Commander Kael’s sharp bark cut through the cloying stench of blood and damp earth. His voice, usually a booming instrument of command, was ragged, frayed by adrenaline and pain. Thane heard it, as did the few remaining Grave-Handlers and Sentinel-Knights scattered across the charnel field. All eyes, heavy with the day’s horrors, turned towards Thane, standing a hundred feet away, the discarded, gore-slicked blade glinting faintly at his feet. Kael let out a harsh, breathless laugh, a sound devoid of mirth. “Thane, you quiet bastard. A clean shot. That… thing… nearly dragged me into the Void.” He gestured weakly towards the fallen Blight-Marshal, its armored form now utterly still. A slight tremor ran through Thane’s hand, a ghost of the impact from the thrown weapon. “It’s good you still draw breath, Commander,” Thane replied, his voice low, almost swallowed by the oppressive silence that followed Kael’s outburst. He kept his gaze on the Blight-Marshal, not out of any lingering animosity, but because he could still feel the faint resonance of its vitality fading, a cold echo against his own burgeoning strength. “I’ll resume gathering the fallen.” His internal compass, usually oriented towards the pragmatic, was humming with a quiet satisfaction. The surge of raw essence from the Blight-Marshal had been significant, a potent draught that had settled deep within him. He still had the second Relic Coffer, a testament to the kill, secured and waiting to be opened in the privacy of his cot. “Hold, Thane,” Kael called, his voice regaining some of its usual authority, though a tremor of awe was discernible beneath it. “Do you even grasp what you’ve done?” Thane turned slowly, his expression carefully neutral. “Commander, it was a Blight-spawn, no more, no less. A particularly vicious one, perhaps, but its armor was common, unmarked.” He knew better, of course. The system’s cold notification had already confirmed the kill: *Blight-Marshal Typhus*. But Kael’s tone suggested something more, a hidden layer to the Blight-Marshal’s identity that Thane hadn't yet fully registered, though he’d certainly felt the raw power it had yielded. Kael fumbled at his belt, producing a jagged, obsidian shard—an Identification Shard, the signature marker of high-ranking officers in the Shadowed Scourge. He held it aloft, a grim, almost disbelieving smile touching his lips. “This ‘vicious Blight-spawn,’ Thane, is Blight-Marshal Typhus, the cursed son of Lord-General Valerius! He commanded the Shadowed Scourge’s border legions, a ghost thought lost to the Blight-fog for cycles. We believed him consumed, but the wretch was merely feigning death, waiting amongst the fallen for his chance.” Kael’s voice swelled, echoing across the desolate landscape. “You, Thane, have struck a blow of monumental proportions. Not just a Blight-Marshal, but *that* Blight-Marshal. The Archon himself will hear of this!” With a flick of his wrist, Kael tossed the shard towards Thane. Thane caught it with practiced ease. His fingers, calloused and rough, traced the etched characters: *Typhus*. It was in the looping, guttural script of the Shadowed Scourge. On a battlefield shrouded in the perpetual twilight of the Blight, such a shard was often the only proof of a foe’s identity. Around him, the handful of Veridian soldiers, grim and weary, were suddenly electrified. Their faces, caked with grime and sweat, twisted into expressions of stunned disbelief, then fervent envy. Thane remained impassive, the weight of the shard in his hand the only tangible connection to their sudden fervor. “Blight-Marshal Typhus… slain by a Grave-Handler?” a Sentinel-Knight muttered, his voice hoarse. “This is no mere feat,” another whispered, his eyes wide. “This is a triumph against the Shadowed Scourge itself.” “Surely, a Wardship, if not a promotion of three ranks?” “A Wardship, at least. A true Blight-Wardship for killing such a high-ranking officer.” Their gazes, heavy with yearning, lingered on Thane. In Veridia, society was a rigid hierarchy forged in the crucible of constant war against the Blight. Sentinel-Knights, those who faced the horrors of the front lines, earned a basic Blight-Wardship simply by surviving a major engagement. Grave-Handlers, the silent laborers who cleaned the aftermath, were afforded no such honor, receiving only a fraction of a Sentinel-Knight’s stipend. The path to power and prestige was paved with the blood of powerful foes, a path Thane had never consciously sought, yet found himself on. “Are you not pleased, you stoic brute?” Kael asked, approaching Thane with a look of genuine bewilderment. Thane’s detachment was a constant puzzle to the boisterous commander. “Commander,” Thane said, offering the Identification Shard back to Kael. His lips barely curved into a smile, a rare, fleeting gesture. “My actions were purely instinct, a reflex to preserve life. I sought no further distinction. You’ve had a close brush with the Void; your rest is paramount. I have bodies to attend to.” He turned, his movements fluid and efficient, already planning his path back through the carnage. The sooner he resumed his grim task, the sooner he could absorb more essence, further fortifying himself against the pervasive decay that threatened to consume Veridia. Kael watched him go, a helpless, grateful sigh escaping his lips. If not for Thane’s sudden, devastating throw, Kael knew he would be a feast for the carrion birds now. Such a debt was not easily repaid, even if Thane seemed utterly indifferent to it. “You! A few of you, here!” Kael bellowed, his voice regaining its steel. “Retrieve Blight-Marshal Typhus’s body. We report this directly to the Cohort-Captain!” Several Sentinel-Knights immediately broke from their daze, eager to partake in the grim duty, their eyes still holding a spark of ambition. Kael, leading them, began the ascent towards the command tent, the news already forming on his lips. “There might be other hidden foes!” one of the Sentinel-Knights whispered, his voice hushed but eager. “Search carefully! Another shard like this would guarantee a Wardship!” Inspired by the prospect of unexpected glory, the other soldiers began sifting through the heaps of grotesque bodies, hoping to stumble upon a similar, life-changing discovery. But Thane, the one who had actually secured the grand prize, moved through the wreckage with a practiced indifference, his senses attuned to the lingering energies of the recently deceased. He continued his work, collecting fragments of vitality, his thoughts miles away from Veridia’s rigid social climb. His internal display, usually a stark, utilitarian interface, shimmered before his mind’s eye: **Vigor (Constitution):** 316 (The greater your Vigor, the more resilient your form, the swifter your recovery from affliction, and the deeper your wellspring of stamina.) **Agility (Speed):** 206 (The higher your Agility, the more fluid your movements and the quicker your reflexes.) **Strength:** 208 (The greater your Strength, the more potent your physical might and the heavier the impact you can deliver.) **Resolve (Spirit):** 201 (The stronger your Resolve, the clearer your mind against the Blight’s whispers, and the keener your perception of subtle energies.) **Lifespan:** 86 years and 68 days **Portable Space:** 2 cubic meters A punch delivered with over three hundred pounds of force now. Enough to shatter bone, to cave in a skull with a single, well-placed strike. Agility at two hundred and six, twice that of a normal man, granting him a ghostly quickness that had saved his life more times than he cared to count. Vigor… he pondered its deeper implications. If it reached a thousand, would he be truly unyielding, immune to the Blight’s slow decay? Would he possess the fabled Golden Core, rumored to grant immunity even to the deepest corruption? And Resolve… it spoke of sensing subtle energies. The Blight was a subtle energy, a pervasive hum of decay that permeated Veridia. Could he eventually learn to manipulate it, to turn its own power against it? The work of a Grave-Handler, he mused, was far more than simply cleaning up after the war. It was a path to something… more. *** **At the Lord-General’s War-Tent** The campaign to shatter the Shadowed Scourge was relentless. Archon Theron of Veridia had decreed the full mobilization of the Obsidian Cohort, led by the stalwart General Kaelen. Overseeing the grand strategy from the Veridian borderlands, Lord-General Tiberius, a man whose very presence radiated the grim resolve of Veridia, studied the sprawling campaign maps. “Father,” General Tiberion, his son and a respected commander within the Obsidian Cohort, reported, a rare spark of enthusiasm in his usually stoic voice. “Our advance is swift. General Kaelen has already secured Whisperwind Spire. The Shadowed Scourge will fracture within the next three cycles.” Lord-General Tiberius nodded slowly, a knowing glint in his eyes. “The Scourge holds a meager territory, their legions number barely a hundred thousand. Tell me, son, why do you think the Archon ordered the entirety of the Obsidian Cohort to this endeavor?” General Tiberion immediately replied, his voice firm, “The Archon’s vision, Father, spans beyond this immediate conflict. To unify the Shattered Realm demands foresight. Though one of our divisions could break the Scourge, the full might of the Obsidian Cohort is necessary to deter the Ashfall Dominion and the Corpse-Lords, should they choose to exploit the chaos.” “Precisely,” Tiberius affirmed, his tone grave. “Veridia could have crushed the Scourge cycles ago. We awaited this moment, this precise confluence of vulnerabilities, to strike with overwhelming force.” Just then, the flap of the war-tent parted, and a breathless aide rushed in. “Report!” the aide gasped, bowing deeply. “My Lord-General, news from the logistical detachments.” “Speak,” Tiberius commanded, a slight frown creasing his brow. “They have found Blight-Marshal Typhus,” the aide reported, his voice tinged with reverence. “His body is being brought now, just outside.” “Four days…” Tiberius murmured, standing abruptly, a flicker of satisfaction in his hardened gaze. “We have him at last. Let us see.” General Tiberion followed his father, a sudden surge of anticipation in his chest. Outside, beneath the wan glow of a Blight-lantern, Blight-Marshal Typhus’s body lay, a Veridian sword still plunged into his chest. Tiberius knelt, his gaze sharp, immediately noting that the blood on the blade was not yet fully congealed. This was no body that had lain for days, but a fresh kill. “My Lord-General, this is Cohort-Captain Lyra from the logistical detachments,” the aide announced, gesturing to a woman standing stiffly nearby. “It was her unit that discovered Typhus.” “Who struck the killing blow?” Tiberius asked, his voice a low rumble, directed at Cohort-Captain Lyra. “My Lord-General,” Lyra replied, her voice steady despite the tension. “It was a Grave-Handler from my Cohort.”

The Weight of a Shard