The atmosphere in the High Guild Hall was suffocating. Usually, the promotion to Mithril was followed by a celebration, but the Overseer’s face was ashen. He spread a map of Floor 44 across the stone table, his hands trembling.
"This is no longer a standard ascent," the Overseer whispered. "An Anomaly has manifested. It was birthed in the very spot where Marek Packwood met his end, feeding on the residual psychic filth he left behind. We call it the Mind Jacker."
The Black Order
The mission was simple and horrific: Fourteen people—four elite knights, including Jace and Kaelen, and four veteran adventurers—had gone up to investigate. They hadn't returned. Scouts reported seeing them at the edge of the fog, walking in a daze, discarding their weapons as if they were trash.
"It's a psychic predator," the Overseer warned. "It turns your own memories into a leash."
Alaric gripped the hilt of his sword, his jaw tight. "Jace and Kaelen are in there. We’re going."
The Return of the Brother
As the Trinity approached the gateway to the 44th floor, the temperature suddenly spiked. A familiar, heavy silhouette emerged from the swirling grey mists of the transport circle.
Michael Packwood stood there, his Greatsword of Living Ember resting on his shoulder. His expression was grimmer than ever.
"I felt it from three floors away," Michael said, his voice a low rumble of disgust. "It smells like him. The same oily, rotten frequency. It’s not just a monster, Alaric. It’s my brother’s dying spite given form."
Seraphina looked at Michael, then at the gateway. She felt a cold shiver crawl down her spine—a sensation she hadn't felt since the Hall of Whispers. "We need your fire, Michael. This thing feeds on the mind. We need someone who hates Marek enough to be immune to his echoes."
"I'm here to bury him for good," Michael replied, his gaze flickering briefly to Clara with a look of silent protection.
Into the Fog of Despair
They stepped through the portal into Floor 44. The environment was a nightmare of distorted geometry—ruined pillars floating in a thick, pea-green fog that tasted like copper and old sweat.
The silence was the worst part. There were no monsters roaring, no sounds of battle. Only a faint, high-pitched hum that vibrated in the back of their skulls.
"Do you hear that?" Alaric asked, his hand flying to his head.
"The Song of the Void," Michael hissed, his sword beginning to glow with a protective, white-hot heat. "Stay close. If you start seeing things that aren't there, tell me immediately."
They pushed through a bank of fog and froze. Ahead of them, in a clearing of cracked obsidian, they saw the first signs of the horror.
A trail of discarded gear littered the ground: a tower shield Alaric recognized as Jace's, a pair of scout daggers belonging to Kaelen, and several breastplates and greaves, all tossed aside as if the owners were stripping for a bath.
"They're close," Seraphina whispered, her eyes wide. "I can hear them... they're laughing. Why are they laughing?"
From the darkness ahead, a sickening, wet squelch echoed, followed by the sound of rhythmic, mechanical footsteps. The Trinity drew their weapons, but as the fog parted, they weren't met with a charge—they were met with a procession of the damned.
ns216.73.216.181da2
and then Add to home screen.