The capital simmered with tension. One knight was already dead — skinned, beheaded, and hung upside down in the market square with the word SOON scrawled beside him in blood. The people whispered of a demon that walked unseen among them. Nobles increased their personal guards. Priests lit purification fires. The city watched its own shadow with suspicion.

  None of them knew that the killer already lived beneath them.

  In the ancient sewer systems, long forgotten by the current regime, Lucian moved in silence. His sanctuary — the Sanctum of the Abyss — was growing. Each soul he claimed fed the foundation, each death stitched another whisper into its walls. Vorlith, the shadow serpent, slithered through the darkness nearby, alert but calm. At Lucian’s feet, another knight's lifeless body twitched once before crumbling to ash. Cold energy pulsed through his fingertips as the system interface lit up in his mind.

  > [SOUL HARVEST: 1/3]

  Essence absorbed…

  Dark Energy: +12

  Soulbrand Limit increased: 1/4

  Lucian stood and exhaled slowly. With each death, the power inside him stabilized. He could feel the darkness maturing — no longer wild, but sharp. Controlled. Focused.

  Above, the capital fumbled in panic. The King's Council met in hushed tones behind sealed doors. Pride would not allow them to admit a threat they couldn’t name, so they turned to their oldest contingency: The Black Fangs. Six assassins. Experts in soul warding, shadow tactics, and silent execution. Their blades had ended rebellions. Their names were never spoken aloud.

  They entered the capital at dawn.

  Lucian felt them the moment they passed through the outer wards.

  “Good,” he murmured under his breath, watching from a rooftop as a scout trailed his shadow. “Let me see what you’re made of.”

  He led the first one — a wiry figure masked in black bone — through twisting alleys near the slums. The assassin moved with perfect silence. But as he turned a corner, the alley no longer led forward. The buildings had shifted. The path was gone. His own shadow had vanished from the ground.

  His eyes widened, and he reached for a charm — too late.

  “You came to hunt a ghost,” Lucian’s voice said from nowhere.

  The scout turned — just in time to see Lucian's hand stretch forward. His jaw evaporated in an instant, the scream trapped in his throat. Shadow fangs punctured his spine. The body dropped.

  > [SOUL HARVEST: 2/4]

  Dark Energy: +26

  New Trait Unlocked: Lingering Fear

  Lucian left the corpse in the alley, untouched. No mark. No wound. Just a lifeless shell drained of soul. Later, cats refused to enter that alley. Children had nightmares of something breathing in the dark.

  If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  The second assassin came next — a woman cloaked in feathers and scentless oils. She stalked Lucian through the upper ring, near the church district. She laid soul snares and prism traps. Lucian let her.

  He walked into them on purpose, letting the traps spring around him.

  And when they triggered… nothing happened.

  “You don’t understand,” he whispered, now standing behind her. “I am not of this world.”

  She spun, daggers glowing — and saw her own face staring back at her. Her body trembled. Her shadow slithered up her leg and into her mouth.

  Her soul tore itself free trying to flee.

  > [SOUL HARVEST: 3/4]

  Dark Energy: +34

  Shadow Evolution Progress: 42%

  Lucian sighed. “They send lambs into my den.”

  He returned to the sanctum. Laid the two masks down beside the one from the knight. Three so far. Three more to go.

  The third assassin lasted longer. He was careful — a soul-bound monk raised in the desert, trained to kill beings without physical form. Lucian tested him. Shadows reached for the man’s throat and were burned. Whispered illusions were shattered by ancient chants.

  For a moment, Lucian respected him.

  But even steel breaks under time.

  Lucian caught him sleeping. It was the only moment he was vulnerable. The assassin had woven a dream ward around himself, but Lucian didn’t enter it.

  He devoured it.

  When the man opened his eyes, he was still dreaming — except now, Lucian was all that existed. Infinite versions of him, whispering. One version tore out his heart and replaced it with a mirror.

  The monk’s body was found kneeling in prayer the next morning. Dead for hours. Not a mark on him.

  > [SOUL HARVEST: 4/4]

  Dark Energy: +18

  New Passive: Dreambreach unlocked.

  Lucian sat within the Sanctum once more, staring at the four masks before him. Only two remained. He knew where they were. One guarded the palace barracks. The other stood beside the Princess at all times.

  A grin curved across his lips.

  He reached out and touched the city map etched in smoke.

  "Two teeth left,” he murmured. “Then I rip out the tongue.”

  Yet as the city reeled in fear, she smiled in public.

  Lydia Velra, Duchess of the Western Seal, wife of a rising noble, and bearer of three beautiful children, remained a pillar of grace and confidence. Her life was one of comfort — golden-lined halls, silk-curtained balconies, and dinners filled with laughter. She was elegance itself. Unshaken.

  Or so it seemed.

  Because when she heard the news of the first corpse — the skinned knight hung like butcher’s meat in the market — her fingers trembled slightly on the edge of her wineglass. Her husband didn’t notice. The children were playing nearby. She smiled through the silence.

  But her breath caught in her throat.

  She didn't know why, but a feeling — sharp and cold like ice on the inside of her lungs — pierced her.

  The second death came days later. Whispers. Another knight, collapsed without a wound. Priests claimed his soul had fled. Lydia had just finished brushing her daughter’s hair when the report reached her ears. She froze, staring into the mirror. Her reflection — calm, noble, composed — looked back.

  But behind her, just for a second…

  She thought she saw eyes in the reflection. Burning eyes. Watching. Hating.

  She turned. Nothing.

  She never told anyone.

  When the third death occurred — the desert monk found kneeling and dead — Lydia was at the temple, lighting incense for her children’s protection. The priest dropped the scroll he was reading. She asked what was wrong.

  His face had gone pale.

  He whispered the report.

  That night, Lydia didn’t sleep.

  She sat by the window long after the candles burned out. Her hands wrapped in her shawl, gripping her elbows. Cold — always cold now, as if something was watching her from the dark corners of her room. From the garden. From the ceiling.

  It felt familiar.

  Old.

  Hungry.

  And she didn’t know why… but somewhere deep in the pit of her being, she knew this wasn’t random.

  This wasn’t about politics.

  This wasn’t about the capital.

  This was about her.

  And when she finally fell asleep, her dreams were filled with shadow and teeth — whispering things she couldn’t remember when she woke, except for one word that echoed behind her eyes:

  “Soon.”