The ruins slept beneath a silvered sky, but the city's heart throbbed with a hidden pulse. Zhen Hu and Aelira moved through shattered streets, their footsteps silent on broken stone. No longer did he feel the wild hunger of Nytherion as a scorching weight; instead, it had settled into a low, smoldering ember he kept carefully contained.
His gaze was fixed ahead—toward the cathedral-like spire where the Humanios leader had been conducting his insidious rites. Every alleyway they passed still reeked of decay, every corner whispered of trapped spirits begging liberation.
Aelira hovered at his side, her pale eyes reflecting the distant glow of ritual lanterns. When she whispered, her voice was low and urgent:
"The wards grow stronger as we draw near. They feed on fear and broken vows. You must hold to your purpose."
Zhen Hu nodded. His pulse quickened, not from anticipation, but from the resonant comfort of her presence. He reached out, hand brushing the silken fabric of her sleeve—an unspoken vow that, though she was spirit and he flesh, they would face this together.
They rounded a collapsed archway and entered a courtyard where cultists had bound a circle of shimmering runes into the ground. Figures cloaked in obsidian robes knelt in trance, chanting in a tongue that tasted of ash and sorrow.
Zhen Hu drew a steady breath. He did not hesitate.
He stepped into the circle, and the runes flared—threads of ghostly light snaking toward him like grasping fingers. Cultists snapped from their trance, eyes wide with terror as the runes recoiled from his presence.
"Zhen Hu…" Aelira's voice trembled. "Their wards sense the ancient power within you. We must be swift."
He closed his eyes, centering himself on that ember within. He let his mind reach out—not with force, but with calm. The runes, starved of fear, dimmed. Then, with a ripple, they vanished, leaving only pale scorch marks on the courtyard stones.
The cultists fell silent. One by one, they looked up at him, eyes unseeing, bound by their own guilt. Zhen Hu stepped forward, each footfall measured. He spoke softly:
"Your leader used you. He twisted your grief into chains. You're free now."
A ripple of soft gasps passed through the kneeling figures as the weight lifted from their hearts. Many fell to their knees in relief, some wept. Zhen Hu turned away, drawing Aelira close:
"We move on," he whispered. "He's in the spire's sanctum. He won't escape."
The path up the spire's winding stair was strewn with shattered relics—broken idols, rusted weapons, and pools of dimly glowing Zen. Each step carried Zhen Hu further into the cult's core, deeper into its corruption.
Aelira drifted beside him, her warmth a lantern in the gloom. When fatigue tugged at his limbs, she placed a hand on his arm. The contact was electric yet soothing—an intimate bridge between life and spirit:
"Lean on me," she breathed, "and I will carry you when you cannot walk."
He closed his eyes at her touch, tasting a sweetness he had never known in battle. In that moment, the darkness was not a void—it was a shared space, where power and trust intertwined.
They emerged into the sanctum's dome, where the Humanios leader stood before a swirling vortex of necrotic energy. His robes billowed in an unseen wind, and his mask—an ornate skull of bone—gleamed under the lantern light.
"Zhen Hu," the leader intoned, voice echoing like distant thunder. "At last, the Vessel of Nytherion arrives. You carry both salvation and doom."
Zhen Hu's hand went to his side, where his core flared with Nytherion's dark tide. He did not draw a sword. Instead, he met the leader's gaze and let the quiet ember of his resolve blaze into focus.
"I carry my own purpose," he said, voice steady. "And I will end your corruption."
The leader laughed, a sound like bones grinding. With a sweeping gesture, he unleashed a torrent of death-tainted wind that tore across the sanctum. Zhen Hu braced himself, Nytherion flaring outward in a protective cocoon.
The blast of death-tainted wind faded, leaving a heavy stillness in the dome. Zhen Hu straightened, Nytherion's ember-glow dimming to a steady pulse beneath his robes. Aelira's wing-shadows fluttered at his side, her eyes reflecting both concern and conviction.
He drew a slow breath, each inhale quieting the thunder of his heart.
Without a word, Zhen Hu took a deliberate step forward, the splintered floor cracking beneath his weight. The Humanios leader watched him, the necrotic vortex churning behind.
In that charged silence, Zhen Hu's resolve settled like stone. He raised his hand, not in threat, but in solemn purpose—and the sanctum's gloom seemed to lean in, waiting for his next move.