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Deep in the shadowed underbelly of Wall Sina, where the pristine white walls gave way to forgotten service alleys and the moss-grown foundations of older, grander structures, a nightmare was trying to heal. Tucked into a crevice beneath a disused stone bridge that arched over a sluggish canal, the Vulpimancer lay panting, its sleek form trembling not from cold, but from agony.
Its world was a hellscape of distorted sound and searing pain. The sonic landscape it relied on, usually a crisp, shimmering heatwave map of its surroundings, was now a jagged, screaming mess centered on its head. One of the six malevolent blue eyes was a ruined, weeping crater, the flesh around it pulsing with a sickly, inflamed light. The kitchen knife was still embedded deep, a sliver of cold, foreign metal sending waves of nauseating torment through its nervous system with every minute shift of its body.
A low, pathetic whimper escaped its throat, a sound of pure misery. It lifted a front paw, the claws fully retracted, and gingerly touched the hilt of the knife. The contact sent a fresh lightning bolt of pain through its skull, and it recoiled with a sharp yelp. Its vision, already a chaotic mess of overlapping thermal and sonic images, flickered violently. The five remaining eyes squeezed shut, trying to block out the overwhelming, painful stimuli.
But the pain was a constant, drilling presence. Gritting itself against the inevitable, it tried again. This time, it pressed its paw firmly against the side of its head for leverage, and with a brutal, desperate twist, it wrenched the blade free.
The sensation was a unique, tearing horror. A wet, metallic shluck sound was followed by a gush of warm, black-tinged ichor. The Vulpimancer threw its head back and let out a silent, open-mouthed scream of relief and fresh agony, the sound a high-frequency pulse that shattered a nearby bottle left by some vagrant.
The knife clattered to the cobblestones. The metallic scent of its own blood, mixed with the cold, industrial smell of the steel, filled its hypersensitive nostrils.
And with that scent came a flood of memories, not as coherent thoughts, but as fragmented, visceral sensations of terror.
White. Blinding, sterile white.
The cold bite of restraints on its limbs and tail, holding it spread-eagled on a metallic slab.
A towering, monstrous shape hovering over it. Not organic, not like it. A creature of clicking, purple claws and a single, massive, coldly intelligent eye, set in a metallic shell. A voice, grating and somewhat digital, echoed in the chamber.
"C-Cease your thrashing, you insolent mutt. The grafting will proceed nonetheless of your p-pitiful defiance. T-The DNA strand of the Xerxathi must be assimilated to enhance your flawed, p-primitive biology. And I use the term loosely."
A whirring sound. A technological grappler, cold and precise, lowering towards its cut-open chest. Held within the pincers was something... writhing. A segmented, centipede-like strand of glowing, alien matter, pulsating with stolen speed.
The feeling of violation, of its very essence being torn apart and rewritten—
The memory was a brand of pure terror. The Vulpimancer snarled, a raw, furious sound that echoed in the confined space. It lashed out with its front paw, swatting the offending knife with enough force to send it skittering across the stones and splashing into the foul water of the canal. Its tail whipped against the stone wall, chipping the ancient rock.
It needed to rest. To let the wound clot. It slumped back into the shadows, its five good eyes slowly reopened, though the world still a nauseating, blurry mess. The shade was a small mercy. For a moment, it was almost calm.
Then, a soft whinny of fear. A merchant's horse that was tethered nearby, had caught its alien scent. The creature's head snapped up, its five eyes fixing on the large, warm-blooded shape. The horse reared back, eyes rolling in terror, straining at its ropes. The Vulpimancer merely watched, a low growl rumbling in its chest. Too big. Too much noise. It let the animal be, the primal urge to hunt momentarily suppressed by exhaustion.
But the reprieve was short-lived.
A jolt, like a spike of lightning, shot through its body. The glowing, deep darker shade of its stripes along its chest, spine, and legs, which had been pulsing softly with its pained breaths, suddenly flared. They burned with a violent, strobing intensity, casting frantic, monstrous shadows on the bridge above.
The Vulpimancer flinched, a full-body spasm. It tried to ignore it, to push the sensation down, but it was like trying to hold back a tide. The flaring grew worse, synchronized with a sharp, grinding pain deep within its marrow. It was a hunger, but not just for food. It was a cellular demand, a screaming need for energy to fuel the violent, unstable mutation that psychotic Cerebrocrustacean scientist who had engineered into its very DNA.
A static-filled growl, distorted and layered with pain, tore from its throat. It scratched at the stone beneath it, claws leaving deep gouges. The pain from its eye was now a symphony joined by this new, internal agony. It needed to feed. It needed to quench this burning, unsatiated void inside it.
Meat. Energy. Life.
It pushed itself to its feet, unsteady, its body trembling from the conflicting signals of pain and ravenous need. It closed its eyes again, not to rest, but to listen. Its sonic senses, though battered, expanded outward, pushing through the distortion.
It filtered out the panicked heartbeat of the horse, the scurrying of rats, the distant murmur of the city. It searched, sifting through the sonic landscape for a specific, promising rhythm.
There. A low, rhythmic, collective mooing. Several large, warm, slow-beating hearts. Prey. Not fast, not dangerous. Sustenance.
The sound came from a direction deeper into the agricultural belt of Sina, a few miles away. A cattle yard.
With a final, pained snarl, the Vulpimancer burst from its hiding place. It was a blur of purple fur and violent blue light, moving with a lopsided, agonized gait, driven by a scourge of hunger and memory, a living weapon set loose once more, its destination clear. The peace of wall Sina was about to be shattered again.
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Later, early noon…
High noon in Wall Sina was a different world. The sun here was a benevolent gold, warming clean cobblestones and gleaming off the polished carriages of the nobility. The air smelled of blooming jasmine and baked bread, a stark, willful ignorance of the desperation festering just a district away. Yet, even here, a ripple of unease had begun to spread, carried not on screams, but on the dry, rustling pages of the morning newspaper.
The Sina Herald's front page was a masterpiece of understated alarm. "GRISLY ATTACK IN UPSCALE DISTRICT: SERVANT SLAIN, LIVESTOCK MAULED." The article beneath was a careful dance, attributing the violence to a "rogue predator of unprecedented size and ferocity," while heavily implying the noble owner had suffered a hysterical breakdown, his account of a "multi-eyed phantom" being politely relegated to the status of trauma-induced delusion. In the restaurants and parlors of the capital, it was a sensational story, a thrilling shiver down the spine with their afternoon tea. Few truly believed it. But belief was not necessary for the story to plant its seed of dread.
Through the immaculate streets, a chariot bearing the crest of the Military Police moved with purpose, its polished wheels barreling against the stone below. It came to a smooth halt before the opulent entrance to the royal chambers. The door opened, and two men stepped out.
The first was Ser Valerius. His MP uniform was crisp, but his posture was that of a scholar or a priest, his movements easily precise while his pale blue eyes were constantly scanning, assessing and categorizing his surroundings. The second was his superior, Sir Aldric (The guy from chapter 8). He wore the same MP greens, but on his broad, powerful frame; they looked like a disguise. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with almond hair streaked silver and tied back in a severe warrior's knot. A thick, neatly trimmed beard framed a face that seemed carved from oak and old battles. His eyes, a pale, predatory gold, swept over his surroundings with an unnerving intensity, missing nothing.
They were waved through the checkpoint without a word. Their authority here was a quiet, understood thing.
"Any further word from the camp?" Aldric's voice was a low rumble, deceptively calm.
"Nothing of use, my lord," Valerius replied, falling into step beside him. "Our inquiries into 'peculiar activity' following the incident have been officially terminated. Instructions from Lord Reiss himself. It seems the majority of the MPs stationed there are… traumatized. They demanded reassignment. A mess of a situation."
Aldric's lip curled in a faint, contemptuous smile. "The king's hounds, frightened by shadows they cannot bite. A pathetic display. Still, their cowardice serves a purpose. Containing the refugee filth is a simpler task. With their numbers… diminished… it's all the better. Fewer mouths to feed, less chance of their squalor spilling into the places that matter."
They moved through corridors of quiet power as their footsteps echoed. Valerius hesitated before delivering the next piece of bad news. "The garrison soldier, Hannes. The one from the initial report. He has so far yielded nothing further."
A dark cloud passed over Aldric's composed features. The memory, raw and irritating, surfaced.
Five weeks ago…
The room was windowless, lit by a single lamp. Hannes sat across the table, stinking of running sweat and cheap brandy, but his eyes held a defiant, haunted clarity. Aldric, radiating an aura of calm authority, had questioned him for an hour.
"Describe the eyes again, soldier," Aldric had said, his voice smooth as silk.
"Glowing, sir. Violet. Like… cursed stars," Hannes mumbled, avoiding his gaze.
"And the phasing? You claim it passed through solid matter?"
"Y-yes. Like smoke, but… cold. So cold."
But the details began to shift and contradict. The creature's size changed with each telling. The number of thralls wavered. Hannes was playing a dangerous game, weaving just enough truth into his story to make it plausible, then muddying it with obvious falsehoods. He was evading, and he was doing it on purpose.
Aldric leaned forward, his golden eyes pinning Hannes in place. "Sergeant. A man's life can change in a moment. I could have your punishment… revisited. Even your friends, returned to their proper posts. No more waste duty. All you need to do is stop lying to me. Tell me what truly transpired that night."
The offer hung in the air, a lifeline thrown to a drowning man. Hannes looked at it, a flicker of desperate hope in his eyes. Then, he looked into Aldric's predatory gaze, and something in him hardened. He was a drunk, a failure, but he was not a traitor to the few people who knew the truth.
He slumped, putting on a masterful performance of a broken, confused man. "I'm… I'm sorry, sir. Maybe… maybe the brandy got to me. The stress. It was all so chaotic. I must have been… hallucinating. Seeing things that weren't there. My report… it's all messed up."
It was the final straw. The carefully maintained facade of the gentleman-individual shattered. With a speed that belied his size, Aldric shot across the table, grabbing Hannes by the collar of his filthy uniform and hauling him half-out of his chair.
"You dare…" Aldric snarled, his voice dropping to a guttural, venomous whisper, his golden eyes blazing with a light that was anything but human. "You stand in the presence of a Knight of the Forever and spin your pathetic, mortal falsehoods? I can smell the truth on you, you wretch! It reeks of ozone and terror!"
For a terrifying second, Hannes was staring into the face of something ancient and utterly merciless. Then, just as suddenly, Aldric released him, smoothing down his own tunic. He took a deep breath, the fury vanishing, replaced by a cold, disappointed calm. He sat back down as if nothing had happened.
"My apologies," Aldric said, his voice once again a cultured rumble. "A momentary loss of composure. It is… rather unfortunate, the path your punishment has taken. You are dismissed."
"He lied to my face," Aldric murmured to Valerius as they walked, the memory leaving a bitter taste. "A man like that, composed of little more than regret and alcohol, looked me in the eye and chose to defy me. It was… an insult."
"Your reaction was… uncharacteristic, my lord," Valerius noted quietly.
"A momentary lapse," Aldric dismissed, though the frown remained etched on his face. "The scent of a hidden truth is a powerful provocation. But it is not important now. We have a new trail."
They were announced and entered the chamber of Rod Reiss. The man was hunched over a large desk, not with the bearing of a king, but of a weary administrator. He looked up, his eyes heavy-lidded and anxious. Scrolls and maps were spread before him, and a keen eye would notice the proposed routes and supply lists all pointed towards the reclamation of Wall Maria territory, with notes on "refugee utilization" and "population thinning."
"Sir Aldric," Rod greeted, his voice soft. "Your timing is apt. I trust your… investigations… proceed?"
"The refugee camp has yielded all it will, for now," Aldric said with a slight bow, his gaze sweeping over Rod's papers, understanding the grim calculus at play. "The situation is contained."
"Good. The MPs are… unsettled. Best to let that matter rest." Rod gestured to a newspaper on the corner of his desk. "But now, this morning's unpleasantness. A nobleman of Sina, attacked. His story is… fanciful. But the carnage is not. It seems we may have another anomaly within our walls." He pushed the paper towards Aldric. "Look into it. Discreetly. If there is a connection to be found to this 'Crystal Titan' or any other… irregularity… your order is best suited to find it."
Aldric picked up the newspaper, his golden eyes scanning the article. He took in the sanitized details: the mutilated servant, the slain livestock, the nobleman's drawn imagery of his bandaged face and ravings about a "beast" with "six glowing eyes."
"A pleasure, Lord Reiss," Aldric said, a slow, cold smile finally touching his lips. "We shall not disappoint."
With a final, respectful nod, Aldric and Valerius took their leave. Once they were clear of the chamber, walking back through the gleaming halls, Aldric handed the newspaper to his squire.
Valerius read it quickly, his own analytical mind piecing it together. "The description is crude, but the parallels are there. The brutality. The otherworldly characteristics. It is not the Crystal Titan, but it is cut from the same blasphemous cloth."
Aldric stopped, turning to look out a grand window at the pristine, ignorant city below. His golden eyes narrowed, reflecting the midday sun. All traces of the polite MP were gone, replaced by the unwavering resolve of a hunter who had just caught the scent he'd been waiting for.
"Indeed," Sir Aldric said, his voice a low, promise of steel and fire. "It seems we have a monstrosity to catch."
Chapter 21-30 are already available on Patreon.com/Weeb Fanthom.