The Keepers of Crux

The sun bled across the horizon, bathing the rolling fields of Catania in deep amber. The gentle rustling of tall grass and distant braying of livestock painted the illusion of peace—an illusion that shattered under the weight of the storm clouds brewing on the western skyline.

Ringo and Arjun moved in silence, boots crunching against the dry dirt as they approached a lone farmhouse at the edge of the plains. Its sagging porch and rotting beams suggested it had long been abandoned, a husk of a home left to be swallowed by time. But inside lurked a man worth 250,000 senecs, a ghost of war turned butcher.

Hector Vale.

Once a decorated war hero, he had been a man the Empire praised, a soldier of renown. But the Great Gas Sea had given him an epithet—and with it, madness.

Every life Hector took fed his strength, making him faster, tougher—unstoppable. But his power came with a price. The souls of those he killed did not fade. They clung to him, whispering, screaming, hungering. His mind had long since splintered beneath the weight of their endless voices, and when he set his sights on the ten-year-old son of Lord Samuel of Kirbeck, the bounty on his head was sealed.

Now, Ringo and Arjun stood at his doorstep, bringing death to a man who had long courted it.

Ringo reached for the handle, twisted it, and pushed. The door creaked open, revealing nothing but darkness. The air inside was thick, stagnant—suffocating in its stillness.

Then, a chuckle. A voice slithered through the shadows, laced with amusement and decay.

“Ringo Fischer.”

The candlelight flickered, illuminating the figure stepping forward. A gaunt, grinning man, wrapped in the tattered remnants of his old Imperial coat. His right arm was wrapped in bandages, but beneath them, ghostly tendrils of mist slithered like living veins.

“You know how many they’ve sent for me?” Hector raised his hand, fingers splayed wide. Then, a sixth. Then a seventh. “And yet—here I stand.”

Ringo smirked, tilting his revolver. “Reckon I’ll be the last.”

The temperature plunged. Shadows twisted unnaturally, taking shape around Hector’s frame. The air filled with whispers long lost—pleading, wailing, accusing.

Arjun tensed. Something moved through him.

A cold touch brushed his shoulder, unseen hands crawling up his spine. Spirits. The weight of countless dead pressed into the room.

Hector laughed, his eyes gleaming with insanity. “I see them all, you know. Every last one. Their voices never stop.” He tilted his head, twitching. “And now, I want you to join them.”

With inhuman speed, he lunged.

Ringo sidestepped, firing off a round. The bullet whined through empty space—Hector had already disappeared.

“Above!” Arjun shouted.

Hector descended from the ceiling, twisting in mid-air as his bandaged hand lashed out like a whip. Ringo barely managed to block with his forearm, but the force sent him slamming into the far wall.

Arjun reacted instantly, his gamas whirling. A razor-sharp blade lashed out, wrapping around Hector’s ankle mid-flight and yanking him down. He landed in a crouch, snarling as the spirit-tendrils around him writhed.

His wounds knitted shut almost instantly.

Arjun’s stomach twisted. “Ringo, he’s healing faster than you!”

Ringo cursed under his breath, rolling to his feet. “Overwhelm ‘im!”

Arjun surged forward, his gamas a flurry of slashes, striking from every angle. Hector twisted and dodged, laughing between every step.

“Too slow,” he whispered, his movements blurring.

Then, a bullet grazed his ear.

Hector’s grin vanished. His body locked up, shadows gripping him like invisible chains. The ghosts screamed.

Ringo reloaded in a blink, leveling both revolvers.

“Nooo! Noooo!” Hector shrieked, his head snapping back as if unseen hands wrenched him in place. Then, a breathless chuckle. His bloodied lips twisted into a grin.

“I’ll kill you both!” he howled. “My ghosts need new friends!”

Ringo strode forward, cocking the hammer. “I think it’s time they move on, partner.”

His gaze flicked to Arjun. “Behead ‘im.”

Arjun didn’t hesitate.

With one clean stroke, his gama carved through Hector’s neck. The severed head hit the floor, eyes still wide, lips still grinning—until the light inside them flickered out.

The shadows collapsed. The air grew still. The whispers ceased.

A silence deeper than death settled over the ruined farmhouse.

Arjun exhaled heavily, wiping his blade clean. “You think he’s finally at peace?”

Ringo bent down, picking up the severed head and shoving it into a leather bag. “Not our problem.” He slung the bag over his shoulder. “Easy two-fifty.”

Arjun let out a breath, nodding. “So—Kirbeck?”

“Storm’s comin’,” he murmured. “Might be a few days ‘fore we can collect. Lasts long enough, could end up spendin’ yer birthday here.”

Arjun frowned. The realization hit him. It was October. In just six days, he’d be seventeen.

The thought sat heavy in his chest. Most people celebrated their birthdays without a second thought, but for Arjun, this time of year always tasted like ash.

“Oh, right,” he muttered.

Ringo glanced at him. “At least have a drink with me tuh celebrate.”

“When you’ve been around as long as me,” Ringo continued, flashing a crooked grin, “birthdays don’t mean shit, so best celebrate while yuh still care.”

Arjun rolled his eyes. “You’ve been around longer than I have days, of course they don’t mean shit to you.”

“Fine,” Ringo snorted. “Then we drink tuh somethin’ else. Victory, maybe. Or survival.” He tapped the bagged head with his boot. “Either way, I’ll be buyin’.”

Arjun sighed, rubbing his temple. “Alright, one drink. But this ain’t for my birthday.”

“Sure,” Ringo drawled, tipping his hat. “Reckon we can still get into some trouble in Catania City.”

Together, they stepped off the porch, the wind howling behind them as they made their way to the Soulchaser—toward the storm.

The streets of Catania City were alive with the low hum of conversation, the clatter of hooves against cobblestone, and the occasional bark of merchants closing up shop for the night. The city was built on the backs of ranchers, men and women hardened by sun, sweat, and toil, yet it had grown into something more—a rugged, thriving hub where laborers spent their hard-earned coin in the many taverns, brothels, and gambling halls that lit up the night.

Ringo and Arjun moved through the crowds with purpose, their boots heavy with dust and blood from the day’s work. The severed head of Hector Vale rested in a thick leather sack, now safely stored aboard the Soulchaser.

“First stop, a drink,” Ringo muttered. “Then we figure out how long we’re stranded here.”

They made their way downtown, weaving between drunks and dockworkers until they found themselves outside the Stallion, a well-worn tavern with a reputation for good drinks. The wooden sign swayed in the night breeze, its painted horse faded with age, but the warm glow of lights inside promised a welcome reprieve.

Inside, the place was alive with noise. A fiddle played in the corner, struggling to be heard over the laughter and arguments filling the air. Ranchers and traders packed the long wooden tables, their voices raised as they boasted of deals struck and wagers won. The scent of grilled meat and spilled ale clung to the walls, thick and familiar.

Arjun slid into a corner table while Ringo made his way to the bar.

When he returned, he set down a fine Ioan whiskey for himself and a stein of Aurum—the finest Hoeprian mead in the Empire—before Arjun. The thick golden liquid glowed in the candlelight, its rich scent wafting up from the cup.

“Yer liquid gold,” Ringo said, pushing the stein toward him.

Arjun nodded, gripping the handle. “Thanks.” His voice was flat, distant.

Ringo swirled his whiskey, watching the amber liquid catch the light. “Yuh never wanna celebrate yer birthday. Why’s that?”

Arjun stiffened, his fingers tightening around the stein. He took a deep gulp before answering. “Because it’s the reason my mother died.”

Ringo exhaled through his nose, taking a sip of his whiskey. “It ain’t the reason.”

“But it is,” Arjun snapped, slamming the stein down. “I turned five, and days later, the military came knocking. They were looking for kids to send to South Alsium. My mother knew what that meant—knew I’d be sent to die on the frontlines.” His jaw clenched. “So she made sure I escaped. And she didn’t.”

Ringo nodded slowly. “That ain’t on you.”

“Then who is it on?” Arjun challenged. His voice was low, sharp.

Ringo leaned back, letting the silence settle before answering. “The Empire’s a fucked-up place, kid. Ain’t ever gonna be fair. No child should be drafted into a war. But it wasn't yer fault. Yuh didn’t make that choice—they did.” He tapped his glass against the table. “If yuh let it eat at yuh, yuh let them win.”

Arjun stared into his mead, the golden liquid rippling from the weight of his thoughts.

Ringo took another sip. “Yuh think she’d want yuh tuh sulk every year?”

Arjun sighed. “I guess not.”

“Then have a drink. Enjoy yerself.” Ringo raised his glass. “Yer free. That’s what she wanted. And yuh came out better than most.” He tilted his glass in a toast. “Happy birthday, Arjun. Yer bound fer greatness.”

They drank.

For the next hour, they nursed their drinks in relative peace, trading stories about past bounties and near-death experiences. Arjun relaxed—just a little—allowing himself to enjoy the moment.

Then, the door swung open.

The noise in the tavern dipped ever so slightly as a man draped in black stepped inside. He moved with a purpose, his sharp gaze scanning the room before locking onto them.

Arjun tensed.

The stranger approached their table, stopping just short of it. “Gentlemen,” he said, his voice smooth, practiced. “Mind if I sit?”

Ringo sighed, swirling the last of his whiskey. “Knew yuh’d come eventually.”

Arjun frowned. “Who’s this?”

The man smiled, extending a gloved hand. “Lore Master Venus III.”

Arjun’s eyes widened. “The Poly-Cruxist Lore Master?”

Ringo scoffed. “Why don’t yuh tell ‘im yer real name?”

The man sighed, withdrawing his hand and sitting down next to Arjun. “Judas,” he admitted.

Arjun’s shock deepened. “Wait—you’re an immortal?”

Judas nodded. “I’ve held the title of Lore Master since the days of King Brennius.”

“He wrote the Crux,” Ringo muttered, downing the rest of his drink. “Started the whole damn religion.”

Arjun looked back at Judas in awe. “You wrote the Crux? Were you in the Crux Wars?”

Judas smirked. “I did and I was.” His expression sobered. “But I’m not here to discuss history.” He turned to Ringo. “You already know why I’m here.”

Ringo set his glass down. “Heard someone found the Shaft. Figured yuh’d come sniffin’ ‘round eventually.”

Judas’s gaze sharpened. “I’m not here to question you about it. I’m here for the Shaft.”

Ringo shrugged. “Too bad I ain’t got it.”

Judas sighed. “Rickart’s been tracking it since late 1031. The Phantom Brotherhood found it, then the Mistheart stole it. Their last known location was a deserted island north of the Central Minor Markets.” He leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. “The Soulchaser was there. We know it was.”

Arjun’s stomach sank.

Judas continued, his tone measured. “Rickart believes one of our own was involved. I came personally to handle this—to make sure it doesn’t escalate. If you give it to me now, I can bury this. Rickart will report that it was recovered on the island. No one else has to know.”

Ringo met Judas’s gaze without flinching. “Wish I could help yuh, partner.” He smirked. “But I don’t have it.”

Judas studied him, eyes narrowing slightly. Measuring. Weighing.

Then, after a long silence, he nodded.

“Very well,” Judas said smoothly. “Must have been a mistake.” He stood, adjusting his coat. “It was a pleasure seeing you both.” He tipped his hat before turning on his heel and disappearing out the door.

Ringo watched him go, then exhaled through his nose. “Well, shit.”

Arjun tensed. “What?”

Ringo leaned back in his chair. “We gotta go.”

Arjun’s heart pounded. “You think he bought it?”

“Not a chance in hell,” Ringo muttered, standing up. He tossed a small stack of senecs onto the table. “He’s sendin’ an army of immortals after us.”

Arjun paled. “Then let’s give them the Shaft! It’d be in good hands, no?”

“The Lost God ain’t good hands,” Ringo said darkly, adjusting his coat. “If they get it, it’s all over.”

Arjun hesitated. Then, with a slow nod, he followed Ringo toward the door. “Then let’s move fast.”

By the time they stepped out of the Stallion, the sky had split open, unleashing a torrent of rain that pounded against the stone streets. Lightning flashed in the distance, illuminating the darkened city in ghostly light.

“Shit,” Ringo muttered, adjusting his hat as he and Arjun broke into a run.

The streets were nearly empty now, save for a few stragglers rushing for shelter. The storm had come fast, too fast to be natural. By the time they reached the docks, their boots were slick with mud, and the Soulchaser swayed against the wind, its ropes straining against the mooring.

Ringo swung the ship’s door open and stomped inside, shaking the rain from his coat as Arjun followed. Without hesitation, he made his way to the storage bay, pulling up a loose floor tile to reveal a hidden cache of artifacts, weapons, and contraband.

In the center of it all lay the Shaft of Crux.

Ringo grabbed it, gripping its cold, unnatural metal. Even through his gloves, he could feel the power pulsing within it, something old and patient. Something watching.

He exhaled sharply. “They’re already here.”

Arjun furrowed his brow. “How do you know?”

Ringo didn’t take his eyes off the Shaft. “Reckon at least five of ‘em are on Catania.” He motioned toward the storm outside. “And that rain? That ain’t normal. That’s gotta be the Lost God.”

Arjun’s face twisted in confusion. “The Lost God? He’s still around?”

Ringo let out a humorless chuckle. “Still around? Kid, he’s the one pullin’ the strings. He runs the Keepers of Crux.”

Arjun swallowed, glancing at the Shaft. “Then we’re dealing with something bigger than just a few immortals.”

Ringo set the Shaft down beside him and started digging through the rest of the hidden stash, his movements urgent.

Arjun tilted his head. “What else are you looking for?”

Ringo didn’t look up. “Anything tuh give us a chance at survivin’ this.”

Arjun crossed his arms. “We’ve handled some serious opponents over the years. You don’t think we can take them?”

Ringo stopped and turned toward him. His expression was grim. “Yuh ain’t never fought an immortal, kid.”

Arjun frowned. “I fought you when Valeria possessed me. And Kaelen back in Sufar. I held my own.”

Ringo laughed dryly. “Those weren’t real fights.” He leaned back against the storage crate, arms crossed. “I wasn’t tryin’ tuh hurt yuh back then. Neither was Kaelen. He was testin’ yuh—play-fightin’ if yuh will.” He narrowed his eyes. “Yuh saw how he fought that group at the Ember Forge. He didn’t exactly let ‘em throw some dirt in his face to get the upper hand.”

Arjun clenched his jaw. “I was fifteen back then. I’ve got more experience now.”

Ringo sighed, rubbing his temples. “Yuh don’t get it.” He stepped forward, leveling a hard gaze at Arjun. “Yer still mortal. Yuh might be able tuh take on regular epithets, but immortals? They got their powers, sure, but they also got millennia of honed skills. Ain’t a damn thing in yer arsenal that makes it a fair fight.”

Arjun’s fists clenched at his sides.

Ringo turned back to the storage and pulled something from a small iron box, hesitating before speaking again. He held it up, letting the dim lantern light catch on the white, glistening stone embedded in a leather-bound necklace.

“This here,” Ringo said, his voice heavy, “is a piece of the Angel’s Egg. Purest form there is.” He tossed it lightly toward Arjun, who caught it with wide eyes.

Arjun stared at the pendant in disbelief, his fingers brushing over the smooth, cold surface.

“If yuh wear that,” Ringo continued, “yuh’ll get an epithet.”

Arjun’s heart pounded. “You’re giving me an epithet?”

Ringo nodded. “Not the birthday gift I had in mind, but yuh ain’t got a chance without one.”

Arjun swallowed hard, still staring at the stone. “I… don’t know what to say.”

Ringo smirked. “Say nothin’. Just put it on.”

Arjun hesitated only a moment longer before slipping the leather cord over his head. The stone settled against his chest, and a sharp, burning sensation shot through his veins.

His breath hitched.

A strange sensation coiled within him, like something ancient and restless was awakening.

The air in the Soulchaser shifted—a subtle pressure, like the weight of an oncoming storm. The lantern light flickered, the ship groaning softly, as if responding to the change.

Ringo watched him carefully, arms crossed. His expression remained neutral, but there was a hint of tension in his jaw.

“Listen,” Ringo said after a beat. “Ain’t too late tuh back out. If yuh don’t want this, I’ll find another way.” His gaze was serious. “Yuh saw what an epithet can do today. No tellin’ what kind yuh’ll get—or if it’s worth the risk.”

Arjun met his eyes, his hands clenched into fists as he forced himself to steady his breathing.

“I’ll be fine,” he said, his voice firm. “I accept the risks.”

Ringo gave a small nod, exhaling through his nose. “Alright. Then how yuh feelin’?”

Arjun flexed his fingers, rolling his shoulders. His body felt off—not in pain, but… different. A strange energy thrummed beneath his skin, shifting like an untamed current.

“Weird,” he admitted, glancing down at his hands, then pressing a palm to his chest. “Like… something’s inside of me.”

Ringo didn’t respond right away. Instead, he walked into the galley, his boots heavy against the floor. He yanked open a cupboard, reaching into the far back, where he pulled out a dusty glass bottle filled with thick, yellow liquid.

He returned and pressed it into Arjun’s hands. “Drink this.”

Arjun eyed the bottle warily. “What is it?”

“A sedative,” Ringo said simply. “Yuh don’t wanna be conscious durin’ the process. When yuh wake up, yuh should have an epithet.”

Arjun nodded, uncorking the bottle. A pungent, bitter scent hit his nose, making his stomach churn. Bracing himself, he tilted his head back and gulped down the thick liquid, grimacing as it burned its way down his throat.

He coughed. “That’s… awful.”

Ringo smirked, amused. “Ain’t supposed tuh taste good, kid.”

Arjun blinked as drowsiness hit him almost instantly, the edges of his vision blurring. His limbs felt heavy, his thoughts sluggish.

“Head tuh bed,” Ringo commanded, watching him carefully. “I’ll see yuh when yer awake.”

Arjun staggered toward the barracks, gripping the doorway for balance. His bunk had never looked so inviting. He barely managed to collapse onto the mattress before sleep dragged him under completely.

As his breathing slowed, the ship groaned again.

Outside, the storm howled, rattling the hull of the Soulchaser like an omen. But inside Arjun, another storm raged—one of life and death, of something shifting, evolving.

He tossed and turned, moaning in his sleep, his body drenched in sweat. His skin burned like an open flame, yet he shivered violently beneath his blankets. Feverish tremors wracked his limbs, his breath ragged as if he were drowning in his own heat.

Then, a sudden crack of thunder jolted him awake.

Arjun gasped, his chest rising and falling rapidly. The ship’s interior was dark, save for the occasional flash of lightning illuminating the room in ghostly bursts. His body felt heavy, drained of every ounce of strength. Even so, he forced himself to move.

He dragged himself from the bunk, his feet unsteady as he stumbled into the main cabin. His throat was raw, his mouth as dry as parchment. He grabbed a glass, filled it with water, and downed it in desperate gulps, the cold liquid soothing his parched throat.

Then, he heard voices. Muffled at first, but heated. Sharp. An argument.

Through the rain hammering against the deck, he recognized one voice—Ringo. The other, deeper and edged with simmering fury.

Arjun grabbed his gamas and opened the door.

Outside, rain poured from the heavens to the ground below. Lightning split the sky, revealing two figures standing just beyond the ship’s ramp—Ringo and a tall, gaunt man in flowing black-and-gold robes.

The stranger’s hood was drawn low, shadowing his face, but Arjun caught glimpses of brown hair slick with rain and piercing eyes locked onto Ringo with burning intensity. Rickart.

“Yer startin’ a war fer nothin’,” Ringo spat, his stance rigid. His revolvers rested on his hips, but his fingers twitched near the handles.

Rickart stepped forward, his robes billowing in the wind, his presence towering like a blade ready to strike. “I know what I found, Ringo.” His voice was low, simmering with restrained fury. “You know what I see when I die.”

Ringo remained unmoved, his expression calm, but Arjun could see the way his jaw clenched, how his stance shifted ever so slightly—ready for anything.

“Then tell me, Rickart,” Ringo drawled. “What’d yuh see? ‘Cause all I did was help a friend rescue his crew.”

Rickart closed the distance between them, his breath hot against Ringo’s face. His voice dropped to a venomous whisper. “I should kill you where you stand, you lying bastard. If Judas and the Lost God didn’t protect you so much, you and your traitors would have been executed long ago.”

Ringo chuckled, stepping back just enough to put space between them. His smile was sharp, dangerous. “That what this is about? The Crux Wars?” He shook his head. “A whole new world, Rickart. When yuh gonna get over that? Don’t yer god want yuh tuh forgive?”

Rickart’s eyes darkened. He jabbed a finger into Ringo’s chest. “You’re still scheming. I know you are. You have the Shaft, Ringo. You found out Captain Kazem had it, and when he saved you from the Phantom Brotherhood, you took it. If he was really your friend—why didn’t you just burn a few souls and obliterate those ships before they landed?”

Ringo’s smirk faltered. His fingers flexed at his sides. “I was runnin’ low.”

The tension coiled between them like a wound spring, ready to snap.

Arjun remained near the doorway, gripping his gamas, waiting for the inevitable spark to ignite a fight.

Rickart exhaled sharply and turned, pacing in frustration. The rain intensified. Thunder cracked overhead, the storm mirroring the rage in his movements.

Judas wanted this done peacefully. But Rickart wasn’t Judas.

He stopped, his voice cold. “Just give me the damn Shaft of Crux, and we can end this miserable conversation.”

Ringo’s hands remained over his revolvers, his fingers hovering over the worn leather grips. “I’m tellin’ yuh, I ain’t got it. And yuh ain’t tearin’ apart muh ship lookin’ fer somethin’ that ain’t there.”

Rickart stared at him for a long moment, rain dripping from his hood. His fists clenched.

Then, finally, he stepped back, his expression unreadable.

“Fine, Ringo.” His voice was eerily calm now. “Hide it wherever you want. Because next time I die—I’ll watch you do it.”

He turned sharply and disappeared into the storm, his silhouette fading into the darkness.

Ringo let out a slow breath, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction. He turned back toward the ship, rain trickling down his face—only to lock eyes with Arjun, standing in the doorway, watching.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Ringo sighed. “Go back inside, kid. This night’s just gettin’ started.”

Inside the Soulchaser, the warmth was a stark contrast to the raging storm outside, but tension clung to the air like the lingering scent of rain. Ringo made his way to the small table, pouring himself a glass of whiskey with practiced ease. He downed all of it in one gulp before pouring another.

Arjun leaned against the wall, arms crossed, still watching him. “So that was Rickart?”

Ringo didn’t look up, only swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “That’s Rickart.” He took another drink before exhaling heavily. “Bastard’s been waitin’ for millennia tuh get back at me. And I reckon he’s enjoyin’ every second of it.”

His eyes flickered over to Arjun, studying his face. “Yuh look like shit. How yuh feelin’?”

Arjun’s usual dark complexion was pale, his eyes sunken, his skin damp with sweat. His fever had broken, and the unbearable pain had faded to a distant ache, like the memory of a bad dream. But exhaustion weighed on his body like lead.

“Like shit.” He rubbed his temples. “How long was I out?”

Ringo thought for a moment. “‘Bout ten hours.”

Arjun blinked, pressing a hand to his forehead. “I feel… just… drained.”

Ringo frowned. “Well, reckon yuh ain’t got regenerative powers then.” He leaned forward, resting an elbow on the table. “Any signs of yer epithet?”

Arjun focused, searching within himself for any change, any flicker of power. But there was nothing. He shook his head.

Ringo rubbed his chin. “Hearin’ anything weird?”

“No.”

“Seein’ different?”

“Nope.”

“Stronger?”

Arjun sighed, shaking his head again. “I just feel like shit, Ringo. There’s nothing different.”

With a grunt, he pushed off the wall and walked toward the table, intending to sit down. But as soon as his hands touched the worn wooden surface—Something shifted.

The table moved.

No—it wasn’t moving. It was changing.

The wood rippled up Arjun’s arms like living vines, encasing his skin in an unnatural transformation. His flesh hardened into smooth, grainy wood, his veins replaced by the texture of bark. His breath hitched as he stumbled back, staring at his arms in horror.

The table—where his hands had been—had changed as well. The once solid wood was now flesh, twisted and unnatural, like a grotesque piece of living furniture.

“What the fuck!?” Arjun’s voice cracked with panic.

Ringo, meanwhile, burst into laughter. “Holy shit! That was easier than I thought.”

Arjun frantically grabbed the table again, and just as quickly as it had shifted, his skin returned to normal, the wood settling back into the table as if nothing had happened. He took a step back, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

“I can… exchange my skin with other materials?” His voice was breathless, his mind struggling to keep up with the reality of what had just happened.

Ringo grinned, eyes gleaming with excitement. “Looks like it.”

Arjun swallowed hard, still flexing his fingers, still feeling the ghostly sensation of the wood coursing through his body.

Ringo leaned forward, gesturing toward Arjun’s weapons. “Try grabbin’ yer gamas. See if yuh can make yer flesh outta tyran.”

Arjun hesitated, then reached for his gamas, gripping their solid metal forms. He focused, trying to harness the same feeling as before.

A pulse ran through him.

The change was instant.

The tyran melted into his skin, spreading like liquid metal over his body, hardening into an impenetrable armor. His gamas sagged, weakened from the lack of a firm material. He extended their chains, drawing more tyran until his entire body was covered in the legendary, unbreakable metal.

Ringo let out a low whistle, watching as Arjun flexed his arms, the dim light of the cabin reflecting off his tyran-infused skin.

“Now that’s an epithet.”

Arjun let out a short chuckle. “Bet I could take an immortal now.” He smirked, admiring the sheer power coursing through his reinforced body.

Each movement felt heavier, the weight of the tyran pressing down on his frame. But his body adjusted, his muscles compensating, his strength rising to match. The last remnants of his fever faded, replaced by an invigorating surge of energy.

Ringo took another sip of whiskey, watching Arjun test his new abilities. “Yuh’ll definitely fare better.” He walked over, clapping a firm hand on Arjun’s metallic shoulder. “Glad yer up. We got work tuh do.”

Arjun nodded, shifting the tyran back into flesh with the help of his gamas. The metal melted away, returning to his normal skin. “What happened while I was out?”

Ringo moved back to the table and sank into his chair, setting his glass down with a soft clink as he lit a cigarette. “Tried makin’ a few calls tuh some old allies, but the storm’s fuckin’ with the radio. So I started puttin’ a plan together. Then Rickart showed up, and I had tuh buy some time.”

Arjun grabbed a glass and poured himself a drink, taking a seat across from Ringo. The whiskey burned on the way down, but after what he’d just been through, the warmth was welcome. “So, what’s the plan?”

Ringo tapped the rim of his glass, thinking. “Depended on what yuh could do. Now that I know, we got ‘bout an hour ‘fore Rickart comes back with company. It’s too dangerous tuh stay here. We’ll head back tuh Hector’s place. Reckon they won’t look there.”

Arjun raised an eyebrow. “And the Shaft?”

Ringo exhaled through his nose, leaning back. “Hopefully, they find out who really took it and get off muh back ‘fore things spiral into a real war.”

Arjun paused, confused. He wanted to press further, but the look in Ringo’s eyes told him to let it go—for now.

“Right… so, no chance of us finding it first and handing it over?”

Ringo shrugged, feigning indifference. “Probably back with the Phantom Brotherhood. We ain’t findin’ it. Just gotta wait out the storm and hope they don’t find us.” He stood and stretched, rolling his shoulders. “Pack what yuh wanna bring. We gotta move.”

Arjun grabbed a sack, stuffing it with spare clothes and survival tools—knives, a flint kit, and a small first-aid pouch. The rest of his belongings were left behind on the Soulchaser.

The storm had only worsened by the time they left the Soulchaser, sheets of rain slashing down in relentless waves. The muddy ground squelched beneath their boots as they made their way across the open fields, each gust of wind howling through the darkness like a warning.

By the time they reached Hector’s shack, it looked even more forsaken than before. The door hung open just as they had left it, swinging eerily with the wind. Inside, the headless corpse of Hector Vale remained exactly where it had fallen, his body bloated and stiff, the stench of decay thick enough to choke on.

Even without Hector, the house felt haunted. The presence of something unseen lingered in the air, clinging to the walls like a curse.

But Ringo barely spared it a glance. This was only a detour, he never planned on staying. So he stepped inside with Arjun right behind him.

They moved quickly, climbing the narrow stairs to the second floor. In one of the abandoned bedrooms, Ringo pushed open a window, rain immediately pelting his face. He slipped outside onto the slanted roof and gestured for Arjun to follow.

The storm stretched out before them, vast and unforgiving. In the distance, about twenty-five meters away, a single, gnarled tree stood against the wind.

“Reckon yuh can make the jump tuh that tree with yer gamas?” Ringo asked.

Arjun wiped the rain from his face and nodded. “Yeah.”

Ringo’s eyes stayed fixed ahead, his voice low. “Okay, follow me and stay quiet.”

Without another word, Ringo’s boots glowed faintly with soul energy as he launched himself into the air. He landed on a thick branch, barely rustling the leaves as he steadied himself.

Arjun exhaled, taking a step back for momentum before throwing one of his gamas. The chain snapped tight around the tree branch, and with a sharp pull, he propelled himself forward. Rain lashed against his face as he flew through the air, but he landed smoothly beside Ringo.

Descending from the tree, Arjun and Ringo moved with practiced stealth, the storm’s fury masking their footsteps. Ahead, the distant glow of Catania City flickered like a beacon through the tempest.

They advanced cautiously, utilizing the trees for cover. Arjun propelled himself forward with his gamas, while Ringo’s powerful leaps left minimal traces, their path obscured by the relentless rain.

Midway to the city, Ringo broke the silence. “Had tuh throw Rickart off our trail.”

Arjun glanced at him, puzzled. “He was listening to us back at the ship?”

Ringo shook his head. “Not exactly. Once he sees we’re gone, he’ll kill himself.”

Arjun halted, disbelief evident. “What?”

Ringo continued, urgency in his tone. “When Rickart dies, he relives a memory of the place he died in. A few hours, ‘til he revives. He can’t control it fully, but he can steer it with a thought before dyin’. Yuh did good mentioning the Shaft and following muh lead. He’ll focus on that memory, then they’ll head tuh Hector’s while we slip into the city. Buys us time tuh figure things out.”

Ringo reached into his coat and produced a small cube, pressing it into Arjun’s hand. “Take this.”

Arjun examined it, confusion etched on his face. “What is it?”

“Storage cube. Holds one item in a pocket-sized box. Yer holding the Shaft.”

Arjun’s eyes widened. “Why give it to me?”

Ringo met his gaze, seriousness in his eyes. “If things go south, they’ll think I have it. Yuh run. Head tuh the docks.”

He handed Arjun a wad of senecs. “Pay someone tuh take yuh to Crimla. I have an old friend there who’ll keep it safe.”

Ringo detailed the route: “In Crimla, go tuh Lake Eurig. Follow the northern trail intuh the Zornic Forest. Head east once inside ‘til yuh smell pestilence. Follow that trail tuh find Rhen. He might look intimidatin’, but he’s alright. Just don’t let ‘im touch yuh.” 

Arjun nodded, committing the instructions to memory. “Got it. What about after?”

“Fly tuh Satana. I’ll meet yuh there in four months. The cash should last yuh.”

Though apprehensive about the prospect of being alone, Arjun understood the gravity of the situation. At seventeen, with his newfound epithet, it was time to prove himself worthy of the responsibility to be Ringo’s partner.

They pressed onward through the storm, the wind howling like a beast hungry for its prey. Thunder cracked overhead, shaking the ground beneath them. The rain fell in torrents, heavy enough to blur their vision, soaking them to the bone. The storm wasn’t natural—not entirely. The Keepers of Crux undeniably responsible.

Even so, the distant glow of Catania City cut through the downpour, a beacon in the relentless dark. They picked up the pace, boots sinking into the mud as they pushed toward salvation.

By the time they reached the outskirts, their breath came in ragged gasps. They didn’t stop until they found the first source of shelter—the Red Barn Inn & Tavern.

The moment they stepped inside, warmth enveloped them. The thick scent of spiced stew and ale filled the air, accompanied by the rowdy hum of conversation. Catanians huddled together, dodging the storm with drinks in hand while alewives flitted between tables, balancing trays of steaming bowls and frothing mugs.

Ringo exhaled slowly, shaking the water from his hat and coat as he scanned the room. A good crowd. Public enough to keep the Keepers at bay—for now. He motioned for Arjun to follow, and they made their way to an empty corner table.

They sat, peeling off their soaked jackets and draping them over the chairs. Ringo removed his hat, running a hand through his damp, silver hair before setting it beside him.

An alewife appeared almost immediately, a warm smile on her face. “What can I get y’all?”

“Whiskey, neat.” Ringo gestured toward Arjun. “An Aurum and stew for him.”

She nodded and disappeared into the kitchen. Moments later, she returned, placing a steaming bowl and a golden-hued mead in front of Arjun, then setting Ringo’s whiskey down with a soft clink.

Ringo handed her a stack of senecs. “Keep the change, darlin’.”

She grinned. “Appreciate it. Anything else I can get yuh?”

“That’ll be all fer now,” Ringo said with a wink before taking a sip of his drink.

The alewife left them alone, and for a moment, there was only the steady murmur of the tavern around them. Arjun stared into his stew, swirling the wooden spoon through the thick broth before sighing and taking a sip of his mead.

“So we’re just gonna sit here and get drunk while they hunt us down?” he muttered.

Ringo set his glass down with a soft thud. “Relax. I reckon I bought us at least half a day. More importantly, we’re in public. They ain’t keen on exposin’ the Keepers of Crux tuh the world. When they find us, they’ll wait ‘til they got us alone.”

Arjun frowned. “Okay, so we just sit here until they give up? What’s your plan?”

Ringo took another sip, savoring the warmth before answering. “Yuh need tuh eat and rest up. That’s why we’re here. After this, we’ll get a room, and I’ll start lookin’ fer an artifact on Catania that’ll get us outta here ‘fore they find us.”

“And then we’re going to Gorea together?”

“Hopefully,” Ringo said, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “If things go south, yuh know plan B.”

Arjun hesitated, then nodded. The fact that Ringo even had a backup plan meant this was serious. Ringo never had a plan B. Not like this.

Ringo watched him for a moment before leaning back, eyes flicking toward the rain-streaked windows. The Keepers were out there, somewhere. Watching. Waiting.

But for now, there was nothing to do but eat, drink, and prepare for the storm yet to come.

“Just eat,” Ringo murmured, his gaze returning to the amber liquid in his glass. “Let the mead calm yer nerves, and get some rest. When it’s time tuh move, we’ll be ready.”

Arjun finished his meal in silence, the weight of the trip pressing down on him. By the time he drained the last of his mead, Ringo was already on his third whiskey, the burn of the liquor doing little to dull the tension in the air.

Ringo leaned back in his chair and waved down the alewife. She had been keeping an eye on them all night, no doubt drawn by Ringo’s generous spending. She smiled as she approached, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“Another round?” she asked, eyeing Ringo’s half-empty glass.

Ringo shook his head. “How much fer a room?”

The alewife’s smile faltered slightly. “Storm’s filled up near every bed we got. Not much left.”

Ringo pulled out a thick wad of senecs and flicked through them with practiced ease, shaking it at her. “I asked how much?”

She glanced around, lowering her voice. “Three hundred.”

Without hesitation, Ringo peeled off three hundred senecs and placed them in her waiting hand. She quickly pocketed the cash and gestured for them to follow.

They trailed behind her through the dimly lit hall, the wooden floor creaking under their boots. At the very end of the corridor, she stopped and unlocked the last available room—a fact made painfully obvious by its condition.

The small space was unimpressive, to say the least. A single, lumpy bed occupied most of it, its blankets worn thin from years of use. A tiny nightstand sat beside it, its wood chipped and stained. Hooks were nailed to the back of the door for coats, and a single candle flickered weakly in the corner. It wasn’t worth three hundred senecs—not even close—but Ringo wasn’t paying for comfort. He was paying for a place to lie low.

“This’ll do,” Ringo said, stepping inside.

The alewife hesitated. “You sure? Storm’s only gettin’ worse. Might be here a while.”

Ringo flashed a smirk. “Reckon we’ll manage.”

With that, she left them to their privacy, shutting the door behind her.

Arjun wasted no time hanging his wet jacket on the hook before collapsing onto the bed, in a drunken grogginess. Ringo, meanwhile, dug into Arjun’s satchel, retrieving the storage cube. He reached in, and extracted the collapsed Shaft. With a flick of his wrist, the compacted artifact expanded into its full form—the Shaft of Crux.

For a moment, he simply stared at it, lost in thought.

Arjun watched from the bed, his exhaustion warring with the weight of the situation. He closed his eyes, willing himself to sleep, but after a few minutes, he gave up. He turned his head toward Ringo.

“What are you gonna do with it?” he asked.

Ringo blinked, as if pulled from a trance. His gaze shifted to Arjun, studying him for a moment. “Ain’t yuh supposed tuh be sleepin’?”

Arjun scoffed. “Hard to sleep with the Keepers breathing down our necks.” He motioned toward the Shaft. “So? What’s it do?”

Ringo exhaled through his nose and set the Shaft on the nightstand. Without answering, he reached down and pulled a hunting knife from his boot.

Arjun sat up. “Ringo—”

Before he could finish, Ringo pressed the blade against his palm and sliced it open. Blood welled from the wound, seeping between his fingers. He held his hand over the Shaft, letting the crimson drip onto the ancient artifact.

The moment the blood touched the metal, the Shaft of Crux came to life. A soft hum filled the room as glowing blue etchings ignited across its surface, sending an eerie light dancing over the walls. The top of the Shaft pulsed, then projected a holographic map of Catania into the air, illuminating the tiny room in an icy glow.

Arjun’s breath hitched as he sat upright, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten. “What?”

“It’s a map,” Ringo muttered, eyes scanning the projection. “Shows artifacts.”

Arjun’s gaze darted across the floating display, his eyes landing on the small, glowing white blips scattered across the island. “How many are there?”

“Too many.” Ringo pointed to one dot in particular near the north. “If I recall, there’s a jump stone somewhere up here. Reckon the other could be on Scura. If we can reach it, we might have a shot at gettin’ outta here.”

Arjun’s pulse quickened. “We’re going now, right?”

“No.” Ringo’s tone was firm. “I told yuh tuh rest.”

Arjun frowned. “But—”

“They ain’t gonna find us that fast.”

Ringo turned to Arjun and placed a hand on his head. Before Arjun could protest, a gentle pulse of soul energy washed over him. His body instantly relaxed, his limbs growing heavy.

“But…” His words slurred as sleep overtook him.

Ringo watched as Arjun’s breathing slowed, his face finally softening into unconsciousness.

With a tired sigh, Ringo shook his head and leaned back in his chair, turning his attention back to the glowing map. His eyes lingered on the pulsing white blip in the north.

The storm outside howled louder, an unrelenting force pounding against the thin walls of the inn. The Keepers were coming. And they wouldn’t stop until they had what they came for.

Arjun’s eyes slowly fluttered open. His body still felt sluggish, but the lingering grogginess from his transformation had finally faded. The scent of damp wood and burning candle wax filled his nose, mingling with the ever-present aroma of whiskey that clung to Ringo like a second skin.

Across the dimly lit room, Ringo moved with practiced efficiency, quietly repacking their belongings. Around the doorway, Arjun noticed an intricate series of tripwires, glass shards, and weighted pulleys—makeshift traps set to buy them precious minutes when the Keepers inevitably came knocking.

“Good, yer up,” Ringo muttered, cinching the satchel closed with a sharp tug.

Arjun sat upright, rubbing his eyes. “What’s all that?”

Ringo smirked. “Had tuh do somethin’ while I waited. Figured I’d leave Rickart a little surprise.” He nodded toward the traps. “Ain’t meant tuh stop ‘em, just slow ‘em down enough tuh throw ‘em off.”

Arjun swung his legs over the side of the bed, quickly pulling on his boots and gear. His body still ached, but his newfound power gave him a strange sense of stability, as if he was made of something more than flesh now.

“We’re heading to that summoning rock or whatever?”

“Jump stone,” Ringo corrected, adjusting his holsters. “We’ll head out the window. Rickart’ll see this mess when he gets here and relive after I hid the Shaft ‘fore settin’ up these traps. Reckon he’ll also be too busy relivin’ that tuh notice us slippin’ away.”

They wasted no time. With their bags slung over their shoulders, they climbed through the window and into the storm, the howling wind nearly deafening as they dropped into the rain-soaked alley.

The journey ahead was brutal. Unlike their trek to the inn, this time they were heading deep into the northern prairie lands, far beyond the flickering lights of Catania City. The distance was nearly double what they had traveled before, and the storm only grew worse the further they went.

The wind roared through the open fields, whipping the rain sideways like needles. Their boots sank into the flooded grasslands, the mud threatening to drag them under with every step. The mist from the rain that perpetually lingered swirled violently around them, thickened by the unnatural storm summoned by the Keepers of Crux.

Arjun gritted his teeth, pressing forward. The rain battered his face, obscuring his vision, but he followed Ringo’s silhouette through the tempest, keeping pace despite the elements tearing at them.

Then, in the distance, the storm twisted into something far worse.

Dark clouds churned violently, forming massive spirals above the open fields. The air shifted, pressure dropping so suddenly that Arjun’s ears popped.

Then came the first funnel.

A monstrous column of wind descended from the heavens, striking the ground with devastating force. It tore through the grasslands like a vengeful god, ripping trees from their roots and hurling debris into the sky.

“Shit,” Ringo muttered, barely audible over the deafening storm.

Another tornado touched down. Then another.

Before they knew it, the prairie had become a battlefield of writhing, twisting funnels, each one carving a path of destruction across the land.

Arjun’s breath hitched. He had never seen anything like this. Not even the worst storms at sea could compare to the sheer chaos unfolding before them.

“Quick! Make yerself tyran!” Ringo shouted over the howling wind.

Arjun didn’t hesitate. He grabbed his gamas, letting the tyran metal flood his veins. It crept up his arms and over his shoulders, encasing his body in a gleaming fortress of living tyran. His weight multiplied, anchoring him to the earth.

Ringo, meanwhile, burned through a portion of his souls, making himself impossibly heavy. His boots sank into the mud, his body rooted to the ground as the howling wind clawed at his clothes, flapping wildly like torn sails in a tempest.

The ground quaked as the first tornado roared toward them, a monstrous column of wind and destruction. It twisted violently, a vortex of raw power tearing across the prairie, swallowing everything in its path.

There was no time to run. No way to fight back. They had to stand their ground.

Ringo and Arjun dove to the ground, pressing their bodies flat against the mud, hands digging into the drenched soil. Rain pelted them with a relentless fury, the storm’s roar so deafening that their shouted words were stolen away by the wind.

In the distance, farmhouses and barns stood no chance against the twisters’ wrath. Entire structures were ripped from their foundations, splintering into shrapnel as they were pulled into the sky. Trees were uprooted, their thick trunks spinning like ragdolls within the swirling behemoths. Livestock were sucked up, their panicked cries lost in the chaos.

The tornadoes moved like sentinels of destruction, patrolling the fields as if searching for the Keepers of Crux’s prey. The first one grew closer, its vacuuming winds pulling at Ringo and Arjun. Their clothes snapped like whips as the air pressure threatened to peel the flesh from their bones.

Ringo’s grip began to slip. His hands sank deeper into the mud, but it wasn’t enough. The winds grew stronger, a howling beast that demanded their surrender.

His eyes locked onto Arjun. “Hold on!”

He thrust his hand out, and Arjun grabbed it with his metallic grip, the cold tyran pressing against Ringo’s skin. Arjun’s other hand dug into the earth, clawing deep into the mud and rock.

But even their combined strength wasn’t enough.

The tornado bore down on them, a monstrous force of nature that defied all reason. Their legs were pulled into the air, flailing like ragdolls as they struggled to hold on. The ground buckled beneath them, and in one terrifying instant, they were ripped free.

Their screams were stolen by the vortex as they were pulled upward, their bodies spinning wildly. The world became a blur, a chaotic dance of earth and sky as they were dragged into the heart of the twister.

The rain struck them with deadly speed, needles slicing across their skin. Arjun’s tyran body withstood the barrage, but Ringo’s flesh was cut open, small lines of blood washing away in the deluge.

Debris crashed into them—shattered wood, broken glass, twisted metal. Ringo grunted as a piece of a barn door slammed into his shoulder, the impact spinning him even faster. He tightened his grip on Arjun, their bodies tumbling through the maelstrom.

The tornado reached its peak, launching them skyward. They broke through the top of the vortex, flying into the open air, weightless for a brief moment before gravity took over.

Then, before they could even scream, another tornado caught them.

The second twister sucked them in, a beast more ferocious than the first. It had torn through entire fields, devouring trees and livestock. Chunks of homes spiraled alongside them, spinning in the air as deadly shrapnel.

Arjun’s vision blurred as the world spun around him. His metal body clanged against flying debris, dents forming where the impact was strongest. Ringo gritted his teeth, the force of the wind tearing at his limbs, threatening to pull them apart.

A massive wooden beam came barreling toward them, spinning end over end, its splintered edges hungry for blood.

In the split second before impact, Ringo gathered his power, summoning a ball of soul energy around them. It solidified just as the beam crashed into it, a crack like thunder echoing as the forcefield absorbed the blow.

The impact shattered the beam into fragments, but the force was too much. The energy sphere cracked, splintering under the pressure, before shattering completely.

They were flung out of the tornado, the remnants of the forcefield propelling them through the air. The world became a blur as they tumbled downward, the ground rushing up to meet them.

They crashed into the earth at breakneck speed. The impact formed a massive crater, dirt and rocks exploding into the air. The force of the fall ripped them apart, sending Ringo and Arjun flying in opposite directions.

Ringo’s body skidded across the mud, his back slamming into a boulder before he came to a stop. He gasped for air, his vision swimming, pain radiating through his broken bones.

Arjun crashed through a fallen tree, his tyran armor protecting him from the worst of the damage. He tumbled to a halt, his body half-buried in mud.

For a moment, neither of them moved, their bodies broken and battered from the tornado’s fury. But they were alive. Somehow, they survived.

The tornadoes continued to roar in the distance, their twisting forms moving away, searching for prey that was no longer there.

The winds still howled around them, the storm refusing to grant them peace. The earth was torn and scarred, debris scattered across the muddy fields. But the chaos of the storm was nothing compared to the dread settling in Ringo’s gut. The Keepers now knew their location. And they were coming.

Ringo lay motionless in the mud, his body shattered and broken. Pain radiated from every bone, his muscles screaming as he tried to move. Rain poured down, washing the blood from his wounds, leaving rivulets of crimson in the dirt.

He clenched his jaw, his fingers digging into the earth. He’d been through worse. He’d always survived. And he would survive this.

Gritting his teeth, Ringo summoned the souls in his reserves, feeling their power ignite within him. His veins burned with energy as the souls mended his shattered bones, fusing them back together. Muscles stitched themselves back in place, his skin knitting itself over torn flesh. The pain was excruciating, white-hot agony that threatened to tear him apart from the inside out.

He grunted, a growl of pain and fury escaping his lips as his body reconstructed itself, his immortality paid for by the souls of others. It was a cruel existence, but it was his.

When the final cracked bone snapped into place, Ringo exhaled sharply, the pain evaporating. He rolled his shoulders, flexing his fingers. His body was whole again, though his soul reserves were starting to run low.

He staggered to his feet, rain pelting his face as he took in the ruined landscape. Mud clung to his boots, the storm’s fury unabated.

“We need tuh move,” Ringo gasped, his voice raw from the screaming. “They’re comin’…”

A few meters away, Arjun was forcing himself to stand, his tyran flesh clanging as he rose. His metallic body was dented and scraped, but his eyes burned with determination. He could feel them—whispers on the wind, shadows moving within the storm. The air was heavy with their presence, cold and sinister.

The Keepers were near.

Arjun’s eyes locked with Ringo’s, understanding passing between them without a word. This was no ordinary hunt. The Keepers were relentless, and they wouldn’t stop until they had what they wanted.

Ringo took one last look at the tornadoes swirling in the distance, their monstrous forms drifting away, having served their purpose. The storm was merely a herald for the darkness to come.

He tightened his fists, his eyes narrowing against the driving rain. “Ain’t got much time. Let’s move.”

Together, they pushed through the mud, battling the wind and rain as they made their way toward the jump stone. But even as they ran, they knew there would be no sanctuary. Not tonight.

The Keepers of Crux were already closing in.

They moved swiftly, the storm’s fury growing more intense with every step. Thunder cracked above them, the sky illuminated in flashes of white light. Rain lashed against their faces, the wind howling like a vengeful spirit.

They made it about another kilometer north before the weight of their pursuers pressed down upon them—a cold, oppressive sensation that prickled the skin and tightened the chest. The shadows of the storm seemed to stretch toward them, elongated and sinister, as if the darkness itself was reaching out.

“Shit, we ain’t gonna make it,” Ringo muttered under his breath, his eyes narrowing. He grabbed Arjun by the shoulder, his grip firm and unyielding. “Yuh remember the plan?”

Arjun met his gaze, determination hardening his features. “Yeah, take a ship to Crimla. Head east in the Zornic Forest and find Rhen by following the stench.”

“Good. Keep headin’ north and swing back tuh the city. See yuh in Satana in four months.”

Arjun hesitated, his eyes lingering on Ringo. “Are you gonna be alright?”

A grin tugged at Ringo’s lips, crooked and defiant. “Ain’t muh first time facin’ impossible odds, kid.” He released Arjun’s shoulder. “Now get. They’re almost here.”

Arjun hesitated no longer. He shed the tyran back into his gamas, his flesh returning to its human form. Without the weight of the metal, he moved faster, sacrificing protection for speed. His heart pounded as he sprinted up the muddy path, his figure vanishing into the rain and fog.

Ringo watched him go, his expression hardening. Then, slowly, he turned to face the storm. His hands rested on the grips of his revolvers as he squared his shoulders. A cold wind cut through the rain, chilling him to the bone.

Three figures materialized from the swirling darkness, their silhouettes sharp and imposing against the violent storm. They moved with eerie synchronization, their black and gold robes whipping in the wind.

The one at the front was Rickart. His hood was down, rain-soaked brown hair slicked back against his skull. His eyes gleamed with fury and impatience, his mouth set in a grim line.

Flanking him on either side were two others, both equally menacing.

To his left stood Adrian Black, an older man whose long, gray hair fell past his shoulders. A jagged scar crossed his face, from his left brow to his right cheek, slicing through his pale, dead eye. His other eye was a piercing green, cold and calculating. Ringo knew him well—an immortal combatant whose epithet demanded blood to fuel his strength and speed, a parasite that fed on death.

To Rickart’s right stood Marcus Trust, his dark skin a stark contrast to the glowing yellow of his eyes. His bald head gleamed under the rain, shaven smooth with ritualistic precision. The void clung to him like a shadow, his epithet allowing him to move through walls and slip between dimensions. An ancient assassin who lost his humanity to the darkness that kept him alive.

Ringo’s mouth curled into a grin, his posture easing as if he were welcoming old friends. “Well, I’ll be damned. Rickart, yuh brought Adrian and Marcus fer a little reunion?” His eyes gleamed with mischief. “What’s it been? Few thousand years?”

“Cut the shit, Ringo,” Rickart snapped, his voice a venomous snarl. “You have one more chance to give us the Shaft, or we’ll rip it from your cold, dead hands.”

“A bit harsh, Ricky.” Ringo shook his head, feigning disappointment. “Hate tuh break it to yuh, but I ain’t got it. Just like I said.”

Rickart’s face contorted with rage, and he closed the distance between them, his breath hot on Ringo’s face. “Your fuckin’ lies end here. Try somethin’, asshole, I can’t wait to tear you limb from limb.”

Ringo’s grin widened as he took a casual step back, his hands raised. “C’mon now, I ain’t tryin’ tuh pick a fight. I’m tellin’ yuh the truth. I know yuh tried tuh see me in the Soulchaser. Yuh see me with it?”

Rickart’s nostrils flared. “You know that’s not proof.”

“Then search me. Reckon yuh tore muh ship apart too. If it ain’t there and I don’t got it, where would I put it?”

Rickart’s jaw tightened before he motioned to Adrian. “Search him.”

Adrian approached, his movements smooth and predatory. His hands were cold and methodical as he patted Ringo down, searching every pocket and seam. After a moment, he turned back to Rickart. “He ain’t got it.”

Rickart’s fists trembled. “Where’d you hide it, huh?”

Ringo’s expression turned serious. “I already told yuh. I don’t have it.”

Marcus’s eyes narrowed. “Didn’t Judas say he had a kid with him?”

Rickart’s head snapped toward him. “He did. I saw him on your ship too. Where’s he at?”

“Oh, that boy?” Ringo shrugged. “Just some kid I was helpin’ out. Had Cruxium poisonin’, so I gave ‘em an epithet tuh save his life.”

“Bullshit,” Rickart hissed. “I saw you talkin’ to him about us and the Shaft, Ringo. Where is he?”

Ringo’s eyes were unyielding. “Gone. After yer little incident at the ship, I sent him on his way. No need tuh get mortals involved in immortal business.”

“Where?”

“There’s a jump stone north of here. I was just headin’ back after sendin’ him tuh Scura with it. He ain’t got the Shaft neither. I’d never trust someone else with a piece of the Staff.”

Rickart’s expression darkened. “Marcus, find that boy on Scura and bring him to Ad Alsium. We’ll meet you there with this one.”

Marcus nodded and turned to leave, his body flickering before he vanished into the shadows, stepping between dimensions.

Ringo laughed, his shoulders shaking. “Yer arrestin’ me fer what? I’m expunged of muh crimes from the Crux Wars, and I ain’t got yer Shaft.”

Rickart’s eyes burned with malice. “You’re our lead suspect in this investigation. You’re comin’ to Alsium with us for questioning. We can do this the easy way or the hard way.”

Ringo’s posture sagged with feigned resignation. “Fine, but I’m takin’ muh ship with me.”

“We’ll tow it. Put your hands out.”

Ringo obeyed, holding out his wrists. Adrian stepped forward, slapping on dampening cuffs. The weight of them made Ringo’s limbs heavy, his powers nullified.

Adrian took Ringo’s revolvers, holding them with a reverence that was almost worship. “It’s an honor to hold the legendary weapons of the infamous Ringo Fischer.”

Ringo spat at his feet, his eyes burning with defiance. “Careful with those. They’re antiques.”

Adrian’s grin was wicked. “I’ll be sure to keep ‘em safe.”

Rickart and Adrian marched Ringo back toward the city, the rain easing into a light drizzle. The wind died, and the clouds began to break, revealing the pale light of dawn.

But Ringo’s eyes gleamed with mischief. They hadn’t won. Not yet.

While Marcus headed to Scura and Rickart and Adrian marched him toward the Catanian docks, Ringo’s mind was already working. Plans and contingencies unfurled behind his crooked smile. His hands may have been bound, but he wasn’t beaten. Far from it.

He glanced up at the clearing sky, watching as the last remnants of the storm faded into the horizon. Arjun should be at the docks by now. If he was lucky, he was already gone.

He just had to keep these bastards busy long enough to ensure it.

“Yuh know,” Ringo drawled as they trudged through the muddy fields, “I reckon y’all got better things tuh do than chasin’ me around. The Lost God don’t need tuh keep babysittin’ y’all, does he?”

Rickart’s grip tightened on Ringo’s shoulder, shoving him forward. “Shut your mouth, Fischer. The only thing we’re interested in is the Shaft. We’ll see how long that mouth keeps runnin’ when the Lost God’s through with you.”

Ringo grinned. “Lookin’ forward tuh the reunion. Been a while since I saw ol’ Sneakin’ Snake.”

Rickart’s eyes darkened. “You’ll be beggin’ for death before it’s over.”

Ringo laughed, loud and brazen. “I died before yuh even existed, boy. Bring yer worst.”

Rickart’s jaw clenched, but he said nothing more. They continued on in tense silence, the storm-wet ground squelching beneath their boots.

They arrived at Catania City as the sun peeked over the horizon. The first rays of dawn lit the empty streets, the storm having driven everyone indoors. The air was crisp and still, the scent of rain lingering.

They marched Ringo through the back alleys to avoid the public eye, taking him straight to the docks. There, tethered to the pier, was an Imperial airship painted in black and gold—the Poly-Cruxist emblem etched into its hull. A ship built for speed and stealth.

Ringo’s eyes flicked to the rest of the docks, but Arjun was nowhere to be seen. He let out a slow breath of relief.

“What was that?” Adrian asked, giving him a rough shove toward the gangplank.

“Nuthin’,” Ringo said, his voice light, almost cheerful. “Just reckon this’ll be a good story tuh tell in a few centuries.”

Rickart ignored him, leading him aboard. The ship was sleek, its interior dimly lit by softly glowing orbs. The deckhands moved in eerie silence, their faces masked and their eyes cold.

They took Ringo to the brig, chaining him to the wall with cuffs designed to suppress epithet powers. He leaned back against the cold metal, grinning as Rickart slammed the cell door shut.

Rickart stared at him, his eyes filled with hatred. “You were once a legend amongst the rest of us. Now look at you—nothing but a traitor and a thief.”

Ringo shrugged. “Guess I never was good at followin’ orders.”

Rickart’s lips curled in disgust. “You’ll pay for your treachery. And when we find that boy, we’ll make sure he pays too.”

Ringo’s smile vanished. “Yuh touch him, and I’ll make sure yuh suffer. Even if it takes me an eternity.”

Rickart’s eyes flickered with uncertainty, but he quickly masked it. “You’ll never escape. The Lost God himself will see to that.” He turned on his heel and marched out, the door slamming behind him.

Ringo leaned his head back, his eyes closed. “We’ll see ‘bout that,” he whispered to himself.

Meanwhile, Arjun’s heart raced as the merchant ship’s engines hummed to life. The old airship creaked and groaned, but the pilot assured him it would hold. He stayed low, hidden among crates of goods bound for Gorea.

The Shaft of Crux was secured inside the storage cube, tucked safely in his satchel. He tightened the strap across his chest, his fingers brushing the small, compact box that carried the power to change the world.

He shivered, not from the cold but from the weight of his responsibility. It was his job to keep it safe now. And Ringo was counting on him.

The ship lifted from the dock, the mist swirling below as they ascended. Arjun’s heart sank as he looked out the window, the island of Catania growing smaller. Ringo was still down there, facing the Keepers alone.

His hand tightened into a fist. He wanted to turn back, to fight by his side. But he remembered Ringo’s words. His mission was to keep the Shaft away from the Keepers, no matter what.

“Satana in four months…” he whispered, his eyes fixed on the horizon.

The merchant ship soared above the storm clouds, the sky opening up into a sea of pink and golden hues. The morning sun washed over the world, chasing away the shadows of the night.

But Arjun’s mind was clouded. He had never felt so alone.

Back on the Keeper’s ship, Rickart stood on the deck, staring at the receding silhouette of Catania. The wind tugged at his robes, his eyes narrowed. He made his way back inside when the radio sprung to life.

Marcus’s voice crackled through the radio. “No sign of the boy on Scura. Ringo lied to us.”

Rickart’s eyes darkened. He grabbed the radio with frustration. “Find him. Tear apart every island in the Empire if you have to. I want the Shaft. And I want that boy’s head.”

He crushed the radio in his fist, his knuckles white with fury as he made his way to Ringo’s cell. “No more games, Ringo. The Keepers of Crux will end you.”

In the brig, Ringo just smiled, his eyes gleaming with defiance. The game was far from over. And he still had a few tricks up his sleeve.

High above the mist, Arjun sat alone, the weight of the Shaft heavy in his satchel. He looked out over the sea of clouds, his heart heavy with worry.

He didn’t know what awaited him in Crimla, but he knew one thing for certain. He had to survive. He had to protect the Shaft. And he had to meet Ringo in Satana, no matter what it took.

The merchant ship sailed into the dawn, the light painting the sky with vibrant colors. But the shadows below were growing darker, and the storm that had passed was nothing compared to the tempest yet to come.

The Keepers of Crux would hunt him relentlessly. And the next time he faced them, he’d have to be ready.

Arjun tightened his grip on his satchel, his resolve hardening. This was only the beginning.