The silence was heavier than the noise.
The ringing in his ears from the final explosion underground had finally ceased. The only sounds remaining were the rhythmic crunch of Draven's boots on metal grates and the intake of cold, stale air into his lungs. The sterile, ozone-scented atmosphere of Sector 9 was gone. Now, the familiar smells returned: rust, damp earth, and rotting wood. The smell of the mines. The smell of graves.
Draven paused to catch his breath. He instinctively reached for his left hip, but his fingers brushed against empty air. The Peacekeeper was gone. That magnificent revolver had sacrificed itself to trap High Inquisitor Valerius inside a singularity. The cylinder had melted, the barrel twisted, and the mechanism fused into a lump of slag. Draven had left it there, on the bridge.
"A fair trade," he muttered to the darkness. A weapon in exchange for the leader of the Inquisition's Northern branch. Mathematically, it was a profit. But practically, he felt naked. He checked the Northern Cavalier Saber at his waist. The blade was full of notches. The strikes against Valerius's adamantine staff had stressed the steel. A few more hard hits, and it would snap.
"I need a gun," Draven said. His voice had lost that inhuman, metallic reverb and returned to his own cold, calm tone. But his body had changed. With his new class, [Spell-Breaker], his muscles felt denser, his bones harder. The blue veins beneath his skin no longer glowed constantly; they only emitted a faint light when he took a deep breath or focused.
[ Status Check ] HP: 48% (Slowly regenerating) Stamina: 30% Mana: 0 / 0 (Perpetually hungry)
Hunger. It wasn't the biological hunger of an empty stomach. It was a void beneath his skin, in his very cells. He wanted to absorb the micro-mana floating in the air, but the mana here was dirty. It was weak energy mixed with mine dust. "We'll manage," he said, and continued climbing.
The path to the surface was long and winding. He followed the footprints of the fleeing soldiers. They were in a panic. It was obvious from the tracks; some had fallen, others had discarded their heavy equipment to run faster. Draven stopped by an abandoned backpack. He rummaged through it. A flask of water. A pack of dried meat. And a box of standard prayer incense. He drank the water. He pocketed the meat. He threw the incense on the ground. He didn't have time to pray.
About twenty minutes later, he reached the mine entrance, the site of the very first explosion. The entrance was still blocked by piles of rubble, but the soldiers had cleared a narrow passage to escape. Cold air whistled through the gap. Outside, there was a storm.
Draven popped the collar of his newly acquired Basilisk Hide Trench Coat. This coat wasn't just for style; the material was so dense it cut the wind like a wall. The magical weave trapped his body heat inside. He crawled through the hole.
And stepped into the freezing hell of the Iron Pass.
Night had fallen. The snow was coming down horizontally. Visibility was reduced to a few meters. The wind howled between the mountains like a dying beast. But Draven's Awareness: 14 (increased by the level up) filtered the sound of the wind. He heard other things. Horse whinnies. The clatter of metal. Shouting.
Down below, in a sheltered corner of the valley, the Inquisition camp was in total chaos. The fleeing soldiers had reached the camp and spread the news: Valerius is dead. A monster is coming from the mines.
Draven crouched on a ridge, watching them. Normally, an army would seek revenge when their commander died. But the Inquisition was different. They were ruled by fear. And learning that the thing they feared (Valerius) had been destroyed by something worse had broken their discipline. The Black Carriages were being prepped. They wanted to pack up and leave. But the storm wouldn't let them.
"Perfect," Draven said. He needed to get down there. Walking to the nearest city in this blizzard would take days. There was a risk of freezing to death. He needed a mount. And down there, the things pulling those black carriages weren't normal horses.
[ Target Identified: Night-Mare ] [ Type: Corrupted Beast ] [ Danger Level: High ]
These horses were mana-infused carnivores with manes that burned with magical fire. Only the Inquisition's specialized mages could control them. Draven smiled. "Let's see if they like my mana."
Infiltrating the outer perimeter of the camp was child's play with Agility: 16 and the cover of the storm. The sentries were shivering, looking inward at the campfires rather than outward. Their fear was directed at the uncertainty inside, not the darkness outside. Draven drifted through the shadows like a ghost.
As he slipped behind a tent, he heard two soldiers talking. "Did you see it?" one whispered, his voice trembling. "The Lieutenant said that thing ate the High Inquisitor. Ate him! Sucked all his magic out and then exploded him." "Don't talk nonsense," the other said, gripping his spear so tight his knuckles were white. "Nothing eats magic. That's just a legend." "Valerius didn't come back! No one came back from that bridge!"
Draven reached into his pocket as he listened. Ring of the Silver Keys. The loot from Valerius. This ring didn't just open locks. It was a symbol of authority. It caused nearby Inquisition seals to vibrate.
Draven made his plan. Killing the soldiers was a waste of time. And it would make noise. His target was the horses tethered at the edge of the camp.
He circled behind the tents and reached the stables. Three Night-Mares were chained to heavy iron stakes driven into the frozen ground. Normal horses would be shivering in this cold. These beasts were steaming. Their skin was coal-black, their eyes burned like embers. Their manes and tails flickered with an illusion of fire created by mana. They smelled meat. When Draven approached, the nearest horse turned its head and snarled. Yes, it didn't whinny; it snarled. The teeth in its mouth did not belong to a herbivore.
Draven didn't stop. The horse reared, straining against its chains, trying to crush Draven with its front hooves. Its hooves sparked with fire. "Easy," Draven said. He raised his hand. [ Skill: Mana Eater ]
The magical fire in the horse's mane was an attack mechanism. Pure, aggressive fire mana. Draven placed his hand on the horse's neck. The horse tried to bite, but then it froze. Because Draven wasn't hurting it. He was relieving it.
These creatures were in constant pain due to the burning mana forcibly circulated through their veins. The Inquisition controlled them through pain. Draven was sucking that mana out. The flames in the horse's mane died down. The mad rage in its eyes was replaced by a numb calmness. The animal's muscles relaxed. For the first time in years, the burning sensation in its veins stopped.
Draven stroked the horse's head. "They were using you," he whispered. "I'm going to use you too. But at least the pain will stop."
The horse rested its head on Draven's shoulder. Like a cat. Draven looked at the chain lock. He touched the ring on his finger to the lock mechanism. Click. The heavy iron cuff sprang open.
Draven vaulted into the saddle. The saddle was made for Inquisition officers; comfortable, with a weapon scabbard attached. Inside the scabbard was a long-barreled Rifle. Draven pulled it out. Checked the mechanism. Standard Inquisition Carbine. Bolt-action. Simple, robust. "Better than nothing," Draven said, slinging the rifle across his back.
He grabbed the reins. The horse's mane ignited again, but this time it burned with a cool blue hue. It was resonating with Draven's mana. "Let's go," Draven said.
The horse rose on its hind legs and lunged forward like a clap of thunder.
He didn't have to ride through the middle of the camp, but Draven wanted to leave a message. He steered the horse onto the main path between the tents. In the middle of the storm, a figure appeared atop a black horse spewing blue flames, a black trench coat billowing in the wind. The sentries froze. "Ghost!" one screamed. "Rider!"
Draven drew his damaged saber as he rode at a full gallop. He swung the sword as he passed an officer's tent. The tent ropes snapped, and the canvas flew away into the wind, burying the map table and strategic plans inside under the snow.
An archer fired in panic. The arrow flew toward Draven's shoulder. [ Skill: Ether-Skin ] (Passive) The thin layer of mana distortion over Draven's skin shimmered. The arrow shattered in mid-air before it could touch him.
Draven reached the camp's exit gate. It was closed. A barricade made of thick logs. The horse didn't hesitate. Neither did Draven. "Break it," Draven commanded, sending a pulse of mana down the reins. The Night-Mare surged with power. Its speed doubled. It slammed into the barricade with its chest.
CRACK. Wood turned to splinters. Iron hinges snapped. The horse and rider smashed through the gate and plunged into the dark valley. Leaving behind only destruction, fear, and a trail of blue fire.
An hour later, the lights of the camp were far behind. Draven slowed the pace. The horse was tired but not exhausted. Draven's presence was feeding it. The storm had lessened slightly. The moon offered a pale light through the clouds.
Draven had reached the exit of the Iron Pass. From here, the path opened up to the vast tundras of the North. He stopped the horse and pulled out his map. With fingers cracked from the cold, he unfolded it.
Current Location: West end of the Iron Pass. Nearest Settlement: Northern Outpost - He couldn't go back. It would be swarming with Inquisition. Other options: East: The Frozen Lake. Nothingness. North: Barbarian Tribes. Dangerous and isolated. West... there was a small, faded mark on the map.
"Crow's Perch." Neutral Territory. It was a mountain town that neither the Northern Alliance nor the Barbarians fully controlled. A gathering place for smugglers, mercenaries, and deserters. Black Market. Gun runners. And information. Exactly Draven's kind of place.
But getting there would take two days. And he was low on food. More importantly, the Inquisition wouldn't stop. Valerius might be dead, but when the news reached the capital, they would send an army. He was on borrowed time.
He pulled The Eye of the Zealot from his pocket. The red stone vibrated slightly in his palm. He re-read the item description. Can detect lies. But there was a small note underneath, a passive trait he hadn't noticed before: Resonates with Law.
Draven focused on the stone. He held it up to his eye. Looking at the world through the stone, he saw the snowy valley through a red filter. And back the way he came, he saw a thin, golden pillar of light rising into the sky. Inquisition magic. A tracking spell. They weren't coming after him. Not yet. The pillar was stationary. They were regrouping at the campsite. Waiting for reinforcements.
"They're scared," Draven said, pocketing the stone. "That's good. Fear slows them down."
He patted the horse's neck. "What should I name you?" he asked. The horse huffed, smoke pouring from its nostrils. "Fine," Draven said. "Cinder. It's not creative, but it suits you."
He turned the horse West, toward Crow's Perch. Just then, the System filled his vision with a notification.
[ ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED: THE ESCAPE ] [ Reward: 1000 XP ] [ LEVEL UP! ] [ Level 16 -> Level 17 ]
[ New Stat Point Available: 2 ]
Draven thought. Strength 18 was enough. For now. Agility 16 was good. Endurance 12 was a bit low. His wounds healed fast, but he took too much damage when hit. Will 20 was already maxed (Tier 1 Cap).
He put both points into Endurance. His bones thickened slightly. His skin toughened. The cold was no longer a discomfort; it was just background noise.
[ Endurance: 14 ]
And then, the System opened a new quest tab.
[ MAIN QUEST ] [ Objective: Establish a base of operations. ] [ Sub-Objective: Find an Artificer to repair/upgrade weapons. ] [ Sub-Objective: Gather allies (0/3). ]
Allies. Draven laughed. A dry, joyless laugh. There were no allies in this world. Only useful people and obstacles. Elara, the AI woman, had said "gather allies." The System said the same. Maybe they were right. He could be a one-man army, but winning a war required logistics.
"Crow's Perch," Draven said. "Let's see what kind of rats live there."
He kicked his heels. Cinder left a trail of blue flame on the fresh snow as they plunged into the night. The hunter wasn't running anymore. The hunter was moving to a new hunting ground.