In the distance, beneath the stone gargoyles of a crumbling clocktower, Reyman Clouden watched.
His figure blended with the fog, his face hidden beneath a gentleman's hat and a veil of unnatural shadows. The moonlight glinted faintly off the silver handle of his surgical knife. His red threads curled slowly around his fingers like lazy smoke.
Across the square, the blackened spire of the Catholic Church of Darkstar loomed.
And inside it, Arsa sat alone in prayer.
Reyman tilted his head slightly, whispering to the cold air:
"Praying, are you? How charming."
Then he smiled—wide, cruel.
He waited.
And waited.
Until finally—
The doors creaked open.
Arsa stepped outside, coat fluttering in the wind, his silver-gray hair catching the faint light. He was just walking down the stone steps when—
Reyman moved.
A shadow broke loose from the alley across the street.
Fast.
Silent.
Deadly.
---
Back to Arsa.
The moment his foot touched the last step, his breath caught in his chest.
His instincts screamed.
He dodged left, rolling onto the pavement as something sharp whistled past his cheek.
It struck the stone behind him with a hard clang.
Arsa looked up sharply.
There, standing in the middle of the road under the moonlight—
Was Reyman Clouden.
Still in his fine coat, red threads writhing lazily from his sleeves like veins given life. His face was calm, but his eyes gleamed with something close to obsession.
"Evening, darling," Reyman purred, licking his lips. "Did you miss me?"
Arsa stood slowly, revolver already in his hand, the silver metal reflecting the moonlight.
"Should've figured you'd be the type to stalk churches," he said coldly.
Reyman chuckled, tilting his head. "I simply wanted to see where a Yrlton says his final prayer."
The fog rolled in thicker now.
And the street darkened.
Only the sound of two hearts remained—
One steady.
One deranged.
Then a gunshot cracked through the fog.
Arsa stood firm, his revolver raised. The silver muzzle flared with light—
BANG!
The bullet tore through the mist, aimed straight at Reyman's chest.
But the Dollmaker was fast.
He twisted his body unnaturally, the bullet grazing his coat as he spun sideways. Crimson threads lashed from his fingertips, slashing at the air like whips.
Arsa ducked and rolled to the side.
His breath steady, he whispered a word under his breath.
One of the cards tucked in his coat flashed blue—a small rune pulsed on it.
And with a blink—
He vanished.
Reyman's threads struck only air.
Then—
Arsa reappeared behind him, five meters away. The teleportation card burned away into smoke in his hand.
Nine left.
He fired again.
Another shot lit up the night—
BANG!
Reyman raised his hand. Shadows pooled from his palm and solidified, forming a twisted shield that absorbed the bullet with a sickening squelch.
"Wind and steel," Reyman hissed. "Delicious contrast, darling."
He flicked his wrist.
Red threads shot forward, aiming for Arsa's throat.
Arsa jumped back, summoned a gust of wind with his offhand, and redirected the threads midair. They whipped into the cobblestone, cutting clean through it like wires.
Arsa tossed another teleport card forward like a gambler throwing a chip.
Flash. Blink. Gone.
He reappeared above, mid-air, descending like a silver comet with revolver in hand.
Reyman looked up—and smiled.
A shadow shot upward.
Arsa twisted in the air, fired once more, then used a third teleport card to vanish just before the shadow grabbed his leg.
He landed lightly behind a broken statue near the church gate, coat fluttering. Sweat ran down his cheek. His breathing deepened.
Seven cards left.
This wasn't just a fight.
This was chess with lives on the line.
Across the foggy street, Reyman stepped forward, the threads on his arm squirming like snakes.
"You're beautiful when cornered," he said.
Arsa didn't reply. He simply raised his revolver again, eyes narrowed like blades.
Then a sound of soft footsteps echoed from the fog.
Arsa turned sharply, revolver still raised.
From behind Reyman, a pale figure stepped into the moonlight.
Artstate.
Her honey-blonde hair fell in smooth waves, the blue ribbon tied neatly as ever. Her eyes were still empty—emotionless glass. But her movements were far smoother now. Refined. Almost… alive.
"Artstate," Reyman said calmly, without turning, "show him the fruits of your tongue."
Without warning, she lunged at Arsa.
Her hands became blades—fingers clicking apart into razor-like joints. She slashed.
SWOOSH!
Arsa narrowly dodged, wind exploding from beneath his boots to push him back. Her attack tore through a marble column like paper.
He raised his revolver and fired.
BANG!
BANG!
Two perfect shots.
But she spun and deflected them with the edge of her arm-blade, moving too precisely for something that should've been human.
Arsa frowned. She's faster than before.
Then Artstate stepped back, lifted her right hand, and whispered something.
Her mouth moved unnaturally wide as her voice echoed with layered tones.
"Vergun Temin syyru fghun..."
The language was ancient. Wet, harsh, and low like something spoken underground. Not Karmian. Not any dialect Arsa had ever heard.
And as she spoke those four twisted words—
The air shifted.
The fog grew thicker. Colder. A sudden stench of rot spread through the street.
Arsa took a step back, eyes narrowing.
And then—
From the shadows behind Artstate…
They began to appear.
Skeletal hands, gray with age, burst from the cracks in the cobblestone.
Ghostly figures crawled out, hunched and wailing in silence. Some had no faces—just stretched skin. Others were headless, or missing limbs. All of them stitched, sewn, or warped like dolls lost in time.
They floated forward.
Dozens of them.
Undead spirits, drawn from forgotten graves by an ancient spell.
Arsa felt the weight of their presence—cold, suffocating, and angry.
"What kind of language is that?" he muttered, watching their unnatural movements. Even his Yrlton instincts couldn't read them.
Artstate stood at the center, her eyes glowing faintly blue.
Reyman just laughed softly from behind her, hands behind his back like a maestro enjoying a symphony.
"And now, dear Arsa," he said, voice smooth as velvet, "Let's see how well you dance with the dead."
Arsa stood frozen for a moment, staring at the swarm of ghostly figures crawling toward him—some floating, others dragging their twisted limbs across the stone. Their eyes were hollow. Their mouths opened without sound. All of them felt wrong.
He had seen many strange things in his life as a Yrlton.
But never ghosts.
His revolver was ready, but his hands were tight. The air was thick and cold. His breath came out in mist.
Suddenly, one of the ghosts lunged at him—its long arms outstretched like tendrils.
WHAM!
It hit him square in the chest.
Arsa flew back and smashed into a stone wall, hard.
His body hit the ground like a ragdoll, coughing and groaning. He struggled to stand, his legs shaking.
Another ghost came at him. Then another.
He dodged one, then another slammed him again.
THUD!
He was thrown like a doll across the pavement.As he staggered to get back on his feet, something strange happened.
He heard a voice.
A woman's voice. Calm. Cold. And powerful.
It spoke in a language he didn't understand, but somehow he remembered it. The words echoed in his head. Like they were meant for him.
His lips moved on instinct.
"Hjin Gunu Fdin Yuriu."
The moment he said it, the world around him twisted.
Everything froze.
The ghosts stopped moving. Even the fog stood still, suspended like smoke in a glass box.
And then—
He wasn't in the street anymore.
He was standing in front of a mirror.
Huge. Silent. The surface rippled like water.
Inside the mirror, he could see himself—and the street, frozen in time. Outside, Reyman stood with his arms raised, controlling the spirits. Artstate was watching him like a doll waiting for her next order.
Arsa blinked. What is this?
He thought for a second. His breathing calmed. His hand gripped the revolver tighter.
Then he focused on Reyman.
If I could teleport just behind him I can caught him off guard.
Then as Arsa though that
FLASH.
In an instant, Arsa vanished from the mirror.
And reappeared—right behind Reyman Clouden Arsa was surprised but he didn't think much and aim his revolver directly at reyman head
Arsa didn't hesitate.
And as he pulled the trigger—.
[TO BE CONTINUE]