Ethan adjusted the brim of the old Lighthouse Keeper’s hat, pulling it low to cast a shadow over his face. The cobbled streets of Sentinel’s second port glistened with rain, a slick sheen reflecting the spectral blue glow of the lighthouse in the distance. The air smelled of salt and decay, mingling with the faint, ghostly whispers that seemed to emanate from the crumbling buildings.

  He kept his gait slow, steady, the worn walking stick tapping against the stones with each step. His disguise had held well so far, aided by his newly upgraded [Mimic] skill, which had even allowed him to emulate the Keeper’s slight hunch and occasional cough.

  But this city was alive with suspicion, even amidst its decay. Every shadow felt like a watching eye, every passerby a potential enemy.

  As he neared the central square where the fountain stood, a group of dockhands stumbled out of a nearby tavern, their voices loud and slurred.

  "Keeper!" one of them bellowed, pointing a calloused finger at Ethan. "Old man! Oi, Keeper! Come have a drink with us! You’ve been holed up in that tower too long!"

  Ethan cursed silently, forcing a raspy chuckle to his lips. "Ah, lads," he croaked, "these bones ain’t made for merriment anymore. You enjoy yourselves."

  He was no actor, not in his past life, or his new one. He just hoped he could make a convincing enough impression…

  "Don’t be like that, ya old codger," one of the men chimed in, staggering closer. His breath reeked of cheap rum. "Come on, just one drink. It’s Skylamp Night tomorrow, ain’t it? Gotta celebrate, eh?"

  The others roared in agreement, their cheer echoing unnaturally in the quiet, foreboding street. Ethan’s grip on his walking stick tightened. He couldn’t afford to waste time on these fools.

  With a flick of his wrist, Ethan activated his [Minor Illusion] skill, his voice laced with silent amusement. From the distance came the shrill cries of women’s voices:

  “Jarek! Get your ass home right now!”

  “Bors, if I catch you in that tavern again, I’ll skin you alive!”

  The men froze, their eyes darting nervously toward the sound. "Ah, bloody hell," one muttered. "The wives. We’re dead if they catch us out here."

  "Later, Keeper!" another said hurriedly as they staggered off into the shadows, leaving Ethan alone once more.

  He sighed, watching them disappear down an alley. "Works every time," he muttered, resuming his walk toward the fountain.

  …

  The square was desolate, the fountain at its center cracked and weathered from centuries of use. A ghostly mist lingered over the area, the faint trickle of water mingling with the ever-present whispers of Sentinel’s haunted streets. Ethan reached into his cloak, his fingers brushing against the smooth, pulsating surface of the Albion tree’s seed. Malak’s instructions had been clear: plant the seed in the heart of the port and let its magic take root.

  As he approached the fountain, Ethan hesitated, his eyes scanning the empty square. The faces of the few humans he’d passed earlier flitted through his mind—pale, gaunt, eyes sunken with fear and hunger. This wasn’t a place of joy, not anymore. The world had bled them dry, just as it had bled Argwyll itself.

  He shook his head, pushing the thought aside. He couldn’t afford sympathy now. He’d gone down that road before and knew exactly where it led.

  And he remembered Lamphrey’s words about where power truly lay in this world. Sketchy as fuck she might be, but the old Tialex was right about something: sympathy for those bound by Keadmon’s Law wasn’t going to work forever.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  You know, I could’ve told you that…

  Ethan smiled at Sys’s interjection.

  I understand. It takes a mysterious lizardwoman mage to tell you something before you get it into you head.

  You’re always in my head, Sys, Ethan grinned in spite of their situation.

  Sys harrumphed like he did, even though they’d been far more in-sync than they’d ever been before.

  Still…I’d be careful of that one, he said. A woman as old as she is will have secrets, and you know she’s got an aim of her own for being here. If she’s really been an advisor to all the other Archons, doesn’t that tell you something?

  Ethan cocked his currently-human brow.

  It means that the Archons clearly didn’t think she was worth remembering, Sys explained. That whatever she wanted, she didn’t get. And that you’re her final shot.

  Ethan nodded. There was truth in that. But he also couldn’t deny the truth in Lamphrey’s own words to him back in Triant. About his compassion for humanity. About believing everyone could march to the same tune of progress. He’d made the mistake of believing that before.

  And as this thought resolved itself within him, he felt his limbs harden and his hands reach instinctively for his hidden Onixia blade. It was a feeling similar to that which he felt when he’d first faced Haylock’s Golems back in the Triant forest. A feeling of…frenzy. Lethality.

  But this time, he didn’t try to make it go away.

  If he was really going to change this place for the better, he was going to have to learn to harden his heart. It wasn’t going to help him in the long run.

  …

  Rounding the final corner, Ethan’s heart sank. Blocking his path was a hulking Flesh Golem, its grotesque form illuminated by the pale blue light of the lighthouse. The creature’s patchwork body was a nightmarish amalgamation of human, hybrid, and beast limbs, its single Spectator eye glowing red in its torso.

  "Curfew is in effect," the Golem droned, its voice a hollow echo. "The fountain zone is restricted. Return to your dwelling."

  Ethan stopped, forcing a smile as he stepped closer. "Evening," he rasped in the Keeper’s voice. "Just taking a stroll. You know how it is, these old legs need a stretch."

  The Golem didn’t move, its gaze fixed on him.

  "You are not authorized," it said, taking a step forward. "Return to your dwelling."

  Ethan’s grip on his walking stick tightened. He’d hoped to avoid a fight, but it seemed the Doctor’s creations weren’t as easily fooled as drunk dockhands.

  With a resigned sigh, Ethan raised his hand, channeling his mana reserves.

  [Mana Veil: Activated.]

  Darkness exploded outward, swallowing the square in an impenetrable fog. The Golem’s glowing eye flickered as it scanned the area, its lumbering steps growing more erratic.

  In the Veil, Ethan was a shadow among shadows, moving with silent precision. He darted forward, Greybane appearing in his hands with a flash of silver.

  The Spectator Golem turned just as Ethan drove the blade into its single eye. The creature let out a piercing shriek, its body convulsing as it crumpled to the ground in a heap of flesh and metal.

  Ethan didn’t wait to admire his handiwork. He sprinted to the fountain, pulling the seed from his cloak. The orb pulsed with a dark, otherworldly energy, its surface veined with crimson light. With a deep breath, he dropped it into the water.

  For a moment, nothing happened. Then, the ground beneath him began to tremble with untapped power.

  The fountain erupted in a shower of stone and water as a massive, thorny tree burst forth from its depths. Its black, gnarled branches reached skyward, twisting and writhing like living things. The air was filled with the sound of creaking wood and snapping bark as the tree grew, its roots spreading outward in a web of destruction.

  A whole new Albion…Ethan thought with a sly grin, savoring the twitching eyes of the devilish Spectators as they were lacerated by the newborn tree.

  The first Flesh Golems from the vanguard that approached were impaled instantly, skewered by the tree’s jagged branches. Their bodies hung limp, dripping with black ichor as the tree continued to expand.

  Ethan couldn’t help but smile. "Malak," he muttered, "you’re full of surprises."

  But the battle wasn’t over. An army of Flesh Golems was closing in, their heavy steps shaking the ground. The Spectator Golems among them glared at him with their unblinking eyes, their blood-red gazes promising retribution.

  Ethan cracked his knuckles, his body shifting as he summoned his Drytchling Prime form. His emerald eyes shimmered in the darkness, oaken flesh brimming with thorns ready to snap these bastards apart.

  Guys! He telepathed through his Memory Rune. We’re into it now! Grab a boat and let’s ditch this place.

  He didn’t know whether they heard him or not. The din of decimation that dominated the once quiet town was now so great that he couldn’t even hear himself think.

  But that was fine with him. He’d been out of practice for far too long, and he had a whole new form to play with. And that other little part of his brain – the part screaming out for action – had just been well and truly activated.

  He smiled, raising Greybane, its serrated edge glinting in the eerie light. "Let’s dance."