Aldemar weighed his next move with care, brow furrowed beneath the brim of his weathered hood. The dragon—Kelton, as he had named himself—had revealed more than Aldemar had expected, also the ancient being had given a direction, a clue. The st pce it had seen the dark lycan was… in the air to the south.
The skies, Aldemar repeated silently. That revetion still rattled around his mind like a loose stone in a goblet. A lycanthrope that could fly. It defied every bestiary he had studied, every account he had read, every assumption he had held.
What manner of aberration is this? he wondered, fingers idly tracing a sigil into the air that shimmered faintly before fading into nothing. That was no simple mutation or bloodline quirk. Either this creature was bred by powers beyond their current understanding, or it was something wholly new.
Could it be some lost relic of an age before records? Or perhaps a weapon born of the same dark forces now marshalling against Albion?
His thoughts were interrupted by the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of heavy hooves on coarse, uneven ground. Walce approached atop his bulky warhorse, the beast snorting clouds of breath that curled like smoke in the morning chill. Walce’s face was carved with a scowl, eyes narrowing beneath his thick brow. He clearly had not appreciated the ck of “dragon sying,” as he had so colorfully put it.
“You get all that fppin’ from the beast and not a single scale as a trophy,” Walce grumbled as he reined in beside Aldemar. “Feels like a waste.”
Aldemar didn’t rise to the bait. “It gave us something better. A direction.”
“Yeah? South?” Walce spat into the dust. “Real specific.”
Elizabeth trotted up behind on her smaller silver lupine, her braids bouncing and face bright with curiosity. “Gramps, maybe the wizard knows somethin’ you don’t. He’s always lookin’ at the sky like it’s hidin’ secrets.”
Aldemar gave a faint smile and tilted his head toward a rise in the terrain, where a small crop of boulders sat stacked like old bones. Walce followed the motion, nodding. “Break?”
“Briefly,” Aldemar confirmed.
They dismounted, Elizabeth sliding down and stretching her legs with an exaggerated groan. “Sure ain’t made for ridin’ all day. My backside’s ftter than a skillet left in snow.”
They had been riding southward for the better part of the morning and all night. Still, Aldemar doubted they would catch up to it so easily.
If it had taken to the skies and never descended again, it could be halfway across the continent by now. But it isn’t, he thought. I’d stake my soul it hasn’t left Albion.
Years of magical study had taught him not to disregard such instincts. Intuition, after all, was merely the subconscious parsing subtle cues that the waking mind failed to name. Sometimes, those inklings were nothing. Other times, they were the whisper of fate itself.
That reminder brought his attention upward. He hadn’t yet taken proper note of the sky—something he always did first thing in the morning. The clouds could tell stories, if one knew how to listen.
They made camp at the foot of the stones. The wind shifted there, curling zily through the rocks, carrying with it the scent of spruce and the faintest trace of ozone. Something had disturbed the air recently.
Aldemar climbed atop the fttest of the boulders, his boots scuffing against the time-smoothed stone. Drawing a deep breath, he let his thoughts still and lifted his eyes skyward.
The heavens were painted in streaks of gray and pale blue, clouds trailing in patterns that tugged at something deep in his mind. There was tension in the air—static, subtle, but unmistakable to someone who had spent decades listening to the nguage of mana and weather.
He reached into his satchel and withdrew a small silver orb engraved with runes. Holding it between his palms, he murmured a short incantation.
The traces were subtle nearly imperceptible, but there—almost missed—a faint spiral ripple. A disruption in the pattern. Not natural. The kind of disturbance left behind when something pushed through the veil between worlds.
The winds had shifted here.
He narrowed his eyes, brow furrowed. Rift magic, he thought. Shadow-aspected, most likely. Whatever that creature was, it had cut through the sky like a bde, leaving behind a wake of unnatural silence.
When he climbed down again, he found Elizabeth poking at a strange fungus growing along one of the boulders with the tip of a stick.
“Well?” Walce asked. “Clouds whisper some secrets?”
Aldemar nodded once. “A rift was opened not long ago. The creature didn’t merely flee. It passed between… But not far. It’s still in Albion. I’m sure of it.”
Elizabeth tilted her head. “So it’s usin rift magic? That don’t sound too friendly.”
“Nor is it,” Aldemar said. “But we’ve dealt with worse.”
Walce grunted. “I like it better when problems kept their feet on the ground.”
Elizabeth smiled up at her gramps. “Yeah, well, reckon the world don’t care what you like.”
Aldemar hid his smile as Walce gave a huff of amusement. They might be chasing a nightmare, but at least he wasn’t doing it alone.
~~~
Brass opened his eyes.
There was no jolt of panic, no desperate gasp for breath—just a strange, serene stillness, like waking after a long, uninterrupted sleep. The crypt’s air was damp and cool, the scent of wet earth mixing with the quiet trickle of water nearby. Somewhere above, roots curled down from the ceiling like skeletal fingers.
He sat up slowly. The pain was gone. His body felt whole. Not rejuvenated, not invigorated—just… normal. Stable. He gnced down at his chest. No wound. No blood. His leg didn’t even ache. His missing fingers were back.
A moment passed before he muttered, “Huh. Guess resurrection has perks.”
With a practiced motion, he brought up his system screen. The familiar blue glow lit the dim chamber, casting shifting light across the damp stone walls.
[Status Screen]Health: 29 / 29Stamina: 46 / 46Ki: 187 / 187Mana: 41 / 41Chakra: 25 / 25Exp: 264 / 400
Brass raised an eyebrow. “Full recovery and no debuffs. Either this resurrection mechanic is broken—or someone upstairs really likes me.”Frowning he noticed another change on his status. Divine had gone up from four to six. Strange, he wondered why?
A moment passed before he scowled and leaned back against the crypt wall, eyes narrowing.
“So… system. Care to expin who the hell that was?”
The system didn’t respond immediately. When it did, the familiar neutral tone had a subtle inquisitiveness behind it.
"Self-discovery is the truest form of knowledge. Seek your own answers. But first—how do you feel? No existential dread? No trauma? You’re remarkably composed for someone who just died for the second time." It's tone was curious.
Brass let out a dry ugh and ran a hand through his hair. It came back damp with condensation from the crypt’s air.
“I feel… fine. That’s what’s weird. No pain, no fear, no panic. Just crity. I watched my body get torn apart, watched the light go out—Serra’s face, her tears… I remember all of it.” He looked down at his hands, flexing them slowly. “Shouldn’t I feel something? I was terrified. Then gone. Now—just awake. Like it was someone else.”
A pause.
Then quieter, “Am I even still me?”
The system, unusually silent, did not respond. Just the soft hum of mana drifting from the portal in the center of the crypt and the echo of water dripping somewhere in the dark.
System,” he said, voice still hoarse. “How long was I out?”
A notification popped up just then.[Duration of death: One full day cycle. No external interference detected.]
So—sunset to sunset. Serra had been alone for the rest of that cursed night… and the full day since. Assuming she was still alive.
He clenched his fists. Don’t think like that.
His thoughts drifted unbidden to the sorcerer. That smug, cloaked bastard with power that had pressed down like a mountain, one that had swatted him aside like he was nothing. Brass had never felt so helpless. It was humiliating.
And crifying.
I need to be stronger. Much stronger.
That promise burned behind his eyes as he whispered the incantation and let shadow rush through his limbs. His Webways responded, an uncanny pull dragging his essence forward. The darkness blinked—and when it cleared, he stood again at the nexus he’d left nestled within the base of one of the Skor Foothills.
The wind hit him first—cold, with a faint metallic tang. Blood had been spilled here, recently. The scent hadn’t faded yet.
He took off in a blur, the world streaking past as he homed in on the battlefield. The pce of his second death. It didn’t take long to find it. His soul recognized it before his eyes did.
The clearing was silent. No carrion birds. No bodies. Just scars. A dark, toxic stain etched into the ground where the Wendigo had died—and near it, a smaller patch of ash: his own remains. Scattered, faded, some caught in the low grass.
Brass crouched and extended a hand over the spot. “Let’s see what’s left of me…”
Wisps of shimmering red dust floated upward, drawn by invisible threads. [Item acquired: Vampire Dust (Mid Grade)]
That’s not unsettling at all, he thought, lips curling into a grim smile. Collecting my own ashes like loot. What’s next, crafting my spine into a sword?
Shaking the thought away, he stood and took in a long breath through his nose, letting instinct guide him. Serra’s scent lingered—warm, sharp, edged with smoke. Familiar.
He blocked out the trail they’d arrived on and focused forward. Her scent drifted deeper into the hills… interced with something else. Musk, earth, old stone. Blood. And that unique, heavy odor he now associated with the hill giants.
“Did she go after them?” he muttered. The idea was bold… and reckless. But it was also very Serra.
Whatever had happened, he intended to find out.
[Quest Update: Trail of Stone — Locate Serra.]
With a final gnce back at the clearing, he narrowed his eyes and dashed forward, boots barely touching the earth as he followed the trail through the rising mist.
It didn’t take long to cross what had to be at least a couple of miles—though honestly, it was hard to tell anymore. Distances meant less when you could move like a ghost in a world of statues.
Back home, he’d thought losing cars, bikes, and trains would be one of the many inconveniences of getting isekai’d. But now? The wind in his face, the pulse of power in his limbs, the sheer freedom of it—this was better. Far better.
His boots barely whispered across the rocks, his form a blur in the growing darkness. He was the night wind—swift, silent, unseen.
Then he froze mid-step.
A new scent hit him like a sp to the senses—musky, iron-tinged, alive.
No… multiple someones.
His lips curled back in a low growl. “Company.”
It wasn’t Serra. Her scent was more refined—fire-spiced and sharp like smoldering embers. These were heavier, sweat-slicked and thick with adrenaline. Male. At least two. And if his nose was right, headed the same direction.
“Not good.”
He pushed forward, shadows wrapping around his limbs as he surged into motion. His body became less a figure and more a smear of movement—half-there, almost intangible. Blurring past thorned brush and weather-worn boulders, Brass marveled again at how little noise he made. His movement should’ve roared like a jet. Instead, it was a whisper on the wind.
How the hell am I not tearing the air apart at this speed? he wondered, even as his eyes flicked left and right, scanning for threats.
The system—of course—chose that moment to chime in, voice dry as ever.
You are operating under what local vampires call “Night Veil”—a vampiric movement technique fueled by Shadow-Ki. Friction, sound, and pressure signatures are dispced into sub-dimensional yers. Energy cost increases over time, but stealth integrity is preserved.
A small notification bloomed in the corner of his vision:
Vampiric Shadow-Speed ? Current Speed: 14.29x normal ? Ki Drain: -0.5 Ki/s ? Noise Signature: Nullified ? Physical Presence: 3%
Brass blinked. “So… I’m literally phasing part of myself out of reality to move like a whisper?”
Simplified, but accurate.[Full documentation avaible. Estimated read time: 1 hour, 47 minutes.]
“Hard pass.”
As expected.
He smirked as he slid down a narrow rock face and nded without a sound, eyes scanning ahead for motion. The scents were fresher now. Closer. His fingers itched to summon his cws.
Brass slowed as he reached the fork in the trail—if it could even be called that. The ground here bore no cobblestones or wagon tracks, only the deep, weather-worn indentations carved by massive feet over years of passing. A trail built not by design, but by sheer repetition. Giant-made.
He crouched low and inhaled through his nose. Serra’s scent—smoke-tinged and ced with something warm and distinctly her—rose up from the ground like a ribbon guiding him forward. It twisted up the steeper side of the nearby hill. But there—he caught something else. Faint but distinct. Another trail, fresher, heavier with sweat and steel. A group had passed through not long ago, maybe hours, skirting the base of the hill and circling around the ridge.
His brows furrowed.
Coincidence? Out here?
Doubtful.
There were no patrols in the foothills, no wandering merchants or idle adventuring parties. If someone was out here, odds were they weren’t friendly. And given the timing—after his death, after that sorcerer’s stunt—it was just a bit too convenient.
He stood still, listening. The wind whispered through scrub-brush and distant trees. Somewhere, an owl hooted, the sound raw and broken like it hadn’t slept in weeks.
A choice loomed before him. Investigate the strangers—potential threats—or catch up to Serra, who might be in danger.
The decision took him half a second.
Serra first. Whoever those others were, he’d rather face them with her at his side. He didn’t need backup, not really, but… having someone who knew his name—who cared—that was worth more than surprise.
With that, he surged forward. Shadows clung to his limbs like a second skin, and the world blurred around him as his form skated across stone and soil, fast as a gust and silent as the dusk wind.
Minutes passed like heartbeats.
Then, a structure emerged over the ridge—massive, almost absurd in its scale. A log house.He slowed to a halt and blinked.
It was… a house.
A proper cottage, just scaled up like a child’s toy enrged to a surreal degree. The door alone could’ve served as a wall for a barn. Smoke curled zily from a stone chimney, and the wood creaked faintly in the wind. No crude cave. No bone-piled den. Just… a home.
He shook his head and smirked. “Well, color me surprised.”
Creeping closer, he crouched behind a boulder the size of a shed and extended his senses. His hybrid nature thrummed through his blood—vampiric sensitivity, lycanthropic awareness. It painted a picture clearer than sight.
Two massive presences—steady, warm. Adult giants.
One smaller, fidgety, crying in bursts and then quiet again. Infant.
And one human. Smaller. Familiar. Breathing steady. Heartbeat calm.
Serra.
He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Relief bloomed in his chest like warm sunlight through clouds.
He could feel no fear in the air—no sharp sweat, no panicked heartbeats or frantic movement. Only rest. Comfort.
They’re safe… for now.
Brass flexed his fingers as a familiar tension coiled through his limbs. His cws slid out with a soft shick, then retracted just as fast. He clenched his fists, exhaled, and forced the urge back down.
This was becoming a habit—his body reacting before his mind had even decided.
His eyes lingered on the oversized cottage below. Peaceful. Serene. For now.
But that calm felt fragile, a bubble waiting to burst. The presence of those strangers still pressed at the edge of his awareness like a splinter under the skin. He couldn’t shake the feeling.
He crouched low, breathing deep. Was it selfish to want Serra by his side? To need her in the coming fight?
He’d died—again. Torn apart like nothing by that cloaked sorcerer.
The memory wasn’t sharp. Just cold. Detached. But it stuck in his chest like dead weight.
How strong am I, really?
His system readout answered, cruel in its crity:
Level: 2
Still a small fish. Still weak.
He gritted his teeth. That had to change.
With a pulse of will, he activated his draconic wings.
From his back erupted sleek, scaled draconic wings, red-bck and ced with faintly glowing veins. They unfurled with a low, leathery snap as he leapt, catching the updraft with practiced ease.
The wind rushed past him, sharp and cold. But above the earth, he felt clear—focused.
He circled high, eyes scanning the hills. Then he saw them.
A small copse of trees on the next rise. A flicker of firelight, half-hidden. Heat signatures. Six people, maybe more. A few crouched near the fmes, while two others patrolled the edge—casual but alert.
Land-based defense. No upward watch.
Most people probably can’t fly, Brass thought, a faint grin tugging at his lips.
He angled into a slow, silent glide, wings catching the wind with barely a whisper.
No wards. No barrier spells. No anti-air enchantments that he could sense.
Still… he hesitated.
What if they’re just travelers?
It would be easy. A dive. A strike. Over before they could scream.
But just because he could kill didn’t mean he should.
His cws hadn’t made that choice. Not yet.
He banked once more, angling lower to the treetops, close enough to see the shimmer of heated food and hear the low murmur of voices. He would watch. Listen. Confirm.
If they were friends of the sorcerer—he’d rain vengeance on them like a storm.
If not… they’d never know how close death came.
