The first scream came before the beasts were seen.
It tore through Dravenloch like a blade through flesh — it was sharp, sudden and final. Then another scream followed...then ten....then hundreds. By the time the city bells rang, it was already too late.
High above the streets, the sky had split open.
A Wormhole—vast, spiraling, and wrong—hung over the city like a bleeding wound. Red and black light churned within it, twisting reality itself. From its depths, the Maker's Curse beasts poured out....like water from a damn.
They came falling, crawling, flying.
Beasts with too many limbs. Things with mouths where faces should be. Creatures made of bone, shadow, and screaming flesh. The air stank of rot and burning iron.
Dravenloch was being eaten alive.
Mabel Maverick did not hesitate.
She stood at the front of the city's inner district, armor gleaming red beneath the hellish sky, her blade already drawn. Behind her stood fifteen Dreadmark cultivators—men and women hardened by war, their auras flaring like burning brands.
"Formation!" Mabel shouted.
They moved instantly. A semicircle snapped into place, defensive sigils forming in the air as the first wave of beasts slammed into them.
Steel rang.....while energy burst. Blood sprayed...as beasts was slayed.
The first beasts died fast—it was cut down, burned apart, crushed under coordinated strikes. The Dreadmarks fought with precision, their cultivation allowing them to move faster than the eye, strike harder than stone.
As if answering to them.....more powerful beasts came out.
But there were too many.
The Wormhole pulsed again, and another flood poured out.
A massive creature smashed into a nearby building, collapsing it instantly. Screams echoed as rubble buried entire families. A Hollowborn child tried to run—something with spiked limbs caught him mid-step and tore him in half.
No one was spared.
Nobles died screaming in their silks. Hollowborn died quietly, crushed under claws they never had the chance to escape. Guards, merchants, Transmuters—despite them....trying to join in.....but they couldn't...this was not smt they could helped..but they did though....in their was.....but still everything bled the same.
"Hold the line!" Mabel yelled, cutting down a serpent-like beast that lunged for her throat.
But the line buckled.
One Dreadmark was dragged screaming into the air, ripped apart before he could even activate his defense. Another was impaled through the chest and thrown aside like trash.
The city was drowning.
At the heart of Dravenloch, deep within the shadows of ruined streets, Sané felt it.
The pull.
It hit him like a hook buried in his chest, yanking at something deep inside his soul. His shadow stirred violently, writhing across the walls, reacting before he even understood why.
Around him, the other Masked Ones froze.
"The Wormhole…" Number 111 muttered. "It's calling."
Number 123 clenched her fists, her Vestige flaring instinctively. "It's close. Inside the city."
Sané stepped forward without thinking. His crimson eyes were locked toward the direction of the chaos. He could feel the screams. Feel the death.
"We have to help," he said.
The others nodded. They were already moving—already turning toward the sound of ruin.
Then Number 12 spoke.
"No."
The single word cut through them like ice.
They all stopped.
Number 12 stood at the edge of a shattered rooftop, looking down at the burning city. Her mask reflected the inferno below, unmoving, unreadable.
"We do not interfere," she said calmly.
Sané turned sharply. "They're dying."
"Yes."
"Hollowborn are dying," Sané pressed. "People—"
"Everyone is dying," Number 12 corrected. "That is the nature of Wormholes."
Sané's fists trembled. "You taught us to fight the Maker's curse."
"I taught you to survive," 12 replied. "And to choose when to fight."
Below them, a massive beast slammed into a defensive barrier. The barrier shattered. The screams that followed were short.
Number 12's voice did not change. "This is not our battle."
Sané stared at her, disbelief burning behind his eyes. "You're just going to let this happen?"
"Yes," 12 said. "Because if we move now, we reveal ourselves. And then none of this will matter—because we'll be wiped out before we ever reach our purpose.....and it was the order from on top"
The other Masked Ones stood in silence. They could feel it too—the pull, the rage, the instinct to act.
But they did not move.
Sané turned back to the city.
And watched.
Despite how powerful Mabel was....she couldn't handle many powerful beasts at the same time.....
A deep gash ran along her side as blood soaked her armor....but she ignored it, cutting down another beast as it lunged for a group of fleeing civilians.
"Fall back!" she shouted to the remaining Dreadmarks. "Protect the inner ring!"
Only seven of the original fifteen were still standing.
They retreated in tight formation, striking back again and again, but the city was collapsing faster than they could move.
A beast burst from underground, tearing through the street like paper. It grabbed a noblewoman by the head and crushed her skull in one squeeze.
Another creature leapt onto a rooftop and dragged an entire family down into the street.
The screams never stopped.
Mabel felt rage burning in her chest—not just at the beasts, but at the helplessness of it all.
Where are the reinforcements?
Where are the families?
A Dreadmark beside her was torn apart mid-spell.
She screamed his name as he died.
The Wormhole pulsed again.
More beasts came.
From the shadows, Sané's breathing grew uneven.
He saw it all.
The blood. The fear. The bodies.
He recognized the streets—the alleys where he had slept as a Hollowborn child. The corner where he had once begged for food. Now those places were soaked in blood.
His shadow stretched unnaturally long, clawing at the ground as if trying to escape him.
"Control yourself," Number 12 said quietly.
Sané swallowed hard. "That's my city."
"Was," 12 corrected.
Sané's jaw tightened....but he couldn't refute her.
Below, Mabel stood her ground against a massive beast, her blade glowing as she struck again and again. She was strong—but she was only one person.
Sané watched her fight.
And for the first time since becoming Number 99, he felt something dangerous stir in his chest...
It was not hunger....not rage either...but guilt.
The beasts did not discriminate.
They killed Hollowborn who hid in gutters. They killed nobles who tried to flee in carriages. They crushed guards, Transmuters, children.
The Maker's Curse did not care who you were.
By nightfall, large sections of Dravenloch were ruins.
Mabel stood amid the wreckage, breathing hard, her blade chipped and stained black. Around her lay the dead—friends, enemies, citizens.
The Wormhole still churned above.
And from the rooftops, unseen and silent, the Masked Ones watched.
Sané' asked.....despite what he had faced in the city, the suffering and all...he still couldn't just sit and watch it burn.
"How long?" he whispered.
Number 12 did not look at him.
"Until the city breaks… or adapts."
Sané stared at the destruction, his shadow writhing at his feet.
And somewhere deep inside him, something cracked.....or so he thought.