The amethyst-eyed dread-wyrm, now a solid weight on his forearm, pulsed with a faint, internal heat. The echo of the smaller wyrm’s disappearance lingered, a phantom ozone scent. Korshan ignored both, his eyes fixed on the red System message. `[UNINTENDED BEHAVIOR DETECTED. DEPLOYING ASSASSIN.]` This wasn't a warning. This was a trigger. An instanced event. The game punishing him for spawning two nascent dread-wyrms from a single artifact, a duplication glitch the developers had clearly missed. He knew how these killer events worked. They manifested in the nearest 'active' zone, usually a high-traffic area. The Grand Hall. And the target was rarely the intended one, but rather someone convenient to frame *him* for. He burst from the hidden alcove, the teleportation scroll still glowing faintly in his hand, and sprinted down a deserted service corridor. The academy’s hushed marble halls gave way to the distant murmur of noble students, the clink of silverware. He took a sharp turn, vaulting over a forgotten cleaning cart, the dread-wyrm clinging tight. The Grand Hall’s arched entrance loomed. Within, the scene unfolded with predictable, horrifying grace. Kyradis Olyn, adorned in a tunic of deep forest-green and silver filigree, stood near the foot of the sweeping main staircase. She was mid-conversation with a portly, obsequious Baronet, her expression a careful blend of polite disinterest and regal disdain. Her escort, two hulking figures in polished black plate, stood a respectful distance away. Then, the shadows moved. Not natural gloom, but coalesced darkness detaching from the deep recesses of the hall. Three figures, cloaked in living night, solidified behind Kyradis's retinue. They moved with impossible silence, blades already hissing free from wrist-sheaths, aimed not at the sentries, but directly at the elven delegate. Frame Korshan for an attack on a foreign envoy, eliminate a political nuisance, and solidify power. Standard playbook. Korshan didn't hesitate. He knew the Grand Hall's geometry, the invisible boundaries of its loaded zones. The ornate, spiraling staircase, just ten feet from Kyradis, had a classic 'unloaded trigger zone' at its fifth step – a minor physics oversight where the combat script wouldn't fully initialize. It was a common flaw in instanced environments, a blind spot in the game engine. “Olyn!” he roared, a raw, uncharacteristic sound. His momentum carried him across the polished floor, weaving through startled students. One of Kyradis’s sentries, alerted, started to turn, but Korshan was already there. He slammed into Kyradis, bypassing her personal space entirely, a rough hand gripping her arm. Her brows twitched high, meeting his for a split second. “What in the blazes–” she began, her voice sharp with indignation. He yanked, hard. Kyradis stumbled, her elegant posture ruined, her green tunic twisting. He pulled her towards the staircase, ignoring her flailing protests, her shocked gasp. Two strides, three, four. He hauled her up to the fifth step, just as the shadowy stalkers, now fully visible and moving with terrifying speed, closed in on her original position. The instant Korshan’s boot touched the fifth step, everything froze. The world seemed to stutter. The three stalkers, their blades inches from where Kyradis had stood, paused mid-strike. Their forms stiffened, their cloaks ceasing their unnatural undulation. They stood perfectly upright, arms splayed slightly, heads tilted forward, like mannequins awaiting instruction. A default T-pose. `[GLITCH DETECTED: ASSET_FAILURE_ASSASSIN_01_RIGGING_ERROR. UNINTENDED BEHAVIOR REWARDED. ACQUIRED: SHADOW_FRAGMENT_OF_STASIS (COMMON).]` Kyradis stared at the frozen figures, then at Korshan, her ribs hitching against her ribs. Her face was a mask of bewildered fury, her ears flushed. “You… you oaf! You utterly barbaric… What was that for? Do you have any idea how undignified that was?!” “You were about to be shish-kebabed. You’re welcome,” Korshan said, his grip still firm on her arm. He could feel the fine silk of her sleeve beneath his fingers. The dread-wyrm on his other arm stirred, sensing his tension. Kyradis’s gaze flickered to the T-posed figures, then back to him. Her anger seemed to deflate, replaced by a flicker of something unreadable, a subtle warmth beneath her irritation. She wrenched her arm free, but then, instead of stepping away, her hand shot out, grasping the lapel of his academy coat. Her knuckles were white. “Insolent brute,” she hissed, though her voice lacked its earlier sting. Her chin tilted up, a proud, almost possessive glint in her eyes. “You have… saved my life. A regrettable, clumsy, *ghastly* display, but a saving nonetheless. Very well. As per the ancient custom of my people, he who saves a dignitary’s life is bound to their service. You, Korshan Drast, are now my exclusive, personal vassal. Your life belongs to me.” Korshan blinked. “Excuse me?” “Don’t look so surprised,” she snapped, a faint blush dusting her cheeks. “Consider it… an obligation. A recompense. Now, unhand me, vassal, before I have you flayed for touching my coat.” He pulled his coat free, his mind already racing for an escape route from this unexpected entanglement. This was worse than Iscara. He scanned the hall, looking for a way out. His gaze drifted upwards, towards the balcony that overlooked the entire hall, where nobles often observed the daily bustle. And there she was. Iscara Vondra stood silhouetted against a tall archway, her golden hair a halo, her usually serene face contorted. Her eyes, usually pools of gentle understanding, were now dark, burning chips of emerald. Her gaze was fixed on Kyradis’s hand, which still hovered near Korshan’s coat, then on Kyradis’s flushed, haughty face. A low growl, barely audible, escaped Iscara’s lips. The air around her seemed to shimmer with barely contained fury. `[WARNING: PROTOCOL_OBSESSION_01_STATUS_CRITICAL. AVERT_THREAT_OR_RISK_OVERLOAD.]` Before Korshan could even process the System's new warning, a sensation like being pulled through a needle's eye enveloped him. The Grand Hall, Iscara’s burning gaze, Kyradis’s imperious stance – all dissolved into a searing white flash. He felt a sickening lurch, a violent disorientation, and then the abrupt crush of total darkness. He hit a cold, damp flagstone floor with a jarring thud, the dread-wyrm coiling tighter around his arm in alarm. The air was thick with the scent of mildew and decay. He pushed himself up, straining his eyes, but there was nothing. No light, no discernible features. Just an oppressive, absolute black. Then, a faint blue glow materialized directly in front of him, wavering like a ghostly aurora. It coalesced into a precise, holographic countdown timer. Numbers, stark and clinical, flickered into existence. `SOUL_CURSE: NILYADRAST` `EXPIRATION_IN:` `00:03:59:58`

Trigger Warning