Whenever the artifact acted on its own, flying off to devour whatever energy pulsed through the surrounding area, Tyrus chased after it without hesitation. He didn't think; he simply reacted. Sitting still was impossible. A familiar pressure always built in his mind, and alongside that pressure came a voice. Constant and quiet, like a whisper rising from the base of his skull.

Never be rid of it. Always have it on you. Never lose sight.

The voice never called itself by name. It didn't need to. Tyrus had lived with it for so long it felt like a part of him. He might as well be considered crazy for having constant voices in his head.

The artifact itself was a mystery. A smooth, white orb mottled with black. A clash of corrupted and pure mana on its surface, permeated with runes that he had no way of deciphering. It obeyed no laws of magic he'd ever studied, which weren't all that extensive. Sometimes it hovered, and other times it sunk like a stone. It responded to corrupted and pure mana with hunger; It didn't destroy energy, but consumed it.

Where it went, change followed. Tyrus asked himself hundreds of times what purpose it served. Why it acted on instinct, without command or why it sometimes hid, and other times flared into life like a beacon. He had no answers. Only the memory that it was a gift.

It had been Wanderer who'd handed the artifact to him on the border between the Beastfolk Kingdom and the Lethos Empire. And it was also her that used her dark affinity to mess with his head and seal off parts of his memories. Even now, her actions and motives remained an enigma to him.

After months of disappearing without a trace, they met again in the Whispering Forest. After the revelation, Tyrus tried so hard to believe it wasn't Wanderer he had just fought, but only an idiot would deny it. That primary affinity, voice, and scar were no coincidence. After the initial shock, all he felt was heartache and confusion.

What compelled Wanderer to strike at him? There was no doubt in his mind Wanderer recognized him, yet instead of embracing him or having a chat, his savior was dead set on capturing, or at least whisking him away because some guy named Leader was actively targeting him. And going by that horrible, yet obvious name, they were probably the leader of Scourge.

That was the part that gnawed at him the most. Someway and somehow, Wanderer was affiliated with Scourge. How could someone so kind and helpful be under orders of an organization that sought to inflict pain and misery across Dharmere? That didn't sound like the Wanderer he knew, unless she was putting on an act when they first met.

No, that wouldn't make sense. He and Wanderer have known each other for years instead of a day, that much was certain. The Wanderer of now and the person he would sometimes see in his memories were definitely the same person. There were gaps, sure—blank stretches in his mind where things should've been. But when those fragments surfaced, they came with warmth, not fear.

She'd protected him. Guided him. But now? She answered to someone named Leader. A Scourge title, probably. Maybe a codename or just their own twisted idea of a joke. Even so, the person with that name and such influence over Wanderer was bound to be terrifying.

Tyrus clenched his fist. He hated how unsure he was. About her, and about everything. His thoughts circled back to the fight. That first moment of eye contact before she cloaked herself in shadows and escaped. Her appearance was revealed, and she'd faltered, just briefly, when she saw him.

Wouldn't a servant of Scourge have acted swiftly and decisively? But she hadn't. She restrained him. Opened a gate of shadows and tried to take him away, even though Leader wanted him dead or alive. What would've happened if he'd gone through that gate? Where would she have taken him? To Leader? Or somewhere else?

An abrupt, sharp throb in his head made Tyrus grimace; it felt like a hammer blow. He clutched his head and took a few deep breaths. Once the pain faded, he sighed and diverted his attention back to the artifact weaving through the trees and foliage like a hare fleeing from a hawk. He needed to focus, or else the speedy object would slip from his grasp.

During his sprint, Tyrus noticed something funny when trailing the orb. There were glaring tracks on the soil, to the point where impressions were made as if something heavy had created them. Those tracks so belonged to a human going by the size and depth of the impressions. It was as if someone had just hauled out a couple of barrels or barrels worth of luggage in one go, like the kind a carriage would have. Then Tyrus thought back to Royal Knight Othelia's sprint and guessed they belonged to hers.

How strong is she, anyway? I've never seen her fight before, but she must be around the same level as Grant's father and the rest of the knights. Only time I've seen a bit of her skills is when she tried to kill me. It's still weird how it looked like she had no problem getting rid of me at first glance.

Tyrus silently thanked Grant for saving him that day. It wasn't only his speed that saved him from her spear, but also Grant's own intervention that stopped her. Tyrus had no illusions that if Grant was a step slower, he'd probably be dead right now.

After some time, familiar areas of the forest came into view. He passed by the forest trail split near the ridge, the same path he and everybody else used to exit the shores. That meant that the orb must've been leading him back to the lighthouse.

Tyrus briefly hesitated after he figured that part out. Royal Knight Nessa should be battling one of Scourge's men, if that were the case. Returning after the knight bought them time to escape seemed like a poor decision. And after that whole spectacle at the crossroads, getting near the lighthouse probably wasn't a good idea either.

The artifact clearly wanted to go that way. And it always moved with purpose, even if he didn't understand it fully. Nevertheless, that shouldn't matter now that Othelia was on the scene to help. She didn't strike him as the "ask questions first" type, so she'd deal with Scourge in a matter of seconds.

"Okay," he muttered, eyes narrowing. "But if I die because of this thing, I'm haunting someone."

Tyrus picked up the pace as he neared the treeline. A wet, slimy sensation quickly encompassed his body. His pace slowed while his body grew heavier. Knowing this uncomfortable feeling, he activated mana sense just in time to see a stream of corrupted mana gliding just ahead.

Through mana sense, the landscape turned smoky, but the corrupted current glinted like a festering wound. It wrapped around branches and drifted between tree trunks like a living net cast wide.

Tyrus strained his eyes, locking onto the wayward artifact. Just like back then, when it was absorbing the mana core of the rock spider matriarch, it spun rapidly as the river of black seeped into the object. Without losing stride, the artifact zoomed forward, still drinking the inky energy.

The heavy weight on Tyrus's body decreased the closer he got to the artifact. When he was in arm's reach, it disappeared altogether. He reached out for it, but as soon as he touched it, the artifact slipped from his fingers like oil through his grasp, all the while a tingling sensation raced along his arm. Tyrus gasped as he pulled back, massaging his fingers.

"That's a new one. Looks like touching the artifact while its doing its thing is a bad idea."

Ahead of him, the artifact glided past the treeline. Tyrus kept up its pace, following close behind as it cleaned up the mess. His eyebrows flitted upward when a harrowing scene met his gaze.

More than half of the lighthouse had shattered. The remains of what used to be the entrance were now in a pile of rubble. A stream of corrupted mana leaked through the entrance and exposed ceiling. Whatever caused the corrupted mana was somewhere within the lighthouse.

In front of the ruined tower was a shallow pit dyed with crimson and ice. There were no signs of movement or life, which confused Tyrus. Royal Knight Nessa should be around here somewhere, unless her fight was taken some place else. That would make the most sense, given that fighting when corrupted mana was in the area would be the same as fighting in a poisonous swamp.

Following the artifact, Tyrus crept toward the edge of the pit, his boots crunching over shattered gravel and shattered crystals. The closer he got, the clearer the destruction became. The ground had been torn open, like ice and earth had taken turns carving out the field.

He glanced toward the ruins. Compared to the artifact back in the Wasteful Wetlands, this one here was much smaller. Previously, the cube responsible overtook an entire island, although small. Its insidious nature could even be felt even further beyond that. What was in front of him looked nothing more than a fake imitating the real thing.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

That didn't mean being in proximity with lesser corrupted mana was safe. It was only thanks to the artifact that its effects haven't come into play.

Tyrus stuck close, allowing the orb to drift ahead while it continued siphoning the corrupted mana. He watched with narrowed eyes as it pulsed again, like it was nearing capacity. Or maybe completion. What used to be a near equal mix of pure and corrupted mana along the runes of the artifact, there were more black marks now. The orb itself seemed to grow darker, too.

The orb continued on toward the rubble-ridden entrance. Tyrus slid down the pit just as a metallic stench filled his nose. Tyrus realized the crimson was blood, and the numerous puddles made his stomach churn. He grimaced and covered his mouth with his sleeve. The cold helped mask the scent, but only barely.

He moved carefully, wary of slipping on the frost-laced ground. Tyrus traversed the pit and climbed out. He turned toward the entrance, blocked by piles of stone. The artifact hovered over the rubble and entered the ruins through the colossal hole.

Tyrus searched for a way inside the lighthouse, but most of the entrance was buried under rubble, so climbing was his only option. He found a slanted slab of stone and pulled himself up. As he vaulted over the edge and landed, a wet squelch met his ears. Glancing down, he recoiled; beneath his boot was an eyeball.

Before his thoughts could spiral, the orb pulsed once more. A final, steady hum vibrated through the air as it drew in the last of the corrupted mana. For a moment, it brightened, then dulled, and the light within snuffed out.

Then came the scream. It rang out from below the cliff, ringing against the lighthouse walls.

Tyrus spun around and leaped out from where he came. Just as he reached the edge, a figure flew into view, launched from below. They tumbled across the ground and came to a stop near the edge of the pit. A spear jutted from their shoulder.

A man only wearing garments below his waist was groaning. His skin was pale white, like snow, though his irises were tainted by a deep red. Long locks of light blue hair framed his clean-shaven face.

"Grk... That damn woman," he grumbled. The man struggled to his knees, panting as he locked eyes with the weapon embedded within him. Clenching his jaw, he clasped the shaft with both hands and pulled it out.

A mighty roar ripped from his throat as he wrenched the spear free. Blood sprayed across the frostbitten earth in an arc, steaming slightly as it hit the cold air. Tyrus flinched and reached for his ring, but stopped short. The man didn't lunge. He just crumpled forward, catching himself in one hand while tossing the bloody weapon away with a faint clank. The man remained on all fours, shoulders heaving as blood trickled down his chest and pooled beneath him. His long, frost-tipped hair clung to his face and neck, strands turning crimson from the wound.

"That spear was too fast," the sorcerer rasped, spitting blood onto the dirt. "If only she hadn't ambushed me, I wouldn't be in this mess. She'll regret it! Blast it, I can't even staunch the bleeding after fighting the other knight."

His head lifted, gaze fixed on Tyrus. "Another one?" His red-stained eyes narrowed. "The ears. The tail. You must be Tyrus, the one Leader has it out for."

Tyrus blinked. The sound of his name coming from this stranger's lips felt like a blade drawn against his spine. He stepped back involuntarily, muscles tensed, mouth slightly ajar.

"Don't bother denying it, Demi-human," the sorcerer snarled, rising unsteadily to his feet. "Because of you, Johan discovered our operations. If I kill you here and now, perhaps Leader will forgive this failure."

The sorcerer staggered forward a step, clutching the open wound in his side as blood seeped between his fingers. His limbs trembled, but hatred alone seemed to keep him upright.

A rush of wind and a blur of white and silver erupted from the cliff's edge. Tyrus naturally revolved, hand still hovering near his Scourge ring. From the cliff side, a figure burst upward with impossible force. She vaulted through the air, landing in a crouch that cracked the brittle earth beneath her boots.

Unconscious but breathing, pale Nessa was cradled in her arms. A deep gash ran diagonally across the royal knight's back, starting at her shoulder and vanishing beneath her waist. Blood stained the edges of her uniform and pooled beneath the folds.

The royal knight rose to full height, her uniform torn in several places, her hair loose and tangled around her shoulders. She cradled Nessa protectively, one arm hooked under the girl's knees, the other supporting her back.

Tyrus took a step forward, his throat tightening. "Royal Knight Nessa—"

"She's alive," Othelia said calmly, though her voice was brittle with strain. "For now."

Tyrus's eyes swept over Nessa's battered body. Blood welled from the ugly, gaping wound on her back, beyond any simple remedy. Even if he poured all the mana he had left into a Healing Touch spell, he doubted it would close more than the surface.

Othelia followed his gaze grimly. She lowered her arms slightly and stepped toward him.

"Take her," she said.

Tyrus pointed at himself. "Me?"

"You're not exhausted. You're fast enough to run if things go wrong. And I have been told you are an Elemental Sorcerer with the light element unlocked. That means you should be in possession of Healing Touch. Am I wrong?"

"No, you're right, but I don't think Healing Touch will be enough. I'll try, but she'll need proper healing from someone stronger. How come you can't heal her?"

Royal Knight Othelia turned her back. "That is because I am an unblessed."

For a moment, Tyrus thought he'd misheard. Then he stared at her again, and the truth struck like lightning. He had used mana sense on her before. Every time, he saw nothing. He'd assumed her mana was hidden somehow, that she was purposely suppressing it.

But now it all made sense. It was just that she carried no mana heart like any other sorcerer. But all that did was confuse him even more. A person without a mana heart couldn't be strong and survive against sorcerers. And yet she had outclassed one. Furthermore, she was a royal knight at that and she was unblessed?

Nessa moaned, and Tyrus immediately went to work using Healing Touch on the wound. He gave Othelia a single nod. A hint of approval, or perhaps gratitude, softened her expression before she stepped forward.

Only, she didn't walk. One foot touched the earth and the next breath she was gone. Wind cracked in her absence. Tyrus's eyes snapped near the pale man.

Othelia reappeared beside her spear, crouched low, one hand already on the haft. Her hair whipped behind her in the updraft, and her stance shifted to one he had never seen before.

The sorcerer flinched at her sudden arrival. His hand jerked toward the remaining blood clots that still clung like tendrils across his body. Though their pulse was weak, the fear in his eyes spurred him on. Threads snapped into motion, latching onto nearby puddles and torn flesh, drawing what little blood he could gather into a swirling mass at his side.

He staggered upright. One hand extended, fingers clawed outward, his arm trembling as a blood spear took form in the air. Shards of blood-ice coalesced at its tip. He bared his teeth.

"As if I'll let myself be defeated by a—"

Othelia moved in the blink of an eye. She surged forward, one smooth glide that tore the wind apart. The motion was near soundless—no roar of mana, no flashy step. Just a clean, silent path carved straight toward him.

Her spear came up in a two-handed thrust. The blade pierced through the center of his chest and out the back of his torso. His body spasmed and went limp. The blood spear collapsed into droplets. Othelia released the weapon as his corpse slid backward off the shaft. His limbs hit the earth like thrown cloth, all that hatred and cunning undone in a blink. Othelia swung her spear once more, removing the crimson and gore that stained her spearhead.

"May Xorum's Realm claim you and cast you into its deepest pits," she hissed, disgust lacing her tone.

In one quick motion, Othelia's weapon disappearing in a shimmer of light into her chest. The light faded, and the woman turned and marched over to Tyrus, who was just putting the finishing touches on healing Nessa.

Because the wound was severe, Healing Touch didn't do all that good of a job. He was kneeling over Nessa, brow tight with focus. His palm hovered just above the gash that still split her back. The blood had stopped pouring, but not entirely. The wound, while diminished, was still open; its depth preventing the spell from fully mending it.

"My affinity with light is low, and the only healing spell I know isn't enough for this," he said. "She needs someone more proficient in healing magic than me. Fiona has a better spell than I do, so she may be able to close the wou—"

Othelia leaned forward and cradled her friend in her arms once more. "Fiona is the lady with the brown hair and staff? Are you positive she has the skill needed to heal her?"

Tyrus nodded, frowning. "Yes, but..."

"I've dealt with one of Scourge's members. The other fled upon my revival, so you should be safe on your own. Return to Lindell when you are ready."

The order was abrupt. Before Tyrus could react, Othelia shot off into a blur, her figure fading within the Whispering Forest. Tyrus simply observed her departure, the wind's last breath trailing her, and then he headed back to the lighthouse.

He sighed and ruffled his hair. "Leaving me all on my own. Are you sure the other Scourge member left?"

Now that he thought about it, Othelia must've been referring to Wanderer. If so, how did she manage to catch one of the Scourge members before Wanderer teleported them away? No... the royal knight must've been quick enough to catch the straggler; that was the only answer that made sense.

In any case, leaving him all alone was the last thing he needed, but he couldn't really argue with her reasoning. One of her friends needed immediate medical attention, and there seemed to be no apparent danger that would befall the other. Still, what if Wanderer had only pretended to leave and was lying in wait somewhere, biding her time?

Tyrus looked around, waiting for Wanderer to pop up any second now, but nothing happened. "I might be losing it," he mumbled, walking back to the ruined lighthouse to retrieve the artifact. "I still can't believe Wanderer is a member of Scourge..."

Just as his head swam with thoughts, the artifact burst from the ruins, hovering above the broken stone. Again, it gleamed, but in a dark gray hue.

It's still not done yet? Wasn't all the corrupted mana devoured?

His question was answered when the orb whizzed toward the pit and stopped just above the corpse of the enemy. It spun slowly in place, hovering over the blood sorcerer's corpse like a predator surveying its prey.

Hold on, don't tell me it can not only absorb mana cores, but mana hearts as well?!

White light from the corpse exited the gaping hole in its chest, slowly coalescing into the artifact itself like smoke rising from a fire. Bit by bit, the orb's coloration shifted. The blackened cracks softened. Half of its surface shone like polished pearl, the other like obsidian mist, the two halves curling into each other in a perfect spiral of balance.

Once the show ended, it soared toward him. He wanted to flinch, but his body didn't move. The orb halted just before his outstretched hand, pausing midair. A moment of hesitation… and then it dropped gently into his palm.

The instant skin met the surface, a voice echoed inside his mind.

"This sanctuary of Mevena has been desecrated. Lead me to where mana flows rich and undisturbed."

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