The underrealms beneath Neo-Eldoria had always been a graveyard of secrets.
Long before the Merge fused magic and tech, before the spires rose and the wards fell, the dark-elf clans had carved vast networks of vaults into the bedrock—safehouses, armories, reliquaries, prisons. Most had been sealed or collapsed during the chaos centuries ago. The ones that remained were whispered about in hunter bars: places where time didn't flow right, where shadows remembered things the light had forgotten.
Liora's coordinates led to one such vault—deep below Sector 9, in the catacombs the Guardians had once cleared of echo rifts. The entrance was a nondescript maintenance hatch in an abandoned mag-lev tunnel, now overgrown with black vines that pulsed faintly like veins.
The team descended in silence.
Malcolm led, Veil of Eternal Night cloaking his steps in perfect shadow. Margarita followed close, rifle low but ready, golden eyes scanning every corner. Gronk brought up the rear—hammer resting on his shoulder like a promise. Kira's augmented arms glowed softly, mapping the tunnel in real-time. Elara moved like a ghost, arrow nocked, listening for anything that didn't belong.
The air grew colder the deeper they went. The Eater stirred—not hunger, but recognition. These tunnels remembered its kind.
Malcolm: (voice low) "She said Darius is trying to awaken something larger."
Margarita: "Larger than the Devourer we just killed?"
Malcolm: "If it's in a Thorne vault… yes."
They reached the vault door—an obsidian slab etched with silver runes that flickered when Malcolm approached. The Eater pulsed in response. He placed a hand on the surface.
Malcolm: "Blood calls to blood."
The runes flared crimson-gold. The door parted with a sigh of ancient mechanisms.
Inside: a vast circular chamber lit by floating orbs of captured starlight. Shelves lined the walls—artifacts in stasis fields, sealed grimoires, crystalline vials of void essence. At the center stood a raised dais holding a single, massive obsidian sphere—cracked, leaking thin tendrils of darkness.
Darius Voss knelt before it, hands pressed to the surface, chanting in low, guttural tones. Around him lay the bodies of three void cultists—sacrificed, their essence already feeding the sphere.
He looked up as the Guardians entered.
Darius: "You're late."
Malcolm stepped forward, cloak rippling.
Malcolm: "You're done."
Darius laughed—sharp, unhinged.
Darius: "I'm just beginning. The Spire was weak. The Guild was weak. But this—" he gestured to the sphere "—this is power without limit. A true Cosmic Devourer, slumbering since the Merge. All it needs is a key."
He looked at Malcolm.
Darius: "Your blood. Your fragment. You were always meant to be the key."
The sphere cracked wider. Tendrils lashed out—seeking Malcolm.
He triggered Blood Eclipse.
Shadows swallowed the chamber. Time slowed. The pocket domain formed—golden Noor veins threading through the dark. The tendrils froze mid-reach.
The team struck.
Gronk charged—hammer smashing cultist corpses into mist. Kira unleashed lightning chains that arced through the domain, supercharging every blow. Elara's arrows flew in slow-motion, each one bursting into purifying fire on impact. Margarita moved like liquid—pistols and rifle singing, destabilizer rounds unraveling the sphere's outer shell.
Malcolm closed the distance.
Darius tried to counter—storm winds rising around him—but the domain was Malcolm's now. Purifying Lash wrapped the councilor's arms, burning away his gathered power.
Darius: (snarling) "You can't stop it! The void always wins!"
Malcolm: "Not today."
He plunged Shadowfang into the sphere's core—channeling Blood Resonance. Thorne blood met void essence. The sphere shrieked—a sound like reality tearing.
Malcolm poured everything into it: faith, light, the memory of his father's words, Margarita's hand on his shoulder in every quiet moment, the laughter of the ward children, the weight of every life they'd saved.
Golden cracks spiderwebbed across the obsidian.
The sphere imploded—not in void, but in blinding light.
The domain collapsed.
The chamber fell silent.
Darius lay unconscious—alive, but broken. The cultist bodies had dissolved. The vault's orbs dimmed, then reignited softer, warmer.
Liora stepped from the shadows—she had followed unseen.
Liora: "You sealed it."
Malcolm: "We sealed it."
She looked at the unconscious Darius, then at Malcolm.
Liora: "He'll face trial. The council is already moving. But this vault… it's yours now. Thorne legacy. Use it wisely."
Malcolm shook his head.
Malcolm: "It's not mine. It's ours."
He turned to the team.
Malcolm: "No more secrets. No more hidden power. Everything here—artifacts, knowledge, essence—goes to the ward. To the people who need it."
Liora's silver eyes widened—then softened.
Liora: "Elandor would be proud."
She placed a hand on his shoulder—brief, hesitant—then stepped back into shadow.
The team stood among the relics, breathing hard, alive.
Margarita slipped her hand into Malcolm's.
Margarita: "We did it."
Malcolm: "Together."
Outside, the city waited—fractured, but healing.
And somewhere in the underrealms, older things stirred—watching, waiting.
But the Guardians were ready.
They had light. They had each other.
And now, they had a legacy that no longer cursed them.
It blessed them.
To be continued...