Some time later, the trio landed on the coral bridge connecting to the Crimson Spire. They had arrived using a combination of powerful Memories, transporting themselves across the battlefield while the tail end of the nightmare horde remained oblivious to their escape.
In front of them, the path to the Crimson Spire was finally clear.
Dismissing the Memories back into their soul cores, they ran forward without wasting even a moment to look back.
Soon, the Crimson Spire eclipsed the sky. The towering abomination of crimson coral and nightmare stone twisted toward the heavens like the bleeding fang of some world-devouring beast. It seemed as though the world had tilted on its axis, the earth itself bending and rising to form a vertical barrier, a wall at the very edge of the Dream Realm.
Even craning their necks, they couldn't see the top anymore. Only the sky, smothered by shadow and storm, remained above.
Throwing all unnecessary thoughts from his mind, Sunny surged ahead. Their goal was in reach.
Seven severed heads... guarding seven locks...
That was what Cassie had foretold, a prophecy delivered a year ago at the beginning of this long, cursed journey. Somewhere at the base of the Crimson Spire, there existed a place—ancient and sacred—where seven keys could be inserted into seven locks, sealing the consuming darkness beneath the Forgotten Shore once more. The Oath of the ancient heroes could be restored.
The Shard Memories had given them these keys.
And now, Sunny carried all seven within his soul.
He just had to find the locks.
And then, he did.
Hidden behind a mound of coral and bone, a vast expanse of smooth black stone sprawled at the Spire's base. Arranged in a wide arc upon it were seven colossal heads. They were broken, cracked, and overgrown with red coral, but unmistakably familiar.
These were the fallen heads of the statues that once stood like sentinels across the Forgotten Shore, each one a monument to an ancient hero who had helped bind the darkness in ages past.
The Lord.
The Priestess.
The Knight.
The Hunter.
The Builder.
The Slayer.
The Stranger.
Their eyes stared out, turned eternally toward the horizon as though unwilling to face the Crimson Spire that had torn them from their posts.
At the foot of the Spire stood a massive pair of obsidian gates. Engraved upon them were the seven stars of the Oath, each one with a keyhole buried deep in its shining center.
The stars pulsed faintly, as though aware of their presence.
Sunny and Sevatar ran forward, splitting off from Konrad. They had one job: insert the keys, banish the black sea, and seal the darkness away.
The Dreamer Army was dying to give them this chance.
Konrad, however, did not follow them.
Instead, he turned and walked toward the edge of the Crimson Spire's island. The roar of black waves crashing against the coral cliffs filled the air like a dirge. He stopped at the brink and stared into the whirlpool that surrounded the Spire, a cyclone of malevolent ocean that defied the cycle of day and night.
The black water churned endlessly, forming a vortex of monstrous depth. Beneath its surface moved the vague shapes of things best left unnamed, glimpses of tendrils and eyes and scales.
Somewhere within that hellish maelstrom lurked a thing spoken of in whispers, hinted at in dread. The final hurdle. The forgotten horror. That thing was waiting for him.
Konrad did not know what it was. It must have significant divination resistance. He only saw blurry outline of the horror.
He did not know if he would survive.
But this confrontation had always been his fate.
All those years ago, in that small dorm room of the Awakened academy- he had glimpsed this moment. It was his last trial by the Forgotten Shore.
This was his end, or his ascension.
It was the price of being the Night Haunter.
He had fought and bled and survived, not for glory, not even for the crown he wore now.
He had walked a path of sacrifice. He sacrificed his morals, his comrades, his benevolence, his principles and lastly himself.
He had become lord of a dying bastion. He became a iron fisted tyrant, a psychopathic murderer. His hands drenched in the blood of thousands both human and nightmare creature alike.
He did all of these just to survive this nightmare... Just to live this damned life.
And now, he stood alone before one of it's most ancient doom.
"I really hate myself." He thought internally.
Konrad unhooked the scabbards from his back, letting them fall to the blood-red coral beneath his feet. Then he stepped forward until the toes of his boots nearly touched the abyss.
Black waves clawed at the coral cliffs.
The whirlpool groaned.
A terrible sound began to rise from the depths— a scream of thousand souls, tormented demented and damned, of things ancient and buried, of memories long erased.
Konrad did not flinch.
He extended his hand, fearsome raven claws extending from his arms and the red cloak of the Starlight Shard flowed behind him like a banner.
"Come then," he said.
"Let us see if I truly deserve to live in this nightmare."
And then, the sea split apart.
***
Summoning Saint to stand beside him once again, Sunny stole a brief glance at Sevatar. The tall, solemn captain didn't speak, but his eyes glinted with a shared understanding. Without a word, they jumped down from the coral mound and landed on the hardened, red-streaked ground of the island.
It was too quiet. And not the peaceful kind of quiet—this silence was unnatural, suffocating, like the stillness of a crypt long sealed. Behind them, far in the distance, the nightmare horde continued to tear into the Dreamer Army. The thunder of battle echoed faintly over the dark sea, but here… here, it was as if sound had been swallowed whole.
They stood between the severed heads of stone colossi, staring up at the colossal gates of the Crimson Spire.
Sunny felt as though he had entered another world. A place where time was slower, heavier. The very air seemed thicker here. The pressure wasn't just atmospheric—it was psychic, spiritual. Every instinct screamed danger, and yet there was nothing to fight. Not yet.
They passed the first head, the face of the Lord, and a shiver crawled down Sunny's back. The stone eyes were noble, but empty. Lifeless. Then came the Priestess—serene and beautiful, but eerily so. Each face etched into stone stirred something in him. Reverence, yes… but also unease.
These were no longer monuments. They were warnings.
Sunny hesitated halfway to the gate, his boots crunching lightly against coral. Sevatar halted with him, as though sensing the same thing without being told. They turned to look back at the heads.
It was the first time they had seen the seven all together. Up close, their scale was monstrous. But it wasn't their size that was disturbing—it was their expressions. Expressions carved in stone, each different, but all carrying the same subtle flaw. A wrongness. The kind that gnawed at you the longer you stared.
Sunny found himself wondering if the corruption had started even before their fall.
"...They were just people," he muttered to no one in particular. Not gods. Not legends. Just humans, like us, once.
He turned back to the Spire, took a deep breath, and stepped forward—
And everything changed.
A cold wind tore through the open plain, carrying a scent like old blood and rotting coral. Tiny shards of crimson rose into the air, first idly drifting… then swirling, dancing in strange, spiraling patterns.
The shift was subtle, but undeniable. The ground itself seemed to vibrate with faint anticipation. The wind became a whisper. The Spire loomed larger, the air thicker, more oppressive. A pulse echoed through the bones of the world—once, twice, like the heartbeat of something ancient waking from slumber.
Sunny drew his sword, eyes narrowing. Sevatar was already scanning the terrain, his instincts flaring violently. He didn't speak, didn't even blink, but Sunny could tell— his fellow slum rat had sensed something worse than they'd prepared for.
More coral shards rose, twisting into vague shapes—shapes that slowly resolved into humanoid outlines.
Seven of them.
The hair on Sunny's neck stood on end.
Sevatar's head turned slightly. "They're not real," he murmured. "They're... They are just manifestation of their failure."
The figures took shape, growing denser, more defined. Crimson coral wrapped around invisible forms, mimicking armor, flesh, even weapons.
Sunny's heart was pounding now. Not out of fear—but because he knew what this meant.
"The seven…"
The twisted facsimiles of the ancient heroes stood motionless. Yet their presence suffocated the entire field. Every detail about them— height, posture, weapon choice— matched the seven statues. But where those had inspired hope and awe, these inspired dread.
The wind fell silent again.
Sevatar's voice, low and cold, cut through the quiet.
"They're waiting for us."
Sunny didn't respond.
He could feel the battle behind them—the dying screams, the clash of steel, the roar of monsters—but it was far away. Distant. That was someone else's war now.
This was theirs.
And it was only beginning.