HAREM: WARLOCK OF THE SOUTH

The wind over the Plains of Murmuring Dust did not whisper that day—it screamed. Shrieking through broken crags and across the sun-bleached skeletons of long-dead titans, the air carried with it not only dust, but dread. Beneath a sky choked with roiling ash clouds, Ryon stood at the edge of what once was a Southern temple. His cloak, now more scorched than whole, fluttered behind him like a banner of defiance.

Aurelia knelt beside a shattered obsidian totem, brushing her fingers through the sand. Beneath the first layer of dirt, ancient symbols pulsed faintly with hidden light. Not Aetheric—this was something older, untouched by the Divine Radiance or the Cradle Flames of the North. Something primal.

"We are standing on the mouth of something that was never meant to be opened," she muttered.

Ryon did not answer. He was still listening. Since the cocoon had cracked, his senses had changed. He no longer heard with ears alone. The world spoke now, through memory, through pulse, through resonance. And this place... it was screaming beneath its stillness.

Neive arrived behind them, her robes soaked with sweat and blood not her own. "The forward scouts are dead. All of them. Fifteen elite hunters turned to salt statues, eyes gouged from the inside."

Aurelia rose to her feet, hand instinctively going to the hilt of her twin blades. "That is not death. That is ritual."

"They were not killed for sport or strategy," Neive added, voice flat. "They were offerings."

A heavy silence fell.

Shaera arrived last, her hair bristling with stormlight. "There is something beneath this plain. Something alive."

Ryon turned to face them all. "We knew this would come. The war was never going to end at the Bone Pass. Not while the South still held secrets."

He walked forward, each step pulsing with magic. With the sword fused to his soul and his class ascended, he no longer needed incantations. His power obeyed will alone.

He placed a hand on the central stone slab of the ruins.

And the world shifted.

They dropped.

The ground gave way in a circular pattern, falling like a trapdoor to an abyss of lightless stone. For miles, they plummeted, not screaming, not panicking—because none of them had time to. They landed not with a crash, but a displacement, as if the world itself caught them gently.

They stood now in a cavern carved not by human hands, nor elemental forces. This place had been grown. Walls of bone twisted upward into spirals, ribcages of colossal beasts formed bridges, and veins of living fire beat through the floor like capillaries.

"What in the thirteen hells is this?" Shaera muttered, drawing her dagger.

"The Cradle Below," Neive whispered. "It was a myth. A sanctuary beneath the war—home to the Architects of the First Flame. The ones who made the South what it is."

Aurelia stepped forward, sword drawn. "And why does it feel like the walls are breathing?"

They began to move forward, warily, their footsteps echoing louder than they should have in such a vast space. As they passed beneath a huge arch of fossilized wings, they came upon the first altar.

It was drenched in blood—but not fresh. Blood that refused to dry, centuries old yet still wet. And upon it was a corpse, its chest hollowed out and ribs splayed like petals.

And it spoke.

"You wear his mark," the corpse rasped, voice like cracking ice.

Ryon froze.

"You are Flamebound. Oath-Forged. But do you carry the shame with you?"

He stepped closer, eyes narrowing. "Who are you?"

"I was the First Blade of the South. They called me Voryn. And I murdered a god in this room."

The corpse suddenly moved, rising with slow, unnatural grace, bones creaking but not breaking. Voryn stood fully now, chest still open, and looked directly at Ryon.

"If you wish to survive what comes, you must carry more than power. You must carry our guilt."

The test began without warning.

The room blurred. The others vanished.

Ryon stood in a field of fire, but it was not his. The ground burned, the air thick with screams. Before him, thousands of corpses—Northern, Southern, children, beasts, kings. And standing atop a mountain of the dead...

Himself.

But it was not truly him. This version of Ryon wore blackened armor, eyes glowing with voidlight, hair wild with storm and blood. His blade dripped with flame and frost alike, but the aura he gave off was rot.

"I am you," the shade said. "Unchained. Victorious. Alone."

"You are not me," Ryon answered.

"I am who you could become. If you forget why you fight."

The shade lunged.

Their blades met in a crash that split the illusion in two. Light and shadow surged, and Ryon fought—not with anger, not with fear, but with clarity.

Every strike was a choice.

Every parry was a promise.

And when he impaled the shade on his sword, the illusion crumbled.

He awoke back in the Cradle, sweat pouring down his body. The others were around him, wounded, exhausted—but alive.

"Each of us faced our truth," Neive said quietly. "This place does not offer answers. Only the questions we run from."

Ryon stood. On his hand, the glyph had changed. Now, within the snowflake and flame was a third sigil: a spiral of bone.

> System Alert: Soul Trial Survived – Cradle of the Forgotten New Trait Gained: Echo of the First Flame Resistance Boosted: Aetheric Corruption +40% Hidden Passive Awakened: Bone Memory (Locked)

Before he could speak, the ground shook again.

Not the same as before.

This was... welcoming.

The wall ahead cracked open.

And from it stepped a figure—no beast, no echo, no memory.

A woman.

Skin the color of volcanic glass. Hair flowing like molten gold. Eyes burning with the wisdom of ages.

"You finally came," she said, voice layered with many. "The last Oathbearer. The child of both frost and fire."

Ryon stepped forward. "Who are you?"

She smiled.

"I am the Architect. And you are standing in the bones of my sin."