Cain ran like a hunted beast, crashing through the forest until his lungs burned as if filled with fire. Only then did he stop, leaning against the rough trunk of a massive tree, gasping for air.
The bark dug coldly into his back, grounding his thoughts for a fleeting moment. Every rustle of leaves, every chirp of insects sounded like the approach of pursuit, setting his nerves on edge.
He forced himself to stay calm, listening carefully to the surrounding sounds. When he was sure no one was nearby, he pulled from his chest the small leather pouch he had taken from Deacon Lothar's corpse.
It was heavy, still faintly warm from the dead man's body.
He emptied its contents. A few pieces of dried meat and a flintstone tumbled to the ground. Then something else caught his breath.
A bronze token, cold to the touch, engraved with a radiant star, the insignia of the Morning Star.
Cain's heart lurched violently.
That wasn't something a mere patrol deacon should possess.
In his memory, only the most secret and terrifying branch of the Church—the Hands of the Cleansing Flame, hunters of heresy whose cruelty was legendary—wore such emblems.
Lothar hadn't come to inspect. He had come to hunt.
And his prey had likely been Old Iden… or perhaps the strange power now awakening within Cain himself.
The realization struck like a hammer: he had killed not an ordinary priest, but one of the Church's hounds.
Soon, the Church would notice its hound missing—and send others. Stronger, colder, and far more relentless.
Cain shivered. He'd heard the tales of those zealots who could track heresy by scent across miles, guided by holy flame and madness alike.
Worse still, the cold force that had awoken beneath the graveyard was stirring again within him. It no longer felt like a chill, but a hunger—alive and restless—urging him to feed. To seek out fear, sorrow, despair. To devour emotion itself.
He clenched his jaw, forcing the rising surge back, and shut his eyes.
He focused, calling forth that strange inner interface he had glimpsed before.
Lines of faint, glowing text appeared before his eyes.
[Soul Essence Stored: 0.7 (unit: wisp)]
[Unlockable Skill: Shadow Bind (requires 1 wisp)]
[Physical Enhancement Option: Available]
Just 0.3 more wisps—he could unlock his first real skill.
But he didn't have the luxury of waiting. The hunters could arrive at any moment. He needed to move—fast.
His gaze fixed on the enhancement option. Without hesitation, he poured all his remaining soul essence into leg strength enhancement.
Agony exploded through his muscles, as though red-hot needles were tearing and reforging every tendon and bone in his legs.
He stifled a cry, sweat soaking his back, but through the pain he felt something new being born—strength, tension, the spring of untapped power.
When the burning finally ebbed, he felt light, balanced, alive. He could almost believe he could run like a leopard through the forest, tireless and swift.
He had to return.
Not for revenge—but for survival.
His map, carefully marked with water sources and hiding places, and half a month's worth of dry rations, were all hidden under the stone slab of the old altar at the graveyard's gate.
Ten years of savings. His only chance of escape.
Drawing a deep breath, Cain melted back through the forest, silent as a shadow.
But when he reached the edge of the graveyard, his blood ran cold.
The entire place was ablaze with torchlight. Church soldiers stood guard at every exit, halberds gleaming in the firelight.
At the center, a pyre roared. Soldiers were tossing the shredded remains of Old Iden's body—and his precious forbidden tomes—into the flames.
The fire was pale, ghostly white. It gave no warmth, only a suffocating cold that crept into the bones.
Cain's heart sank. His hidden cache lay inside the cordon. There was no way through.
He was about to turn away when a sharp, stabbing pulse of emotion pierced his senses—pure, overwhelming grief.
He turned toward the west, peering past the rows of tombstones.
There she was—Sera.
The small girl who had always followed Iden around, cleaning tombstones and carrying water. She crouched behind a cracked monument, her thin shoulders shaking as she sobbed. Her red-rimmed eyes stared at the white flames, unblinking. She had seen everything.
At that moment, the ground beneath Cain's feet began to pulse—stronger than ever before. A deep, resonant thrum, as if a heart the size of the world was awakening beneath the soil, beating faster with every flicker of the pyre.
Then one of the soldiers tossed a final bundle of mold-stained books into the fire.
The world broke.
The pale flames surged upward, then turned black—swallowing the light itself.
A column of darkness roared skyward, engulfing the entire graveyard in a storm of writhing shadows.
For the first time, fear appeared on the soldiers' faces.
Cain's pupils shrank to pinpoints.
That wasn't fire.
It was emotion—fear and faith burning together into something monstrous.
Then, the system's voice boomed in his mind:
[Detected: large-scale collective fear and faith collapse. Soul Essence yield: +3.2 wisps.]
He barely had time to comprehend the gain before horror overtook him.
Within the black fire, a single thread of shadow slithered outward, fine as spider silk. It wrapped around a nearby soldier's ankle.
The man managed only a strangled cry before being yanked into the flames, vanishing without a trace.
Cain froze.
He hadn't summoned that.
The power inside him—the Wailing Veil—was moving on its own, feeding, devouring the fear and pain of everyone in its reach.
It was alive.
And it was hungry.
At that instant, he understood. The thing he carried was not a weapon, nor a mere gift. It was a fragment of something ancient and unspeakable—a creature that had slumbered beneath the world for ages, now stirring in his veins.
Through the chaos, Sera looked up.
Her tear-streaked eyes met his across the wall of writhing black flame and terrified men.
"... Gravekeeper?" she whispered.
Cain said nothing.
He looked at her one last time, then turned away from the inferno and vanished into the dark forest.
Behind him, the black flames roared higher, casting flickering light upon a half-buried stone tablet near the gate.
Upon it, old words shimmered faintly in the firelight:
They shall return, and feed upon the wailing of the world.