They found shelter on a jagged ridge of broken stone, the edge of it hanging over a chasm that whispered of deeper horrors. The Phantom said nothing as she slumped down, blade stained, cloak torn at the edges. Riven collapsed beside her, his breath shallow, every movement sending spikes of pain through his wrist.
He finally had the time to feel it—every crack, every bruise, the way his body trembled with fatigue and fear. Blood still oozed down his arm. He needed to stop it.
With his teeth clenched, Riven tore a strip from his trouser leg, wrapping the makeshift cloth tight around his wrist. His fingers barely worked, but it was enough. Just enough.
The Phantom glanced at him, but said nothing. Not until the silence settled.
Then Riven broke it.
"What was that thing? The tall one. The one that came out of the dark. It wasn't like the others."
The Phantom's eyes didn't leave the chasm. "A Dreadspawn."
Riven blinked. Even the name felt wrong. Like a curse.
"Stronger. Faster. But still one of them. Just… awakened."
"Awakened?"
She nodded slowly. "Sometimes, a Witherspawn doesn't rot. It mutates. Becomes something else. Something worse. It doesn't need to evolve to a new rank—it stays within its own. But it sheds the weakness. Gains hunger. Intelligence. Rage."
Riven remembered how it moved—silent, precise, its limbs too long, its face like a skull stretched thin.
"That thing was a step above," he muttered.
"It's still a Witherspawn," she said. "But changed. Not common. Not rare either. We call them Dreadspawn because they never come alone. Where there's one, there are more… sleeping."
She pulled her cloak tighter around her.
"There's a reason we classify them. Rank them. The ranking System. You saw the mark appear when you killed the first one, yes?"
Riven nodded slowly. The memory still lingered—those cold letters behind his eyes.
"That wasn't magic. It's a recognition. A response. Our world's way of counting the death. Of tracking strength. When something dies, its shard is left behind."
She reached into her pouch and pulled something out—a small, jagged fragment of darkened crystal, pulsing faintly with grayish-blue veins.
"A Withershard," she said. "From the one you killed. Useless on its own. But useful to track. Useful to rank."
Riven leaned in slightly, eyes narrowing. "And they all have these?"
She nodded. "Each creature holds a shard. The color, the pulse, the shape—it tells you what rank it belongs to. There's a base tier: Scourge. That's where the Witherspawn and Dreadspawn sit. Low, but still dangerous."
"And higher than that?" Riven asked.
The Phantom hesitated.
"There are many tiers. But you won't need to worry about them yet. If you can't survive a Scourge-tier, the rest won't matter."
Then, almost as an afterthought, she reached into a separate pouch and pulled out another shard. It glowed faintly, but this one shimmered with a different light—silver laced with faint violet, almost hypnotic in its beauty.
"This is a Kinborn Shard," she said, her tone unreadable.
Riven frowned. "Where did you get it?"
She met his gaze.
"None of your business."
She slipped it back into her cloak before he could ask more.
Riven leaned back, breathing slow, the fire in his bones dimming slightly.
The ranking System. Shards. Awakening.
He was beginning to understand—just how deep the dark went.
And how far he had to climb to survive it.