Before setting off, Cain whispered the incantation.
"Ghost Walk."
His presence dulled to a whisper — light bent around him, footsteps muffled to single digit decibels, even the faintest trace of his scent vanished as if swallowed by the wind.
He took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the world soften its grip, and began his path forward.
As he traversed the uneven ground, thick roots and gnarled vines stretched across the path, he stumbled upon something.
It was a dragon — or at least, it once was.
Greenery wrapped around its neck and wings like shackles, thick roots had claimed its legs, and jagged spikes of bark grew where its scales once gleamed.
Its head, long and skeletal, rested atop the rusted remains of a tank turret. The barrel protruded like a snout, dripping with ivy and bristling with thorns.
Cain walked the perimeter, his hand brushing against the cool, moss-covered metal. Both the tank and the dragon had long since surrendered to time.
Flowers sprouted from cracked plating, their petals swaying gently in the breeze.
Birds nested in hollowed eye sockets, their chirping was a stark contrast to what the dragon must have been in its prime.
Ghosts of ancient battles lingered in its shadows, but the dragon no longer roared, and the tank no longer rolled.
Stepping back, his eyes lingering for just a moment longer before he continued down the path.
Cain descended the winding path carved into the lush green ridge, his boots crunching softly against the dew-drenched grass.
The mist hung low, whispering through the slopes like pale phantoms, swirling around his legs before dissipating into the thin mountain air. The path was narrow and precarious, bordered by jagged rocks that threatened to snatch at his ankles with every step.
As he reached the base of the slope, the mist began to clear, revealing something obscured by time and neglect.
A pagoda stood, or what remained of it. Its spire had long since collapsed, leaving just a jagged crown of stone that pointed skyward like broken fingers.
Wild plants choked its structure, climbing along its cracked walls and through shattered windows.
The stone was bleached with age, crumbling at the edges where the winds had clawed away its resilience. The once-sacred structure was now a hollow shell, a skeletal reminder of its former majesty.
Cain halted, his eyes narrowing as he took in the sight.
He had read about these structures — not just fortresses, but towering pagodas designed for war.
Immortals used them to battle against the floating castles of the gods and the metal fortresses of men.
Their walls once thrummed with violent intent, fortified by enchanted inscriptions etched for both obliteration and defense.
Now, it lay dormant, its spirit long since choked by time.
His fingers brushed along the rough stone, jagged and splintered, where wildlife coiled like strangling hands.
He felt the texture of age, but not just abandonment — there was violence baked into the stone, memories of fires that scorched flesh and magic that seared through armor.
He stepped back, eyes still tracing the contours of the shattered walls.
In his mind, he could almost see it — jade-armored warriors marching in disciplined lines, talismans glowing with lethal intent, formations burning into the earth with raw, unbridled power.
Beneath the weight of the earth, the tunnel stretched on. Its maw, jagged and uneven, swallowed him whole as he ventured deeper.
Cain kept his hands out, brushing against the cold stone walls.
He didn't dare cast a light. Not because he feared the dark, but because something about this place begged silence, secrecy — a long-forgotten corridor untouched by time
His eyes adjusted, faint gleams reflecting off symbols and carvings etched deep into the walls. Some were just scribbles — nonsense words like Mary Love Jake, while others were numbers, scratched deep and desperate, their purpose unknown.
Walking against the dust of ages, each of his steps were pressing deeper into the belly of the earth.
Hours seemed to stretch and contract, and just when he thought the path would never end, the tunnel opened up. His breath caught in his throat.
Stretching out before him was a graveyard of giants. Rows upon rows of skulls, bleached and hollow, their eye sockets eternally fixed on some unseen horizon.
Vegetation and roots clung to the towering skulls, some shattered and hollow, while others had long been claimed by nature's grasp. The farther they stood from the man at the center, the whiter and more brittle their bones became, like chalk crumbling under time's weight.
But as Cain moved closer, the skeletal remains grew more resilient, crystallized with jagged amethyst shards sprouting from fractured bones.
Their skulls shimmered like polished gems, hollow eyes flickering with ghostly light.
Teeth clenched and eye sockets narrowed in eternal fury, their expressions frozen in indignation — a lack of acceptance to a battle long lost.
Cain could almost hear their final roars echoing through the caverns.
While his footsteps sent echoes bouncing off the stone walls, the silence felt heavier with each step forward, like trudging through history's graveyard.
His gaze wandered, entranced by the sheer scale of it all. Then, at the heart of the cemetery, he saw him.
A man stood still as a statue, though long dead. His form was encased in crystalline growth, his hand frozen mid-cast, face portraying a shout of defiance.
Amethyst veins laced his body, threading through the cracks in his armor, solidifying his stance. His eyes, sharp and resolute, were preserved behind a translucent layer of violet crystal, as if he had died standing.
Unlike the giants around him, his form hadn't decayed or collapsed.
It had petrified — fossilized with amethyst and locked in place, as though sheer willpower had kept him upright.
Cain approached slowly, reverently.
This was not a mere man — this was a warrior who had faced giants head-on, who had chosen to stand firm rather than flee.
As Cain stepped closer, his eyes caught a glint of metal pinned to the warrior's chest — a badge, smooth and polished despite the decay around it.
It was unmistakable — the logo of the Syndicate. Half skull, half human, locked in an eternal grin of irony.
His gaze followed the warrior's outstretched hand, frozen in time, its finger pointing with unwavering certainty into a inconspicuous spot.
Cain's breath caught. He knew exactly what it meant. That rigid index finger marked the path — the way to the Syndicate Blackmarket.