The scent of damp earth and stale incense clung to Korvan’s nostrils, a greasy smother that fought against the iron tang of fear. His eyes snapped open. Above him, gargoyles carved from obsidian leered down from the Morven Lodge's spires, their shadowed faces perpetually weeping into the endless pall of the Ever-Fog. He lay sprawled on cold, grimy flagstones, the engraved names of forgotten Scavenger Rogues blurring beneath his gaze. A memorial cloister. The Lodge. But the names, the carvings, the chill that sank deep into his bones felt… different. Younger. Ten years younger, to be precise.
The air was sharp with the impending chill of a coming Miasma-front, a familiar dread that tasted like ash on his tongue. He pushed himself up, his limbs aching with a stiffness he hadn't felt in a decade, a decade he’d lived and died covering a coward's retreat. The memories flooded back: the ambush, the shattered bone, the crushing weight of a Charnel-Wraith’s maw. He remembered the dirge-light fading, the final, cold whisper of the Loom as his life ebbed. He remembered it all.
Now, here he was, back in the squalor of his youth, a disposable D-rank Scavenger Rogue, a pawn on the board he’d eventually learned to dismantle with bloody precision. He looked down at his calloused hands, scarred, but not yet etched with the dark, flowing runes of the Grave-Walker’s Dirge. His heart, a cold, dead thing for so long, thrummed with a grotesque, terrifying vitality.
Then, the whispers came.
[The Weaving recommences, Grave-Walker. Your second thread is spun.]
The words scraped against his mind, cold as grave-dirt, sharp as obsidian shards. The Dirge-Weaver’s Loom. It knew. It *always* knew. He remembered the phantom pains, the agonizing whispers that followed every moment of weakness, every flicker of humanity.
[Mercy is a rot. Compassion, a shroud. Fail, and suffer the Weave’s unraveling.]
He tasted bile. He wouldn’t fail. Not this time. This time, there would be no mistakes, no allies to trust, no weaknesses to exploit. The Golden Generation, the pampered brats of the Morven Lodge, would pay for their ignorance. He would carve his path through them, take their resources, their power, and face the coming Night of the Red Fog as the predator he was, not the prey he once had been.
A sneering laugh cut through the quiet hum of the grounds. “Look at this, boys! Our esteemed Scavenger Rogue, Korvan Geth, still sleeping off his last drink in the pauper’s pit!”
Korvan’s eyes, still adjusting to the brutal clarity of his regression, locked onto Pellam Ystmar. Same arrogant swagger, same ridiculously expensive, custom-fitted Lodge uniform, same smug smirk. Pellam, even then, was a blight. Surrounded by a gaggle of equally preening A-rank students, all polished leather and gleaming blades, Pellam swelled with self-importance. His eyes, the color of stagnant pond water, gleamed with malicious amusement.
“Waking up to the names of your failures, Geth?” Pellam took a step forward, his boot scuffing dangerously close to Korvan’s face. “You’d think the Lodge would clean out the refuse after a decent night’s training.”
Korvan kept his face blank, a carefully constructed mask of exhaustion and dim-witted resignation. He knew this dance. He’d played the fool countless times in his first life, endured the jabs and shoves, all to survive. But this time, survival wasn't the goal. Revenge was. Acquisition was.
Pellam’s foot connected with Korvan’s chest, a sudden, brutal shove that sent him sprawling back into the muddy patch near the memorial’s base. His head cracked against the cold stone, a jolt of pain that was more nostalgic than debilitating. A groan escaped his lips, a convincing sound of genuine distress.
“Watch your step, worm,” Pellam scoffed, looking to his companions for approval, which they offered in the form of snickers and self-satisfied nods. His hand, adorned with a heavy, silver signet ring—a symbol of his family’s ancient pact with the Dirge-Weaver’s Loom, rumored to amplify minor boons—rested casually on his hip.
As Korvan hit the mud, his left hand, quicker than any D-rank rogue could hope to be, brushed against Pellam’s uniform. Not in a clumsy attempt to brace himself, but with the practiced grace of a phantom. The ring, heavy and warm, slipped effortlessly from Pellam’s finger, vanishing into Korvan’s clenched fist as he rolled, feigning utter incapacitation. He held it tight, the faint pulse of Dirge-magic against his palm a sweet, silent victory. Pellam, lost in his triumph, never noticed.
“Leave him be, Pellam!” A voice, hoarse with a familiar timbre, cut through the laughter. Jorvel Tyros, his best friend, pushed past the gawking A-ranks, his face etched with worry. Jorvel, always the shield, always the loyal fool.
Korvan allowed Jorvel to pull him up, grunting in what appeared to be pain. “You alright, Korvan?” Jorvel’s grip was firm, his eyes scanning Korvan for injuries. As he spoke, a small, wet cough escaped him, barely audible above the surrounding murmur. It was the faintest of sounds, but to Korvan, it was a thunderclap. The first tell. The subtle, insidious cough that marked the onset of Charnel-rot.
His heart, still a fragile, pulsing organ in this regressed form, seized with a cold dread. Jorvel. His loyal, soon-to-be-dying friend. The only person he would allow himself to care for. Everyone else, every single face in this cursed Lodge, was a potential blade, a future betrayal waiting for the opportune moment. His resolve hardened. He would save Jorvel. No matter the cost. No matter how many Golden Generation fools he had to step over.
“Just a rough landing,” Korvan mumbled, rubbing his head. He subtly nudged the stolen ring deeper into his pocket. “Thanks, Jorvel.”
Jorvel clapped him on the shoulder, his brow still furrowed with concern. “You shouldn’t sleep out here, man. It’s not safe.” His gaze drifted to Pellam, who was now swaggering away, his back to them.
“Indeed,” a new voice, cold and clear as frozen dew, cut through the fog that had begun to drift lower, tendrils curling around the ancient stones. Nestra Korvath emerged from the thickening gloom, her black duelist’s cloak rippling around her. Her gaze, sharp and analytical, swept over Korvan, lingering for a fraction of a second too long.
“Tell me, D-rank rogue,” she asked, her voice devoid of inflection, “how exactly did you bypass the Cloister’s Ward of Silent Vigil? Only a Master could suppress its activation, and yet, not a single resonance pulse stirred when you arrived.”