Far above the Hollow Ring, the upper streets of Myriad Hollow sprawled in chaotic grandeur, woven through the underbelly of the Souldrift Shelf like a city hanging upside down.
Blackstone bridges twisted between bone towers; spirit lanterns burned with gentle azure light, casting ghostly reflections onto obsidian roads slick with abyssal mist.
Vendors shouted in guttural abyssal dialects, hawking everything from soul-threaded cloaks to bone-carved talismans humming with latent malice.
Above, the Eternal Moons glimred faintly through cracks in the cavernous ceiling, their crimson glow seeping down and making every shadow seem alive, as if sothing watched from the dark corners of the city.
Yet even in this sprawling abyssal tropolis, there was one place where the pulse of trade, power, and ambition beat loudest— this was the Midnight Exchange of Myriad Hollow: a marketplace where everything—from treasures to bound souls themselves—could be bought...for a price.
Nestled in the very heart of the upper city, the Midnight Exchange was a grand artery of wealth and secrets—wide obsidian boulevards lined on either side by towering shopfronts carved from black jade and veined marble.
Crimson and violet soul-banners fluttered above polished archways, each inscribed with sigils denoting the owner’s rank within the Evernight Council or allegiance to one of the mighty Abyssal Clans.
The air was thick with the scent of burning abyssal incense and the sharp tang of forges at work mixed with soul wailings. Phantom carriages floated silently above the main thoroughfare, ferrying robed dignitaries and masked rchants.
Crowds of abyssal fiends, demons, and devils mingled under the watchful gaze of towering soul-iron statues that lined the plaza, each depicting a legendary figure of the Evernight Council; the eyes of polished obsidian seed to follow every movent.
Shops here were not simple stalls but grand emporiums and fortified manors, protected by layered formations and guards clad in living armor.
Behind rune-etched glass walls, powerful treasures were displayed, including abyssal scrolls, relics plundered from the Wandering Realms, and elixirs humming with Abyssal Spirit Qi.
Above it all, massive soul lanterns bathed the exchange in an ever-shifting dance of violet, crimson, and pale azure light, transforming every movent of the crowd into a living shadow play —a dance of ambition and hidden intent.
One shop, Veil & Fang, displayed assassin-forged shadow cloaks and knives so sharp they were rumored to slice through the soul itself.
Another, the Oathbound Atelier, offered custom-forged blood contracts and soul pacts, its master a Grandmaster Contract Artisan of the Abyssal Devil Race.
Deeper still stood the legendary Obsidian Spirit Hall, where even Council Nobles ca seeking relics and soul-bound weapons lost to the abyss.
Here, fortunes were made and kingdoms undone; alliances ford and broken over whispered deals; and even the smallest token could hold power enough to topple an abyssal noble.
At this mont, a hooded figure walked beneath the ever-turning dance of violet and crimson lantern light and stopped at the very center of the Midnight Exchange, where stood an edifice: the Duskmire Vault.
Built from seamless slabs of black obsidian fused with abyssal jade, the Duskmire Vault rose in tiered layers like a dread ziggurat, each level guarded by towering statues of horned, faceless sentinels carved from petrified abyssal bone.
Ethereal runes floated above its grand entrance, spelling out its na in ancient abyssal script that pulsed with a dull, oppressive heartbeat.
Unlike other shops, there were no loud banners, hawkers, or dazzling relic displays. The re presence of the Duskmire Vault exuded such absolute authority that even the boldest abyssal rchants dared not build too close, leaving a wide plaza open around its shadowed bulk.
The reason behind it because the towering vault was established by none other than the Dread Duchess Varathia, the Overseer of the Obsidian Myriad Kingdom, an Abyssal Devil whose na alone could quiet a riot and whose thods made even Marquis and Earls walk carefully.
The mysterious hooded figure gazed at the colossal vault’s gates, which seed to be forged from soul-iron and sealed with writhing soul chains that appeared alive.
Guards in living abyssal plate stood motionless on either side, their helms featureless save for a single vertical slit glowing with baleful crimson light.
At that mont, as if sensing the mysterious figure, the colossal soul-iron gates of the Duskmire Vault groaned open, the living chains slithering aside as if tasting the aura of the approaching figure.
A wave of chilling darkness rolled out from the entrance, the air heavy with spiritual oppression so dense that it felt as though every breath might corrode the soul itself.
But the hooded figure remained calm and stepped inside. Beyond lay a grand hall vast as a cathedral, its floor crafted from black marble veined with liquid-like silver soul ore that pulsed faintly with every heartbeat.
Towering columns of fused abyssal bone and jade spiraled upward, each etched with runes of sealing and binding.
In the vaulted chamber, floating stasis fields held abyssal elixirs and treasures. Obsidian circlets humming with killing intent; shards of crystalline soulstone faintly weeping violet mist; blades forged from devoured souls, bound by unknown thods.
Yet the Duskmire Vault was more than a trove of abyssal treasures. It dealt in forbidden knowledge plundered from the Wandering Realms, ancient soul pacts, living formations, and even the remnants of wandering souls themselves—sealed within crystal prisons for study, barter, or destruction.
Only those bearing a recognized Evernight Contract Seal could step beyond the first hall without facing instant obliteration.
Every transaction here, be it a vial of corrupted soul essence or an entire soul-forged abyssal beast, was overseen by the Duchess’s personal will, recorded by runes that crawled across the walls like living ink.
As the hooded figure advanced, faint motes of abyssal spirit Qi drifted toward them, drawn by sothing hidden under the cloak. Sentinels of soul-forged armor turned ever so slightly, the crimson slits in their helms brightening—until they glimpsed the mysterious abyssal markings, pulsing faintly over the figure’s gloved hand.
Instantly, the oppressive spiritual weight in the hall eased, and the guards resud their motionless vigil.
From a high archway at the rear, a figure erged, and this person wasn’t ordinary at all; he was known as the Vaultkeeper by everyone. He was draped in layered abyssal-silk robes, his face hidden behind a mask of burnished black iron carved into the likeness of a silent judge.
Even a being of the Vaultkeeper’s stature—a direct retainer of the Dread Duchess Varathia herself—approached with visible deference, bowing deeply towards the hooded figure. This scene would shock anyone who witnessed it.
"Honored bearer of the Evil Diva’s mark," His voice echoed softly, like a whisper that sohow filled the entire hall, "The Duskmire Vault welcos you. Tell us what the will of the Duchess’s only disciple seeks, and it shall be yours."
The hooded figure’s hand lifted slightly, revealing the mark that shimred with an abyssal light. Hidden behind his faceless mask’s obscurity, his dark blue eyes shimred with a peculiar light.
He spoke, his voice was low, smooth, carrying a quiet authority, "I have co for the Ebon Vein Nectar. A cup of wine from the deep cellars, drawn only for the highest guests of the Duchess herself, I hope to taste it today."
The Vaultkeeper stiffened for the briefest mont because even among the vault’s treasures, the Ebon Vein Nectar was very precious, just as the hooded figure stated; only the Duchess’ personal guests can taste it.
The Ebon Vein Nectar was a wine fernted from the essence of ancient wandering souls and the blood of abyssal beings, rumored to epiphany in abyssal laws, and even awaken latent abyssal bloodlines.
This made the Vaultkeeper more curious about this person’s identity and how he had managed to gain Evil Diva’s trust to receive such an honor. However, he didn’t dare to question him as a re servant; he had no authority over the Duchess’s disciple guests.
Nonetheless, everyone was monitored here under the will of the Dread Duchess, so the Vaultkeeper was sure it wouldn’t be long because this news would reach the Duchess’s ears.
At his mont, slowly, the Vaultkeeper inclined his head, the soul-silk of his robes brushing the black marble.
"As the Evil Diva decrees... so shall it be." Turning gracefully, he gestured for the figure to follow, and the person obliged.
They passed down a narrower hall lined with chained soul-lanterns, each flickering with trapped whispers, until they reached a sealed obsidian chamber guarded by even larger sentinels, runes crawling across their fras like living veins.
With a whispered incantation, the Vaultkeeper pressed his palm to the door. A lattice of soul chains withdrew into the walls, and the massive gates opened to reveal the Vault’s inner sanctum—a chamber veiled in abyssal mist where the air itself felt alive, coiled with unseen power.
In the center, atop an altar of black crystal, rested a single ebon flask bound with living rune-threads—the Ebon Vein Nectar, sealed by the Duchess’s hand!
As the Vaultkeeper moved to present the flask, the atmosphere of the inner sanctum shifted.
But all of a sudden, the abyssal mist that clung to the black crystal altar began to swirl of its own accord, coiling into spirals of living shadow.
The oppressive deepened, as if even the soul-winds that whispered through the Duskmire Vault dared not disturb what was about to happen.
Even the Vaultkeeper was astounded before he quickly kneeled, making the hooded figure bewildered for a mont, before his eyes flashed with a hint of ecstasy!
The hooded figure was none other than Ace as he thought, ’She’s really here, the Dread Duchess!’
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