The echo rifts refused to stay dead.
They reopened in places the Guardians had already cleared—old wounds tearing fresh. Smaller, sneakier, always at dusk when the city's lights flickered on and shadows stretched long. The team's levels rose steadily: Malcolm 24, Margarita 22, Gronk pushing 25 with raw endurance builds. The Childhood Bond synergy had upgraded twice—now granting shared awareness pings in combat, a silent "I've got you" that needed no words.
But the cost was showing.
Malcolm's Cosmic Eater stirred more often, hunger meter climbing during lulls between fights. Whispers rode the wind—subtle at first, then insistent: promises of rest if he just let go, visions of a city safe under absolute shadow. He countered with extra rak'ahs at dawn, longer recitations on patrol breaks. The team noticed but said nothing. They trusted his discipline.
Until the central plaza rift.
It erupted without warning—right beneath the cracked spire of the old Guild tower, ground zero of the plague's worst days. This echo was different: not just devils and zombies, but spectral illusions of the fallen. Ghosts wearing familiar faces, speaking in voices the living couldn't ignore.
Gronk faltered when his old warband chief charged him, hammer raised in accusation. Kira's lightning stuttered at the sight of her failed lab partner, burned and blaming. Elara's arrows missed when a silver-haired echo of her mother stepped into the line of fire.
Margarita kept shooting—pistols steady, golden yellow eyes narrowed—but even she hesitated when a soft voice called her by the childhood nickname only one person ever used.
Malcolm felt it like a blade to the chest.
The Eater roared awake. Hunger spiked to 70%. Visions flooded: the city kneeling, rifts sealed forever under his rule, no more loss, no more whispers—if he just consumed everything.
He dropped to one knee in the plaza's center, Shadowfang driven into cracked stone to anchor him.
The illusions closed in.
Malcolm (voice low, fierce): "Aʿudhu billahi min ash-shaytan ir-rajim… La hawla wa la quwwata illa billah…"
Noor flared along his tattoos—golden threads weaving through black tendrils. The destabilizer Margarita had built him pulsed warm against his heart, amplifying the light. The Eater thrashed, then submitted.
Malcolm rose.
He didn't consume.
He purified.
Umbra Vortex inverted—shadows pulling illusions inward, not to devour but to burn away with recited verses channeled through the Eater itself. Golden fire erupted in a dome, cleansing the plaza in waves of light and sound. Spectral figures dissolved with sighs of release rather than screams.
The rift shuddered, edges fraying, then collapsed inward with a thunderclap that rattled windows across districts.
Silence fell, broken only by rain starting soft overhead.
Major Quest Complete: Silence the Echoes
Party-wide Level Up
New Title Earned: Whisper Breakers – Permanent +25% resistance to mental corruption and temptation effects
Civilians emerged slowly from sheltered doorways, staring at the cleared plaza. A child ran forward, pressing a small embroidered ta'wiz into Malcolm's hand—the same gesture that had greeted him after the labyrinth.
History healing, not just repeating.
Later, when the team debriefed at the Minaret Ward, Malcolm and Margarita slipped away to the rooftops—an old escape route from orphanage days, now overlooking a city dotted with faint hope.
Rain pattered steady but gentle, washing neon reflections across wet tiles.
Margarita (voice soft under the downpour): "You didn't consume them. You freed them."
Malcolm: "Couldn't have held long enough without your stabilizer. Your trust."
She stepped closer, red hair darkened by rain, golden eyes catching distant lights.
Margarita: "I came back to fight devils. But Mal… I stayed because this—us—still feels like home."
He turned to her fully, water tracing the lines of old scars and new resolve.
Malcolm: "I thought I'd lost the part of me that knew how to stand still and just… breathe. You brought it back."
No grand gestures. Just her hand finding his in the rain, fingers lacing like they had on cold orphanage nights years ago.
The Cosmic Eater stayed quiet—hunger low, content for once.
Above them, clouds parted briefly, revealing stars over Neo-Eldoria.
The hunt would continue. Rifts would return. Whispers would try again.
But tonight, two childhood friends stood together on a rooftop, rain washing away old ghosts, making room for whatever came next.
To be continued...