Silence followed the collapse.
The carriage lay crushed beneath stone and timber laced with fungus; its interior sealed in darkness. Bodies were pinned together beneath the wreckage, blood slowly pooling where the rubble pressed deepest.
But within such darkness, a faint heartbeat chuckled.
A faint click echoed from beneath torn cloth and shattered wood.
The inventory, bound to its owner beyond conscious will, activated on its own. A small porcelain doll slipped free from a hidden compartment, its surface unblemished by dust or blood.
The doll's glass eyes glowed faintly.
Its human-like hair moved.
Red veins popped again on its face.
One by one, the hearts of those crushed by the rubble were drawn out, physically torn free, leaving behind hollowness and emptiness. Essence drained from them in silence, flowing as a dull crimson mist toward the doll.
The air grew heavy.
The stolen vitality moving through it.
Using the hair as arms, the doll crept slowly toward the merchant and pressed its hands against his chest.
His body twitched, a sudden jolt from the lingering electrical signal in his spine.
His flesh knit together where the ornate blade had pierced him. Breath returned in a sharp, ragged gasp. His eyes snapped open as the last borrowed heartbeat settled into his own.
The doll fell still, and its hair crumbled into ash.
Nearby, within the shattered chest, the dark blood vat trembled. The liquid inside rippled as the childlike figure slowly opened its eyes.
His hand moved as he gripped the statue tightly in his palm.
Then something familiar appeared before his eyes, the shimmering window from the System.
The system came alive again, announcing in bold text:
[Mercy Granted by the God of Death.]
Pale and small, his form seemed unfinished. He sat upright within the vat, unbothered by the blood that sustained him. In his arms, he held a statue.
It depicted a great-maned horse, its posture proud and frozen mid-stride. Upon its back sat a man with dark wings spread wide behind him. The rider's face was indistinct, worn smooth.
Fingers tightened around the statue.
"I am back."
"Rosacer is back."
He drew out the grafted sigil and activated it, his body folding inward as he reverted to the form of a rat. Taking advantage of his small frame, he slipped through gaps in the rubble and scurried toward an abandoned building nearby.
Upon reaching the designated location, he transformed once more.
This time, he returned as a man.
The features of his face formed with bubble of skin. Bone and flesh sharpened into clearer definition. His eyes darkened, his hair settling into a deep jet black. He stood naked and unmoving, as though waiting for the next step.
He reached into his inventory and retrieved a mask and the dark statue.
Upon making an outside contact, both of them shimmered, and started to be convulsed into one.
A dark mask with wings on its surface took shape.
As he placed it over his face, it began to glimmer faintly, adjusting itself to his features. The surface moved, flowing downward as its hue deepened into darker tones. The mask extended, reshaping itself into a suit that spread across his body.
The suit hardened as it formed, plates locking together with subtle precision. It resembled armor more than fabric, sturdy and deliberate, built for endurance.
When the transformation was complete, Rosacer stood still for a moment, fully restored, concealed, and whole once more.
He slowly drew the gun, raising it toward the darkness, and pulled the trigger.
A shape burst from the shadows and into the light.
"Aaron!" it cried.
As Rosacer's eyes adjusted, the figure became clear. It was a girl with ordinary features, unremarkable in every way. His lips trembled, regret and pain surfacing before he could stop them.
"I am sorry," he said. The words escaped on their own.
Elizabeth ran toward him and wrapped her arms around his body. Tears welled in Rosacer's eyes as he stood there, unmoving, the gun lowering from his hand.
He cried in her arms.
After composing himself, he told her everything that had happened to him. His voice quivered when he spoke of the moment, he abandoned her, of the fear and cowardice that had guided his choice.
Elizabeth remained silent as she listened.
When the exchange finally ended and their stories were laid bare, both of them looked at each other and exhaled slowly. They had endured far too much.
"So, what now?" Rosacer asked quietly. "You are still going to complete his quest? Josan and his men tried to kill me."
"I do not know," she said quietly. "But I cannot simply disappear. Josan has an ability to teleport. I cannot outrun him, especially while we are bound within Mist City."
She did not pause, as though stopping would cause the fear to surface.
"I am not free on my own either. The organization I told you about still has work for me."
Elizabeth had joined an organization known as the March of Midnight Sons. She was no longer a mere operative but an important member, valued for her access and discretion. She had entered their ranks for a single reason. Information.
Something from her past continued to haunt her, a shadow that traced back to the obscure City of Brewing, Crescitlok.[1]
And until she uncovered the truth buried there, neither the city nor her fate would release her.
Rosacer nodded.
"Then it seems we must wait until you are finished."
Elizabeth returned the gesture with a firm nod.
"Go to the Eastern Sector," she said. "Jaka, the Jester of Emasculation, is considerably safer than this place. Stay there until I am done here."
"I cannot leave you again and run to safety," he cried.
"As long as they are after you, anyone near you will only suffer," she replied. Her words were bitter, and they cut deep into Rosacer's psyche.
She met his gaze without flinching. "You came to Mist City to become stronger, did you not? Then go to the Eastern Sector."
Rosacer did not argue further. He knew she was right. Yet his resolve was not broken. He would return. Not only for Elizabeth, but for revenge against the Men in Black.
They spoke quietly for a while longer. When the time came, Elizabeth turned away, her destination far removed from his own.
"Goodbye, Mr…" she paused, then finished softly, "Rosacer."
Rosacer answered with a small nod, watching her disappear into the mist.
[1] The real name of the Mist City, back when the Dream God was alive.