers and slashers were insufficient. That left only two options. Weak as they were, they could chance the Vanguard Territories. True, the Vanguard had birthed a few legends—but far more cautionary tales. The land beneath the settled floors existed only to kill. It was a meat-grinder, churning people into bloodied pulp. Only those of sterner substance than mortal flesh could survive its unending tribulations.

The second option was a Dungeon-Cell. Few existed within the settled floors, and those that did were monopolized by the least deserving—the noble households. These acted as their personal playgrounds, ushering their young from Servant to Soldier, preparing them to face the Vanguard. The powerful grew stronger, while the weak grew desperate.

When Annalise had offered the survivors a chance to enter a Dungeon-Cell, how could they refuse? Perilous, yes, but fair. Not everyone who entered would endure, but the Dungeon guaranteed an equal chance—if one could recognise fleeting opportunities when they arose.

In the months she had known Anton, he had never missed a chance to seize an opportunity with both hands.

Attired in form-fitting, gold-plated armour—a Remnant bequeathed by the Dungeon—he struck a figure both slender and commanding. His armour caught the light with every movement, dazzling and dangerous all at once—much like the man who wore it.

His Anchor was not powerful. By Shar's observations, it allowed him to summon and control a fine cloud of embers and ash. Alone, it was useful for little more than igniting dry kindling. Yet when paired with his flaming whip, the crack of which was a declaration as much as an attack, she had seen Anton unleash devastation upon the battlefield.

Among the survivors, it would have been natural for her to assume full command if she so desired. But that was not her role. Her place was not to lead them all, but to guide them toward the Seer's purpose. In the chaos following the larger group's fracturing, she allowed leaders to rise from among the remaining lost souls. It was no surprise that Anton stood among them.

Whether they faced the advancing giant or fled back into the forest mattered little to Shar. After all, the Seer's design would remain untouched—details, nothing more. Still, if Anton saw opportunity in staying, absent the Seer's contrary instruction, she trusted his instincts.

It's a shame… she lamented, unwilling to fully name the thought that had crossed her mind. Taking captive her blasphemous musings, she crushed the thought beneath her faith, hardening her heart against its pull.

His end would serve a higher purpose. When Annalise commanded life and death, all that had been sacrificed would be restored.

With deliberate grunts, she cleared her throat, drawing the attention of both leaders and their attendants.

'We're staying,' she said flatly, her tone leaving no room for further discussion.

Franklin opened his mouth as if to protest, but the words died on his tongue. His gaze burned into the floor, fists clenching in silent frustration as his head dipped in forced submission.

A heavy silence settled over the group as her words lingered. Then Shar continued, her voice calm yet unwavering.

'Now that's decided, focus on strategy. The spawn is at the brink of evolution—it won't wait for us to make mistakes. Even with all of us, there are no guarantees.'

Without another word, she turned and exited the tent, the breeze fluttering through her raven-black hair. At its current pace, the giant would reach them in little more than a day. If they were to face the threat, she intended to do so with a full stomach and plenty of rest.

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As if gravity had been rotated, Shar crouched on the side of the mountain passage wall. Below her, the survivors stood in formation, their arms trembling as they gripped their weapons.

At the head of the group, Anton stood proud. Sunlight gleamed off his golden armour, while a black leather whip hung limp by his side. Beside him stood an older man, his attendant and closest ally, their bond forged long before this expedition. Their group was not so large that there were strangers, yet Shar could not recall his name. Names mattered little; she cared only for his abilities.

The giant would soon be upon them; faint vibrations already pulsed through the wall. Their strategy was crude but, given their dwindling options, it was the best they could muster. Whether it would hold against the giant's wrath remained to be seen.

Their avant-garde comprised the sturdy and strong—those best suited to enduring the heaviest blows. None were more fitting for the forefront than Anton, his Armour Remnant granting near-invulnerability for short bursts. But his attendant came a close second.

The man was robust, his broad shoulders and barrelled chest built for durability over grace. His silver-plated armour allowed him to charge headlong into enemies, pairing well with his shield that stored kinetic energy and released it in a wave of concussive force. Shar was uncertain about his Anchor's abilities, but given his past feats, she assumed it multiplied his physical strength.

In the second layer stood the few Inheritors among their ranks who focused on support. Five stood side by side, their abilities ranging from bolstering strength and speed to sapping an enemy's will to fight.

Before entering the Forest, Shar had rarely experienced the effects of support-type Remnants, but their value had quickly become undeniable. She was already formidable for her rank, but under their influence, she moved faster and struck with greater lethality than ever before.

Close behind the second layer was the third—those who excelled in manoeuvrability, the group Shar was tasked with leading. Not all of them were fighters. Like Shar, some were charged with engaging the enemy only to disengage and repeat. Others had the grim task of ferrying the wounded to safety—for all the good it would do.

From the start, they had only one healer, a doe-eyed Selenarian girl who always seemed out of place in such a harsh environment. She carried most of their potions and Fragments, and her loss was keenly felt. Almost certainly, she had perished somewhere along the way. She lacked what it took to survive—perhaps it was a blessing in the end. But with her gone, the group's already meagre supplies had been reduced further, leaving the wounded with little hope for recovery.

The fourth layer was less defined. It consisted of the Inheritors who did not quite excel in any particular discipline but whose abilities added unpredictability to their approach. Among them were those who could cast illusions, making small objects vanish or shifting the perception of their position, and others who could alter the trajectory of projectiles mid-flight.

This was the bulk of their group. Their capabilities were unfocused, but they could filter into other roles as needed—support, diversion, or even a frontal assault. Individually, they were unlikely to turn the tide of battle, but their collective unpredictability could force the enemy to spread its focus. At the very least, they made up the numbers.

Staff in hand, Franklin stood at the back, an open-face black robe flowing past his calves. The staff he carried had once been a treasured Remnant of a household of fleeting importance. With the power to cast bolts of sweltering fire, shards of jagged stone, and blades of cutting winds, it had been their pride—and the envy of many.

As Shar had heard it, the household had fallen to envy and ambition. Seven bands of dark guildsmen stormed their halls, putting every man, woman, and child to the sword to claim the Remnant's Prime. Now, for the right price, its copies could be found on every black market across the settled floor—a diluted echo of its former glory.

Flanking the aspirant mage, two archers readied their bows. Shar recognised one as Franklin's attendant, though she could not recall ever exchanging a word with the woman. She appreciated that about her—quiet, focused, and never one to waste time with the mundane. In a group plagued by distractions and petty squabbles, that was a rare and treasured quality.

If my lady allows it, I'd have her join us in the end, she mused. The girl seemed strong of will—steadfast but not defiant, capable of loyalty without rebellion. Shar knew Anton would not approve of the Seer's designs, but she trusted in her ability to bring the girl around. As she had done with others ignorant to the Seer's vision, she would guide the girl to the Seer's path. Competent as the archer appeared, perhaps she could escape the sacrificial fate of the other converts—that was, if her lady willed it.

No need to think about it now. She'll have to survive this battle first, Shar determined, returning her focus to the battlefield.

Ahead, the six-armed giant drew closer, its shadow slithering across the ground toward the survivors. Its steps rumbled the earth, sending loose stones clattering over one another as it advanced.

Any moment now.

As though reading Shar's thoughts, the giant crossed into view, its azure skin gleaming vibrantly in the daylight. Standing five men high, the monster towered over the battlefield, wielding six curved blades. Its arms, like tree trunks, rippled with terrifying strength, yet its features were smooth—almost angelic.

When it was still a living thing, it must have been a noble creature—a being of grace and strength. But now, it was a construct of the Dungeon, its spirit fused with the madness of Pandemonia—Harmony's dark counterpart.

Mindless and merciless, its only instinct was rage. As its gaze fell upon the war band, that fury found its target.

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