Soren:"Very well. I'll be out preparing a few things. Meet me at the city square. You've got seven hours. Do whatever the hell you want until then."
Shaun didn't even bother lifting his gaze. "You don't need to repeat yourself like I'm slow."
With a final nod, Soren dissolved into the air, vanishing like breath in frost.
Shaun didn't rush. Didn't even pretend to care. Instead, he let himself fall back to sleep. He'd intended to rest for a moment, maybe a half-hour nap. Instead, his eyes shut, and time slipped through his fingers like blood through cracked hands.
Three hours later, he stirred with a groan.
"Uhhh... damn, that was a good sleep," he muttered, stretching until his spine cracked. A yawn escaped him as he blinked up at the wooden ceiling. "Guess I overslept. No clue how much time I've got left, but whatever. Might as well take a walk."
He splashed cold water on his face, wiped it with a coarse towel, and adjusted his cloak until he looked at least somewhat presentable. Pouch of gold secured to his belt, Shaun stepped into the outside world, the crooked sun hanging low over the city of Eldriss.
The walk from the residential zone to the market district was longer than he anticipated. Not because he couldn't cover it in minutes—he could, easily—but because he didn't feel like trying. The breeze was pleasant. The streets were cramped. The people were forgettable.
The houses here were mostly medieval in design—wooden beams, slanted roofs, uneven cobblestones. A few had the faint elegance of a Victorian touch, probably owned by the lower-ranking nobles too poor to live where real power resided. The air reeked of boiled cabbage, cheap perfumes, and muddy boots. The wealth divide was visible in every cracked wall and rusted gate.
As he passed, a few eyes followed him. Greedy eyes. Opportunistic ones. To them, Shaun was just a ten-year-old boy with fine boots and a careless gait—a coin pouch waiting to be lifted. A walking target.
He noticed. Of course he did.
But he wasn't in the mood to draw blood today.
So, he altered his route with casual disinterest, dipping into alleyways, crossing wooden bridges, and slipping through thin crowds until the predators gave up and faded away.
Eventually, he emerged at the grand market—the beating heart of Eldriss. As one of the empire's twin capitals, the city lived and breathed through this chaotic, sprawling maze of merchants and stalls.
Shaun's gaze swept over the shops: clothing draped in silks and furs, glinting jewelry meant for the foolish rich, spices that stung the air, flowers that wilted despite their price. None of it impressed him.
The market itself was more fascinating than what it sold. The architecture climbed in concentric circles, each level more lavish than the last, reaching toward the spires of the central tower that overlooked it all like a sentinel.
"I should eat something," he murmured, eyes landing on a nearby stall with a massive crowd. "Might need to pull an all-nighter."
He joined the line, even though he had no idea what was being sold. The scent was greasy, sharp, and addictively warm. That was good enough.
When his turn came, the vendor—a red-faced man with arms like tree trunks—snapped, "Well? What do you want, kid? Hurry it up."
"What do you have?"
"What do I have? What do you want? We're not a damn restaurant. You don't come here without knowing—"
"Give me your best," Shaun interrupted with a bored tone, flicking a silver coin onto the counter. "And round it up. Don't waste my time."
The vendor grunted, catching the coin with practiced ease. "You get the special. Fried potatoes with house sauce. And I'll throw in some fried mushrooms. That good enough, Your Highness?"
Shaun took the food without reply and moved away.
Behind him, the woman in line shouted in dismay. "Out of stock? What do you mean out of stock?!"
Her whining was music to his ears.
He bit into the potatoes—crispy, hot, spiced just right—and let the flavors melt over his tongue.
"Better than expected," he muttered. "Now where the hell do I sit..."
"Hey, you! You're that arrogant brat! What are you doing here?!"
The voice was shrill. Familiar. Annoying.
Shaun turned his head slightly. Cleanet stood there, dressed in gaudy lace and embroidered silks, flanked by two over-dressed maids, staring at him as if she'd seen a stray mutt pissing on her family crest.
He took a long bite of potato. And walked away.
"Hey! Who do you think you are, ignoring me like that?! You peasant!"
"Sorry, wrong guy," he muttered with disinterest.
But the maid stepped in front of him, blocking his path. "Our lady is speaking to you. Show some respect."
Shaun didn't even blink. "And I'm trying to not acknowledge her. You see the problem?"
He slipped sideways, ducked through a gap in the crowd, and vanished before they could react.
Cleanet's face flushed with rage. She crushed her handkerchief in her grip. "That freak! How dare he humiliate me—again! He'll pay for this. I swear it."
Meanwhile, Shaun weaved through the market's twisting lanes, still munching on the potatoes, mushrooms wrapped in oiled paper tucked into his cloak.
"What a mess," he muttered. "I thought we agreed to ignore each other. But that idiot just can't help herself."
He finished the last of the potatoes, licking the house-made sauce from his fingers.
"She was definitely going to cause a scene. Probably rope me into something annoying. Best to keep my distance."
The city square loomed ahead, rising like a stage built for blood and politics.
Shaun stepped into its shadow with his stomach full, his time ticking down, and the quiet certainty that something was waiting for him.
The midnight air slithered cold and sharp through the veins of the sleeping city, biting into skin like tiny razors. The imperial palace loomed at the city's heart, gilded towers piercing the night sky like polished knives. From a distance,city of Eldriss appeared serene, peaceful even, but that was the great lie of cities—they always looked calm before they bled.
Above the sprawling avenues and moonlit streets, a figure stood motionless atop the highest watchtower. Seven feet of silent malice cloaked in pitch black, a death-god masquerading in human shape. His face was hidden behind a bone-white skull mask, the hollow sockets staring emptily at the empire stretched beneath him. His armor whispered faint reflections beneath the cold light, slick and dark as oil. In his left hand, a red spear pulsed faintly, humming like a hungry thing. Loose black trousers fluttered at his legs, the wind kissing them gently, unaware of the massacre to come.
Without warning, he vanished—no fanfare, no theatrics—one heartbeat he stood, the next he was gone, a wraith leaping across rooftops, silent as slaughter.
His destination lay at the city's northern quarter: The Great Museum of Eldriss, a place full of relics and forgotten power, its foundations thrumming with magic no one living truly understood. It radiated like a wound in the night, and he followed that pulse unerringly, drawn to it like a beast to blood.
He materialized at the outer wall, eyes locked on the grand marble facade. A breath, and then he slipped inside without so much as rustling a leaf. No traps sprung. No alarms blared. But he made no effort to hide, no interest in avoiding the inevitable.
He wanted them to know he was here.
When he crossed the museum's sanctum, the inevitable shriek of the magic bell rang out—a sound like bone grinding against metal, echoing through the halls and across the sleeping city. He welcomed it.
They came quickly, the dogs of the Empire.
Boots hammered the polished marble like drums of war. Soldiers poured into the grand hall—steel glinting, rifles loaded, magic crackling between fingers. Their commander stood at the front, a square-jawed bastard with the eyes of a man who thought he'd already won.
"So," the commander drawled, his voice dripping with disdain, "you're the fool who sent that little threat. You really walked in here after announcing yourself? You must think yourself a god."
Laughter followed from the soldiers, sharp and brittle, like the hyena's cackle before a feast.
The masked figure didn't move. His spear flickered once, red light slithering along its length, coiling like veins filled with something far older than blood.
The commander lifted his hand.
"Kill him."
The storm broke.
The soldiers lunged in a torrent of blades and bullets, spells flung like shards of glass. But the figure moved with terrifying grace—less a man, more a tidal wave of violence. His spear sliced arcs of death, the first strike snapping through a soldier's blade, the next cracking a skull open like ripe fruit. He danced through their ranks, turning bodies into ragdolls, weapons falling from broken hands before they could even scream.
A rifleman aimed point-blank. The spear's butt struck the barrel, twisting the metal like wet clay, sending shrapnel into the man's face.
Fire burst from a mage's palm. Electricity from another. Their magic screamed through the air toward him.
The ground answered first.
Shadows peeled back as four monstrous shapes tore free from the marble itself—beasts older than the empire. A tiger wreathed in fire and howling winds, a turtle lumbering beneath armor of stone and rushing water, a wolf wrapped in thunder and storm, and a peacock whose unfurled feathers distorted reality, fracturing the air like broken mirrors.
The tiger's roar devoured the flames, the turtle's bulk swallowed the lightning. The peacock's illusions bent the soldiers' senses, made their own weapons turn against them. The wolf tore through mages with the precision of a surgeon, fangs cracking bones, claws leaving bodies twitching and broken.
They were slaughtered. Efficiently. Beautifully. One after another, they fell—some screaming, some too fast to make a sound, their blood painting the white marble like a sacrament.
The masked intruder moved like a reaper, spearmanship and grapples merging in flawless, lethal rhythm. He broke limbs with elegant brutality, shattered jaws with a flick of his wrist. His movements were an orchestra of death, every soldier another instrument silenced beneath his steps.
Then—like a candle flaring against the storm—a voice cut through the carnage.
"Stop."
A child stood at the end of the hall.
Small. Barely ten. Dressed in silks and authority far too large for his frame. But the magic radiating from his body could blind lesser men.
Isaac, the child of the light.
Light coiled around the boy's hand, forging itself into a sword of shimmering radiance. His eyes didn't waver, though the tremble in his fingers betrayed him.
The figure did not hesitate. Another soldier crumpled at his feet as he turned toward the child.
The boy lunged. For a moment, he seemed almost divine—every swing of his light-forged sword slicing through shadow and illusion alike. The tiger fell back. The wolf's assault crumbled beneath his glow. His raw power burned through the illusions, dispelling them with every step.
But he was still a child.
The masked figure moved, vanishing and reappearing behind the prince in a blink. One clean motion—the spear twisted, disarmed him, and before the boy could react, a precise strike sent him sprawling unconscious across the blood-slick marble.
Silence returned to the museum.
Soldiers lay groaning, broken or senseless. Magic residue clung to the air like ash. The prince, the empire's future, lay at his feet like discarded porcelain.
He walked forward, unbothered, stepping over bodies without a glance, until he reached the inner sanctum.
There, resting beneath a shaft of moonlight, sat his prize: the Lamp. Old beyond reckoning, a relic wrapped in ancient whispers. It pulsed faintly in the gloom, recognizing the predator before it.
He reached for it without ceremony. The lamp's hum greeted him like an old friend.
Before leaving, he bent down and scrawled a note on the now-empty pedestal, the ink sharp and casual:
I won. So I will take this as my prize. Thanks.
And then, as if the night itself swallowed him whole, he vanished—leaving behind only wreckage, silence, and the echo of something terrible now set in motion.