The path south opened between hills that lost their green to turn a straw color beneath the sun. The air, which in Arkania had been fresh, began to grow heavy and laden with salt humidity. Darian and Aria walked at a steady pace, but the silence felt dense. Darian knew he couldn't hide it anymore.
"Aria, I need to tell you exactly what happened when I fell into that hole at Low Mountain," Darian said, stopping in the shade of a dry tree.
Aria turned, crossing her arms.
"I'm listening. You've been acting like you're carrying a ghost on your back."
"It wasn't just a fall," Darian began, searching for words. "Down there, in a chamber that didn't appear on any map, I found something that shouldn't exist. There was an altar, and upon it, a book. But it wasn't a common skill tome. It had an amber crystal on the cover, an eye that seemed to pulse. It emitted an aura that made the air heavy, an energy so ancient it froze my blood. When I touched it, my mind was torn from my body."
Aria frowned, confused.
"A book with an amber eye? Darian, that sounds like..."
"It's a Grimoire," he blurted.
Aria let out a dry laugh, devoid of humor.
"A Grimoire? Don't talk nonsense. Grimoires are myths, stories to scare children or legends from the Great War, from the times when we defeated the Demon King. There's no record of a real one in the last three hundred years, much less in a Rank E dungeon that thousands of adventurers have trodden. It's impossible."
"I saw it, Aria. I felt it," Darian insisted, stepping toward her. "And not only that. The book forced me to live a vision. I saw a man, a demon with fine horns and pale skin named Sarion. He was facing the Demon King beneath a black sky full of ash."
Aria looked at him, incredulous.
"A demon?"
"The Demon King was speaking to him," Darian continued, remembering the exact words that had resonated in his mind. "He asked him why, being the greatest of his lineage, he had betrayed his own for the inferior races."
Aria frowned, processing the information.
"Betray his own for us? Darian, that makes no sense. No chronicle mentions a demon on our side. If that book put those ideas in your head, it's dark magic, a curse."
"It doesn't feel like a curse," he replied, touching his chest. "It feels like a skill trying to awaken, but it's so immense that it drains my energy, all my mana, in a brutal way every time I use it. It's bound to me now."
Aria fell silent, her face shifting from mockery to genuine concern. If what Darian said was true, he held something that could destroy his life if the Empire ever suspected it.
"If that object is real, don't tell anyone else. Not a word. In this world, a Grimoire is a power that kings would kill to possess."
They continued the journey in tense silence until they crossed paths with a caravan. They were varnished wooden carriages and well-armed guards. The slavers wore silver licenses on their chests. The slaves inside—humans, elves, among other races—were chained but clean and well-fed.
"Legal slavery," Aria explained, seeing Darian's clenched jaw. "They're debtors or criminals. The Empire demands that slavers have licenses and maintain slaves in perfect condition. It's a regulated business; if a slave suffers unnecessary abuse, the owner loses the permit. It's the Empire's order, Darian."
At the end of the second day, they reached Puerto Vell.
The city was a jewel of white marble and turquoise water canals. Unlike the gray stone of Arkania, here the buildings had facades of warm-colored stucco and balconies full of flowers. The polished marble floor gleamed beneath the sun, and the air smelled of spices and sea breeze. It was a city that breathed opulence and commerce.
They headed to the Guild, a circular building of Ionic columns facing the main port. There they were received by Castor, the local Guild leader, a man of expensive robes and fingers full of rings.
"Valerius informed me of your arrival," Castor said, reviewing some scrolls upon his broad desk. "They say you have a good eye for anomalies. The Black Coral dungeon, here in the cliffs, has become unstable. It's not just that the monsters are stronger; the energy flow has changed drastically and the difficulty has escalated from Rank D to C in days. We need you to investigate the origin of this change."
Aria stepped forward, adopting a professional posture.
"Have you noticed only an increase in strength, or have you also sighted creatures outside their natural habitat, as happened to us in the north?"
"Both," Castor responded, intertwining his ringed fingers. "The marine flora inside is mutating, and the fishermen claim to have seen silhouettes patrolling the entrances that don't belong to the coral's ecosystem. Something is altering them."
"Do you have an updated map of the levels where the greatest energy density is concentrated?" Darian asked, knowing how vital orientation had been at Low Mountain.
The Guild leader shook his head.
"The local explorers haven't been able to pass the second level since the mutation. The magical density blocks the probes. You'll have to trace the route yourselves. Go, discover what's corrupting the dungeon and, above all, return alive."
After resting at an inn in the upper district, the following morning they headed toward the city's limits to enter the dungeon. However, at a bend in the path, hidden among salt rocks, Darian heard the crack of a whip.
They approached cautiously and found a precarious camp. There were no clean carriages or licenses here. Several slaves were huddled in deplorable conditions, tied to each other by the neck and trembling with fear. However, the attention and fury of the place were centered on a single prisoner.
A man of rough appearance and dirty clothes was furiously beating a wolf beastman. The slave was enormous and muscular, but he was emaciated, with marked ribs and infected wounds suppurating on the rocks.
"Get up, animal!" the illegal slaver shouted. "You're going to carry these provisions into the dungeon even if I have to drag you dead!"
Two bodyguards armed with axes watched the scene mockingly, drinking from leather skins. The beastman remained on his knees, head bowed, but his claws dug into the stone with desperate force.
Darian felt liquid rage rising through his throat. He was sick of seeing how "civilization" fed on the misery of those who had no voice.
He unsheathed his new tempered steel sword. The metal gleamed with a cold flash beneath the coastal sun.
"Drop that whip," Darian ordered, stepping into the open.
The slaver stopped, surprised, while the wolf beastman slowly raised his gaze, revealing yellow eyes loaded with a hatred about to overflow.