The deeper Stephan descended into the Abyssal Realm, the more the air itself seemed to curdle around him. It felt meaner now, thicker, fouler, alive with a malice that pressed on his skin .
Every step forward sank him deeper into a world soaked in hatred, anguish, and ancient misery. The shadows crawled thicker across the walls, coiling like living things hungry to taste his resolve.
He knew what was happening inside him.
With every consumed soul, the dark pull tightened. The hunger that had first sparked as survival now burned hotter, addiction masquerading as purpose.
"Is the power already altering my essence?" he wondered, lips curling into a humorless grin.
"Haha… no ways. Let it consume me anyway. I need more power to win this tournament."
The thought should have frightened him, but instead it steadied his heart. He was here to surpass Anna Mary and Yennefer, if he hadn't already. And beyond them, there were others. Stronger Players.
"I won't let them beat me."
The Realm seemed to hear the promise. The path dipped lower, narrowing into a long corridor of broken stone arches. Black mist coiled like slow‑drifting smoke, rolling over fragments of fallen statues whose eyeless faces had long since crumbled.
Ahead, he felt it, a pulse of Soul Energy, ancient and suffocating. Like the heartbeat of something still alive in the dark. And it called to him, cold and silent, whispering promises of power worth any cost.
On the way, lesser threats found him. Packs of Feral Wraiths crouched in ruined halls, their bone masks cracked, claws slick with lingering despair.
Stephan cut down the F‑Ranked ones mercilessly, black dagger flashing, shadows twisting to guide his strikes. Quick, clean kills, harvested before their shrieks could echo far.
But when stronger E‑Ranks stalked across his path, their veins burning with deeper crimson light, he slipped into the shadows instead. Silent. Watching them prowl past, saving his strength.
The real prey lay ahead.
[Soul Harvest complete]
[Number of Souls collected: 23]
That was how many he had claimed since leaving behind the husks of the Wraiths that had preyed on the Wailing Fragment. Each fresh harvest brought a flash of cold, hungry power flooding through him, like dark lightning dancing through bone.
The descent steepened, walls closing in until the path felt more like a throat than a tunnel. Fleshless statues loomed from alcoves, cracked halos behind heads shaped in monstrous forms.
Symbols of a faith that had died long before Stephan had ever drawn breath.
Here, the black mist hung heavier. Droplets of something thick and tar‑like dripped from the cracks in the ceiling, hissing where they struck the stone.
And still, that ancient Soul Energy pulsed stronger, an endless drumbeat under the silence.
Stephan felt the darkness clawing at him from within, whispering that this was madness. Yet he walked on, shadows curling tight around his shoulders like a living cloak.
Because power waited for him ahead.
And he would claim it.
It was like wading through the memories of a massacre: sorrow so old it felt fossilized, rage so cold it burned against his bones.
Finally, the winding descent opened into what had once been a grand chamber, now left in ruin.
Shattered pillars leaned drunkenly against one another, their once-proud carvings half-buried under drifts of black dust. Chunks of collapsed ceiling littered the floor, broken stone cracked by ancient claw marks and scorched with old magic.
Faded runes traced crude patterns across fractured tiles, some still pulsing faintly with ghostly blue light. In the corners, half-toppled statues loomed like watchful corpses, heads broken off and scattered like offerings to whatever horror had claimed this place.
The air smelled of charred bone and wet iron,so thick it bit at the back of his throat.
And at the heart of it all, he saw something.
A dark figure sat cross-legged in the rubble, still as a corpse. At first glance, it seemed almost human: draped in ragged black robes torn and scorched by battle, long white braids spilling over shoulders like threads of bleached bone.
But the longer Stephan looked, the more wrong it felt: skin pale as grave ash, faintly marked with pulsing runes; shadows clinging to its shape like living mist. Its eyes burned with cold, spectral fire, cruel and hollow.
In front of it, laid gently across cracked stone, rested a sword. Not just any blade, this one was alive with a ghostly cyan glow that ran through its jagged edges.Symbols crawled across its battered steel, flickering and shifting in patterns that hurt the eye if stared at too long.
Fragments of bone and rusted iron seemed fused into the hilt, twisted into a grip that pulsed faintly with each breath the figure took. And from the blade itself rose thin wisps of blue mist, drifting upward before curling back to stroke across the figure's pale hands like tame, hungry spirits.
Even before the dark figure stirred, Stephan felt it in his soul. A predator. Ancient. Stronger than anything he'd faced before.
And worse still, something in him answered that presence.The part of him already tainted by what he'd consumed.
The chamber held its breath. Shadows curled tighter, as if eager to see what he would do next.
This was power. The very thing he had come for.
Stephan's eyes narrowed, pupils tightening against the cold, seething aura radiating from the figure.
"Hmm… this one's strange," he muttered under his breath, voice raw from the cold air and the earlier fight. "Why is it… different from the rest?"
He tilted his head slightly, shadows at his back coiling with the motion, as if trying to read the creature the same way he did.
"It has… human features," he observed, the words edged with unease and curiosity both.
Then his gaze dropped to the ground, catching on the sword lying before it. Wisps of ghostly flame licked along the jagged blade, feeding on nothing, swirling lazily as if they breathed.
"It has a weapon too…" Stephan rasped, a humorless half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Hmm… that can't be good."
A prickle crawled across his skin. The sense of something alive behind that stillness, something watching him without turning its head.
His breath misted in the cold, tainted air.
Yet even as a chill crept down his spine, a darker thrill stirred inside him.
Suddenly, a faint chime echoed in the stale air....
DING!
[System Alert: Unique Entity Detected]
[Name: Warden of the Outer Layer]
[Type: Aberrant Soul‑Eater (Soulbound Variant)]
[Rank: High E]
[Threat Level: High]
[Function: Guardian of the Abyssal Realm's Outer Layer. Retains fragments of will and memory from before corruption.]
[Special Skill: Lament of the Bound – ignites bound sorrow to empower blade strikes and weaken the enemy's resolve.]
[Warning: This entity is far more dangerous than standard Ferals. Approach with caution.]
Stephan's pulse quickened.
A Warden… not mindless, not savage, but something that had chosen to remain. A relic of ancient sorrow, cursed to keep watch over this dying threshold.
For a moment, the chamber felt smaller, darker, as if the weight of all those ancient, half‑remembered oaths pressed down from every shattered stone.
A bead of sweat slid down Stephan's temple.Then, slowly, he smiled a sharp, hungry grin that cut across the tension.
"So… you're the gatekeeper, huh?"
The Warden did not answer. It only shifted, barely, the faintest creak of its blackened limbs, as if bones inside stone were stirring awake. The runes on its blade pulsed, the red light quickening in rhythm.
Stephan's shadow coiled around him, as if sensing the coming storm. His hand tightened around his dagger, dark mist gathering at its edge.
He drew in a slow breath, heart pounding with equal parts fear and savage anticipation.
"Alright then," he whispered, voice low, almost reverent. "Show me what makes you the Warden."
The ruined hall fell silent, except for the low hum of the sword, alive with sorrow. Before Stephan could take a step forward, the Warden stirred.
With a sound like stone grinding on bone, it rose slowly from its seat, the movement deliberate, almost ritualistic. One long, black‑clawed hand wrapped around the sword's hilt.
The blade came free of the stone with a hiss of sundered air, its runes igniting into shifting azure soul‑flame. The cold blue fire burned silently along the blade's edge, shedding no warmth, only an oppressive, crushing weight that made the air feel thicker.
For a brief moment, the Warden simply stood there, back straight, shoulders square, sword held low at its side, like a knight answering an ancient summons.
Stephan felt his heart tighten. His grip on the dagger adjusted, shadows quivering faintly around his feet.
He swallowed, voice rough but steady.
"Can you talk?" he asked, eyes locked on the hollow gaze beneath the cracked helm of shadow.
"Or are you just one of those..."
He never finished.
With terrifying suddenness, the Warden surged forward. It moved nothing like the shambling Ferals, its advance was a blur of dark grace, cloak‑like tatters streaming behind it. The azure flames trailing the blade left ghostly arcs in the air, almost beautiful in their precision.
Stone splintered under its footfalls as it closed the distance in a heartbeat, sword rising to strike.
Stephan's eyes widened,breath caught halfway in his throat, then instincts took over. The dagger snapped up, shadows flaring around him, as the first clash began.