The winds howled as Graxion crossed the Dead Plateau—a barren wasteland of cracked earth and burnt skies, where nothing had lived for centuries. Each step was a battle, but the shadows urged him forward, tugging him toward a place long abandoned, yet somehow still pulsing with ancient purpose.
He didn't need directions. The shadow within him knew the path.
Beneath the plateau, hidden under layers of collapsed stone and petrified bone, was the Blood Forge—an ancient vault once used by forgotten gods to craft weapons bound by will, soul, and sacrifice. No map led here. Only those chosen by the Progenitor's will could enter.
As Graxion reached the sealed gate, a wall of obsidian with no clear opening, the ring pulsed.
> [Shadowblood Ring: Identified]
[Ancestral Access Granted. Opening Seal.]
The stone groaned as lines of red light slithered across its surface. Then, it cracked open with a hiss, revealing a staircase spiraling into the dark.
Graxion descended without hesitation.
---
The interior was unlike anything he had seen—walls lined with metallic veins that glowed faintly, and suspended in the center was a forge floating over a pit of churning red-black essence. Tools hovered midair, unmoving. The heat wasn't from fire—it radiated from raw emotion, the same kind that birthed shadow power in the first place.
A whisper rose from the depths.
> "What will you forge, Graxion?"
He stepped forward, and the forge flared to life.
> [Initiate Blood Forge Sequence]
[Select Essence:]
— Shadow
— Regret
— Isolation
— Wrath
He chose all of them.
His palm opened, and his blood dripped into the basin. The shadows within him twisted, dancing violently in response.
> [Warning: Shadow integration unstable. Forge may react unpredictably.]
"I don't care," Graxion growled. "Let it burn."
With both hands, he grasped the forging grip. His mind flooded with visions—every scream, every betrayal, every time he was cast aside.
He poured it all in.
What emerged from the flames wasn't just a weapon.
It was alive.
A blade of liquid shadow, constantly shifting, etched with memories that weren't just his—visions of Quinn, of war, of worlds burning and rebuilding. The weapon had no true form, only intent.
> [Artifact Created: Umbra Fang]
Type: Adaptive Shadow Armament
Effect: Feeds on enemy emotions. Grows with user's pain.
Status: Bound to Creator's Soul]
Graxion stared at it, and for the first time… he felt fear.
Not for the weapon, but for what it meant.
> This wasn't just a gift.
It was a curse in steel.
Suddenly, a presence stirred behind him.
Clapping echoed through the chamber.
"Beautiful," a voice said, laced with sarcasm and something darker. "I didn't think you'd survive the forging process. Let alone complete it."
Graxion turned, blade raised. From the shadows emerged a tall figure cloaked in ragged armor, face hidden beneath a cracked mask.
> "Who are you?" Graxion demanded.
The figure chuckled. "Let's say… I'm your future mistake."
Before Graxion could react, the masked man vanished and reappeared behind him, grabbing the hilt of Umbra Fang barehanded.
"Interesting," the man mused, unphased by the weapon's reaction. "Still incomplete. But you'll get there… eventually."
He dropped the blade and stepped back into the darkness.
> "Until next time, Shadowborn."
Then he was gone.
And Graxion stood alone, clutching a weapon tied to his soul and fate, knowing now that even within the shadows—something else was watching. Waiting.