The rhythmic thudding grew louder, echoing in the confined space until the source stepped into the faint, crimson glow from the etched symbol. It wasn't the hulking form of a Charnel-Wraith, but a man. Master Corliss, his crimson Dirge-robes immaculate despite the catacomb’s grime, his jowly face set in a scowl. He carried a heavy-hafted staff, its tip carved with a grotesque, leering gargoyle. “Well, well,” Corliss’s voice was a low rumble, laced with a predatory satisfaction. “Look what the fog dragged in. A D-rank Scavenger, in the restricted passages. And standing over the cadaver of a Tier-Two Hunter.” His gaze flickered to the symbol on the corpse’s chest, then back to Korvan, trapped in the cage of animating gloom. “This is a grave offence, Geth. A very… inconvenient one.” Korvan remained silent, his mind racing. Corliss wasn't surprised by the body. He was *expecting* it. The gloom binding Korvan tightened, a cold pressure that felt less like magic and more like raw, physical force. He tested a tendril with a subtle twitch of his wrist; it held fast, unyielding. “The Lodge will not tolerate such a scandal,” Corliss continued, his voice hardening. “A member of our esteemed Golden Generation, slain by some… unknown blight. It would sow panic. Undermine faith. But a rogue Scavenger, caught pilfering the dead, then silencing the Hunter who found him?” Corliss smiled, a thin, cruel slash across his face. “That, Geth, is a story we can sell. A simple, tragic tale of greed.” [Dirge-Weaver’s Loom: Opportunity – Eliminate obstacle. Resource gain: High. Penalty for inaction: Agonizing.] Corliss took a step closer, the gargoyle on his staff seeming to leer directly at Korvan. “Confess, boy. And perhaps your demise will be… swift.” Korvan’s eyes scanned the rough-hewn ceiling, the damp stone, the minute cracks threading through the ancient mortar. Corliss was too close, too confident. The cage was formidable, but its strength was derived from Corliss’s concentration. A sudden, violent disruption might momentarily break his hold. With a silent surge of Dirge-fueled strength, Korvan slammed his boot heel into a crumbling section of the wall beside him, not just once, but twice, precisely targeting a cluster of weakened stones near an ancient support beam. It was a move of desperation, not a calculated assault, a desperate D-ranker trying to break free. The sound of crumbling rock was deafening. Dust erupted, thick and choking. The bands binding Korvan flickered, momentarily losing their cohesion as Corliss’s focus fractured. It was just an instant, a heartbeat of reprieve. Korvan twisted, pulling free, even as the cage reformed a fraction too late around empty air. Gravel showered down, followed by larger chunks of rock. Corliss cursed, throwing up an arm to shield his face, his concentration utterly shattered by the sudden, localized collapse. The ceiling above him groaned, a deep, unsettling sound. Korvan didn’t wait. He plunged into the swirling dust, ignoring the frantic shouts from Corliss, who was now scrambling away from the falling debris. He sprinted, his phantom-swift steps carrying him deeper into the labyrinth, the Dirge-Weaver’s Loom’s judgment already coiling within his soul. [Dirge-Weaver’s Loom: Mercy displayed. Penalty incurred: Agonizing phantom pain.] The pain began in his lungs, a searing, icy fire that stole his breath. It spread, like shards of shattered glass, through his veins, into his bones. His vision blurred at the edges, and a choked gasp escaped him. He stumbled, catching himself on a damp wall, but he didn’t stop. This was the cost of his restraint, the Dirge’s relentless lesson. Corliss was a corrupt pawn, but killing him now would expose Korvan’s true power too soon, before the Golden Generation was properly dismantled. He pushed through the blinding agony, his teeth gritted, until he burst into a less restricted passage, the pain slowly receding, leaving behind only a raw, lingering ache. Korvan emerged from the catacombs into the bustling main training hall, the clamor of clashing blades and shouted commands a stark contrast to the grim silence below. He moved with the easy gait of a weary Scavenger, brushing dust from his tunic. The training hall was a cavernous space of polished dark wood and soaring arches, currently packed with students observing a high-profile dueling exhibition. Pellam Ystmar, predictably, was the star. He moved with practiced, flashy precision, his movements fluid, his form flawless. His armor, custom-crafted by the Lodge’s master artisans, shimmered with intricate Dirge-runes, each piece gleaming, each swing of his ornate saber advertising his wealth and perceived skill. Nestra Korvath stood near the railing, her arms crossed, her expression a study in detached critique. Jorvel Tyros was a few paces away, watching the spectacle with a forced cheerfulness. As Korvan drew closer, Jorvel suddenly doubled over, a violent, rattling cough tearing through him. He pressed a hand to his chest, his face paling, the smile vanishing as his body convulsed. Korvan’s gaze sharpened, his paranoia momentarily overshadowed by a surge of cold dread for his friend. Jorvel’s rot was progressing, faster than predicted. Then, the hall shuddered. Not from a duel blow, but a deep, guttural tremor that resonated through the very stones of the Lodge. A low growl, unnatural and chilling, ripped through the air, followed by a sickening crack. The massive reinforced wall separating the training hall from the Outer Ward splintered, and then exploded inward. A surge of freezing, thick Miasma poured in, instantly chilling the air and obscuring vision. Out of the swirling, sickly grey fog, a shape coalesced—a Charnel-Fiend, its skeletal form wreathed in tendrils of dark energy, its jaw unhinged in a silent scream. Panic erupted. Students screamed, scattering, their elegant sword drills forgotten. Pellam, mid-parry, found himself facing an actual threat. His expensive armor, designed for show and the occasional tamed Husk, flared once with its protective runes, then dimmed, failing. The fiend lunged, its skeletal claws tearing through the lacquered plates, ripping through the enchanted mail beneath. Pellam’s saber, meant to deflect and parry, shattered against the creature’s hardened bone arm. He collapsed, crying out, a whimpering, pathetic sound, his face contorted in abject terror as the creature loomed over him, its cold, dead eyes fixed on its prey. Jorvel, still wracked by his coughing fit, stumbled, falling to his knees, utterly paralyzed by the spasms. The Miasma, thick and oppressive, flowed inexorably towards him. Korvan watched the fiend raise its hand, ready to deliver a killing blow to Pellam, knowing the fog would soon engulf his best friend. He had a choice: preserve his cover, let the arrogant fool die, and risk Jorvel being consumed by the toxic fog, or reveal a fraction of his true power and save them both.

The Golden Boy's Folly