The first thing Northern noticed was silence.
No winds. No screams. No sound of battle.
The outside world, once shrouded in the cacophony of clashing steel and the guttural roars of monsters and men alike, had been swallowed—suffocated by walls of shadow.
Northern slowly turned his head, his gaze sweeping across the scene with cautious scrutiny.
The ground—if it could even be called that—was a vast, reflective sea, its solid surface mirroring the endless abyss of swirling shadows. Mist coiled and drifted above it like sentient night, creeping with a slow, deliberate motion, as though it bore the weight of ancient knowledge.
It was calm. Almost too calm.
The mist exuded an eldritch grace, an eerie stillness that felt less like stagnation and more like quiet sentience. It was the kind of silence that belonged to something that had endured eons, tempered by time itself—a shadowed existence untouched by mortal prehension.
But Northern was not fooled.
This was no sacred body, no ancient relic to be revered.
This was a monster.
An Apex Maelstrom.
A thing that had survived for the stars knew how long, consuming men and monsters alike, growing fat on the essence of those swallowed within its depths.
’Perhaps this is how it lures them in,’ he mused grimly. ’A silent, open calmness that promises sanctuary. A slow, insidious creep into the mind, wrapping around the soul like a whispering phantom before dragging its victims into the nothingness and taking over their soul.’
A shudder rippled through him. He scanned his surroundings again, but this time, his Chaos Eyes flared to life.
The world shifted.
Beyond the veiled surface, beyond the illusion of emptiness, the truth unraveled in fragments of runic ligatures.
They were unlike anything he had encountered before—alien in their formation yet eerily familiar in their fundamental essence.
Northern had seen soul ligatures countless times. He had peered into the very fabric of monster souls, their essence laid bare before him in the form of ancient runes deciphered by the system. The patterns, the alignments—subtle yet distinct—had bee second nature to him.
It was the same when he looked into the souls of Drifters or even ordinary humans. Over time, he had learned to recognize the nuances, the disparities that made each ligature unique.
And that was why, in this moment, he knew—
This wasn’t merely the belly of the Shadow Storm.
This was its soul.
And maybe... just maybe...
The Shadow Storm had never possessed a physical body to begin with.
A slow, uneasy breath escaped him.
’A mass of soul... with no flesh to bind it? Or have the bodies of the devoured bee its vessel?’
The uncanny coordination it had displayed earlier suddenly made sense.
So did its ferocious desperation to swallow him whole.
Surely, a being like Northern would make for a fitting vessel.
A shiver crawled up his spine at the thought. The idea of being consumed—his body controlled by something monstrous, his soul bound in servitude to a formless wraith—was sickening.
’...Not happening.’
He exhaled slowly, shifting his grip on the hilt of the Illusioned Hefter, its handle wrapped in a strip of dirty white tunic.
His mundane eyes, radiating an eerie blue luminescence, narrowed as he glared forward.
He stepped forward, silent.
Then—just before his foot met the surface—he abruptly retracted, backstepping as a figure lunged out of the mist before him, its elongated shadow-claws raking through the space he had occupied just a second prior.
A heartbeat. A breath.
Then Northern surged forward.
Grace defined his every movement. Swift, curt, precise—never erratic. His blade came down in a silent arc, severing the creature’s hand clean off—
—only for it to dissolve into a swirl of dark vapor before reforming, as if his attack had never landed.
The entity turned, featureless. No expression, no emotion. Nothing but an empty shadow wearing the form of a man.
It lunged again, a blade of shadow materializing in its grip, slashing toward him in an unrelenting assault.
Northern’s frown deepened. He leaped back, the weapon slicing cleanly through the space he had just abandoned.
A thought crossed his mind.
’I miss Soul Taker.’
That immolated blade had been the only weapon in his possession capable of dealing soul damage. Every other item, every other tool—nothing was suited for this.
He exhaled, a wistful glint in his eyes.
Right now, he had no means of truly hurting them.
Only dodging.
The realization grated on his nerves.
’So what? Am I just supposed to keep running?’
The thought soured in his mind. The idea of retreating—of evading without fighting back—felt almost unnatural. But perhaps... perhaps some battles were meant to be fled from, rather than charged into.
Northern stood still for a second. Then he scoffed.
’Yeah, no chance. That was a mad lie I just told myself.’
The figures multiplied.
One after another, they peeled themselves from the mist, growing more numerous, more relentless. Each shadowy wraith emerged wherever he stood, as if drawn to his presence. Every movement he made was met with a response—an attack delivered with a seamless, fluid lethality.
And yet—despite their aggression—their movements held a strange tranquility.
Fierce, yet calm.
It was easy to dodge them. Shadow Step and Blink made sure of that.
The sheer density of the mist made the Shadow Step effortless, allowing him to slip through the mist as easily as he would through mundane shadows. And in that ease, a realization settled in his mind.
The Shadow Enthrall was not simply a monster of shadow.
It was a shadow.
If it were anything less, anything other than a true shadow-being, using its essence as a medium of transport should have been impossible. But it wasn’t. It worked flawlessly.
That discovery changed nothing. The bastard still refused to die.
As Northern weaved through the ceaseless assault, dodging, sidestepping, vanishing and reappearing, his mind kept racing.
’Think. Think.’
Actually, a single notion had been lingering in his mind all this time.
A solution... A risk.
’No... not that. Let’s not do that now...’
He clenched his jaw, suppressing the thought, forcing it down.
It was dangerous. Too unpredictable. He had been suppressing the thought, pushing it aside, telling himself there had to be another way.
He kept pushing forward, weaving through the relentless tide of wraiths. Dodging. Shadow-stepping. Evading with every ounce of precision he had.
But he knew.
Sooner or later, it wouldn’t be enough.
The shadows were learning. Their numbers were growing. Their strikes were closing in, adapting to his every move.
And when the moment came—when slipping past them became impossible—
He would have no choice.
Because what he was dreading—the very thing he was resisting—
The Shadow Enthrall would force upon him eventually.
It was only a matter of time.
The wraiths were closing in, their movements tightening like a web, an inescapable snare. Every moment he delayed, every second he hesitated, only served to make his inevitable capture more certain.
So it came down to a decision.
Submit now—willingly. On his terms.
Or be taken by force when there was no choice left.
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