Master Alchemist Lysander had believed he'd created perfection itself.
His workshop, nestled in the prestigious Noble Quarter of the capital, became a pilgrimage site for aristocrats desperate to own a single vial of what he called "Essence of Seraphim." Lords emptied their coffers. Ladies fought duels over the last drops. Even hardened generals were known to weep openly when exposed to its divine fragrance.
The perfume was unlike anything the world had ever known. It captured the very breath of spring mornings, the whisper of cherry blossoms dancing on warm air, and something ineffably divine that spoke to the soul itself. Rumor claimed that even the Empress wore nothing else but the Essence of Seraphim.
Lysander's fortune changed overnight with that.
The Big Three merchant companies offered him positions that would have made aristocrats jealous. Noble families sent their children to apprentice under him, hoping to learn even a fraction of his genius. His name was whispered in every tavern, praised in every court. He became the hottest commodity in the empire.
All of this lasted exactly three months.
The Essence of Seraphim, which Lysander had thought was perfection itself, carried a flaw that turned his masterpiece into nightmare fuel.
Just a whiff of its divine scent turned animals into slavering beasts, transforming gentle creatures into engines of pure, focused rage.
People dismissed the first incidents as a coincidence. A few trampled gardeners here, some mauled perfume merchants there. Accidents happened in a world full of unpredictable beasts after all.
But when someone made the mistake of exposing Roamers-the creatures that could control the essence-to the scent, its true horror was revealed.
The Roamer beasts that caught even the faintest trace of Seraphim's essence would chase its source to the ends of the earth. They would hunt with the single-minded devotion of religious zealots, never stopping, never tiring, until they could stomp, claw, and tear at whatever carried that cursed fragrance.
Only when the scent finally dissipated would the madness leave them, usually long after their target had been reduced to scattered meat.
The Essence of Seraphim was banned within a day of the discovery. Royal guards came hammering at Lysander's workshop door, but the alchemist had vanished like smoke in the wind, taking his secrets with him.
The world remembered his work, though. They gave it a new name, one that better reflected its true nature.
Ghost Blood.
✧ ✧ ✧
When Captain Sarkas saw the old man swallow that black pill and transform into something torn from hell's deepest pit, the first thing that crashed through his mind wasn't fear or shock.
It was the memory of a gift.
A small crystal vial, no bigger than his thumb, filled with liquid that seemed to hold captured starlight. Russ had presented it with such casual grace, explaining how it was a rare fragrance from the western provinces.
The scent was intoxicating-like breathing in pure beauty-and Sarkas had accepted it without hesitation. The dwarf women in the forges were particularly fond of fine fragrances, after all. It seemed like the perfect tool for his… administrative visits.
He'd been wearing it today. Had dabbed it behind his ears before making his rounds, the same as he'd done for weeks now. Never once suspecting that he was coating himself in the most dangerous perfume ever created.
The Ghost Blood.
He'd been played.
Manipulated so thoroughly that part of him wanted to laugh at his own stupidity. Russ had turned him into bait with nothing more than vanity and a pretty bottle.
But as he rolled away from claws that could shred armor like parchment, one question burned in his mind brighter than the green fire around his blade.
'What is he planning?'
Even if Sarkas died down here, even if the beast tore him apart and scattered his pieces across the tunnel floor, there was nowhere for the scarred man to run. The heavy iron doors that surrounded the quarry 11 above could only be opened by the captain's command. More than a hundred guards stood watch above, who wouldn't hesitate to cut down escaping prisoners.
What was his plan to get past them?
The question gnawed at him even as he poured Essence into his sword, the pale green aura flaring like fire. But there was no time to unravel the mystery-the demonic thing bearing down on him demanded every scrap of his attention.
Its claws swept toward his head in an arc that would have decapitated a horse. Sarkas ducked low, his blade coming up in a desperate parry that sent sparks cascading through the tunnel. The impact jarred his arms to the bone, and he realized with cold certainty that this is going to be dangerous. Very dangerous.
"Protect me, Lord Vessa!" The prayer tore from his throat as he swung his sword in a wild arc, trying to buy himself a few precious seconds of breathing room.
✧ ✧ ✧
Six guard soldiers had to die before they gained access to the elevator controls.
Four of them were handled by Stone, while the other took care of two.
It took time-more than anyone would have liked-but not enough to delay the plan. Blood pooled around the control station, and the air reeked of death and desperation, but the ancient mechanisms still responded to the right combination of levers and switches.
As Russ limped onto the platform, Eighty-Seven joined him, both men moving as broken puppets held together by will alone. Without anyone to support him, Eighty-Seven's limp was more pronounced, his body finally admitting the toll of the night's violence.
"You were quite fierce back there, boy," Russ said suddenly, his voice carrying genuine approval.
Eighty-Seven turned his head away, jaw clenched tight as wire. He'd truly believed that Russ had betrayed him, had been ready to grab the scarred bastard and drag him down into hell if the beast had come for him. The misunderstanding sat on his shoulders, but pride kept his mouth shut.
Seeing the lack of response, Russ chuckled.
The platform shuddered and began its grinding ascent. Twenty stood on the metal grating-Russ, Eighty-Seven, and eighteen other miners. Sacrifice had been necessary to make room, it seemed. Not everyone who'd wanted freedom had been able to claim it, but two new faces had joined amidst them without notice.
"...are you sure about this?"
Patrick stood at the very corner of the elevator, still shaken by everything that had happened around him.
"Like hell I am!" Tam hissed back. "You want to stay down with an abomination like that? I'd rather follow this instead."
He nodded toward Russ, careful not to point.
As they rose through the shaft, the sounds of battle below grew fainter. But they could still see the chaos-the captain fighting desperately against impossible odds, prisoners scattered all around, realizing they were now trapped in the depths with a demonic beast and no way out.
Watching all that, innumerable emotions crashed through Eighty-Seven's mind. Relief. Terror. Guilt for the men left behind. Wonder at what lies above.
Finally.
Finally, after six years of breaking his back in the darkness, he would see the outside world again. The rope-however rotten it might be-was pulling him toward the surface. Toward sky, wind, and the possibility of something better than mere survival.
─── ✦ ✦ ✦ ───