Antzkar grew up knowing that beyond the Dome, the Living in the Night were loathed. Or “loved”—if one counted silver stakes and rope as affection. He snorted. Few mortals outside Langarei knew it wasn’t any silver, only lunar-forged, that could harm his kind. Among young Midbloods, it was a popular game to slip into mortal lands and bait hunters into chasing them. Many returned not just amused but richer, hauling armfuls of silver stakes. Some border patrols even turned a blind eye, cutting deals for a share of the spoils. Occasionally, a ghoul didn’t return—ambushed by a witch or sorcerer stronger than expected—but such losses were rare.

  Truthfully, beyond the Dome, everyone despised the Living in the Night. Humans, elves, dwarves, hobbits, even flesh-devouring orcs. None tolerated undead leeches on their soil. That’s why the Dome existed: to wall ghouls from mortals, and mortals from ghoul.

  Yet Antzkar often wondered: What manner of tyrant must a human—or any ruler—be, to drive their own peasants to flee into the Kingdom of Night, reviled by all Western Ravalon? What kind of monster makes mortals overcome centuries of fear and hatred to beg shelter beneath the Dome? To seek protection from baronial raids, ducal armies, crippling taxes… by going to those who’d long seen their race as prey or enemies? How wretched must you be, to be feared more than a ghoul?

  Such questions haunted Antzkar whenever he saw refugee caravans trudging into Clan Daikar’s border outposts. But soon, pragmatism drowned philosophy. More pressing curiosities arose—like how the trembling brunette with those startling blue eyes might taste.

  ghouls remained ghouls.

  Sometimes Antzkar wondered: What lay beyond the Dome? He knew the northern and western borders of Langarei brushed against three human kingdoms—two remnants of the once-mighty Rolan Empire, and one belonging to the Herzen Trading Union. To the west sprawled the Karlu Forest, a splinter of the ancient wood elf realm Direndagatan, once enslaved by Rolan, now claimed by the Black Empire. To the south stretched the lands of free-spirited arachnotaurs, and to the east rose the Geburgian Mountains, dwarven strongholds. The young ghoul knew all this, yet in his fifty-three years, he’d never stepped beyond the Veil. He knew Langarei maintained embassies in foreign lands, traded with distant realms, and (in hushed tones) that scions of Noble Bloods and Supreme Houses sometimes slipped beyond the Dome to savor human blood—and the lives that pulsed with it.

  Antzkar yearned to breach the Dome himself, to taste that boundless world. He craved it. Yet he knew he couldn’t.

  “Brooding again?” Faytankh, an old comrade from his Consecration by Light, appeared behind him, voice sly.

  Antzkar startled, nearly dropping his spear.

  “Just… wondering,” the Living in the Night smiled faintly. “What’s out there.” His gaze drifted to the Dome.

  Faytankh followed his stare and bared his fangs.

  “You’ll see your guts first,” Faytankh promised with a sneer. “Then your head. Though… doubt you’ll see it. Some Supremes say consciousness detaches at death. Maybe you’ll glimpse your little head with the immaterial eyes of your nonexistent soul. And watch your corpse burn.”

  Antzkar sighed.

  “What if… someday… things will change?” he asked hesitantly.

  “Oh, they will,” Faytankh shrugged. “The warmbloods’ll invent grander ways to slaughter each other. Only thing that ever really changes—here or in any of infinity’s worlds.”

  “You believe in parallel worlds?”

  “Course I do. Where else d’you think all my lost socks go?”

  Faytankh rapped Antzkar’s helmet and flicked his breastplate.

  “Moon’s gotten to you,” the ghoul jabbed a claw at the sky. “The Eye of Night’s never been fatter.”

  It was true. The moon hung swollen, as if the gods had dragged it closer to drown continents. Gods—always bored, always cruel. Only Night showed mercy—Night, who’d cradled the first Living in the Night when even the stars spat on them…

  “Odd clouds,” Faytankh muttered suddenly, brow furrowing.

  “Clouds?” Antzkar glanced up. The sky was shrouded in a thick gray blanket. “What’s strange about—?”

  Then he saw it. First, their edges glowed too sharply against the star-pricked void. Second, they were perfectly round. Third, they hurtled toward the Veil from beyond the Dome at a speed no cloud should possess—like a snail overtaking a racehorse.

  “Magic?” Faytankh shot a look toward camp.

  If something were wrong, Vidan—still lazily sweeping with his Inner Gaze—would’ve sounded the alarm. But all was quiet. Zatankhar prattled on about the Sovereign’s “spineless advisors” and his own unjust trial, oblivious.

  “Should we warn them?” Antzkar tightened his grip on his spear.

  “Maybe—”

  The clouds struck the Dome—and kept moving. Normally, air passed freely through the Veil to sustain Langarei. But these halted halfway, then began twisting into each other. No flicker of magical hues. No trace of Power. Then—

  Before either ghoul could react—the clouds coiled into a cloaked figure. One hand slashed upward, rending the Veil like threadbare linen.

  A scream lodged in Antzkar’s throat. Thoughts crashed: What in the Night’s name—? Your chance to prove yourself! Why isn’t Vidan—?

  He froze, paralyzed—as Faytankh drew his sword and lunged at the intruder.

  “Damn it,” Antzkar thought, watching the moonlit blade gleam as Faytankh feinted a lunge toward the invader’s chest. “Now he’ll steal all the glory!”

  Then thought vanished—replaced by terror.

  Faytankh drove half a meter of steel into the intruder, already envisioning the next move: seizing the heart, savoring its blood… Let the gods and wrethces grant this fool’s human! By Langarei’s Laws of Blood, all trespassers forfeited rights—reduced to prey. Humans were ideal; other races’ blood tasted foul and curdled undead veins. First to kill a trespasser earned bragging rights—and full claim to the feast.

  The blade pierced the fool’s chest effortlessly. Faytankh bared his fangs, anticipation coiling—then froze. The sword stuck, immovable, as if gripped by stone. A prickling spread up his right arm. The ghoul narrowed his eyes, invoking partial Inner Gaze to scan for Spells. Nothing. Just like when the Dome tore.

  “Sand?” Faytankh stared as dozens of grains crawled up his arm, beneath his sleeve—like ants swarming sugar. They reached his shoulder as wind hissed against his face. Then…

  The wind-whipped earth surged before Faytankh, clods of soil pressing together like lovers reunited after a long, desperate separation. The gale sculpted the swirling dirt into form—until a colossal earthen hand clamped around the ghoul, crushing him. Faytankh jerked, straining to break free, but the grip was monstrous. Bones crackled; the creature snarled, twisting into a new shape, but it was too late.

  With a wet squelch, the fist clenched. Blood sprayed in all directions. Faytankh didn’t even have time to scream. Antskar, however, shrieked perfectly well for him when his comrade’s head thudded onto the tip of his spear. Tossing the weapon aside, Antskar bolted toward camp, howling without pause. The cloaked figure, motionless until now, watched him flee, unmoved. He waited patiently—for the blood-drenched hand to unfurl, for it to crumble back into clods suspended by etheric currents, for the blood-defiled sand to spiral beneath his hood. A sound like a sharp inhale echoed from inside. Only then did the cloaked person grunt in approval and stride after the fleeing ghoul.

  Antskar, however, didn’t get far. A goblin hurtled toward him, eyes bulging, scimitar flailing wildly. Its frenzied gaze saw nothing, and Antskar—despite his terror—realized he’d better step aside unless he fancied a blade in the gut. But the goblin never reached him. It froze mid-stride, trembling violently. Vines with fat crimson buds erupted from the ground, coiling around its body. The midget whimpered but didn’t even try struggle. Then the buds snapped open and latched onto his flesh, like… like… like… The only comparison Antskar’s panicked mind conjured was a ghoul sinking fangs into a human’s throat. The goblin fell silent, deflating like a balloon. Its skin peeled from bone, then slid downward, sucked into the flowers. Its long nose sagged, swaying like a hanged man’s noose.

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  Anzkar stumbled backward, lost his footing, and landed hard on his backside. He was the Heir and had no idea how mortals died or what they felt when they became Reborn. Did terror grip them so fiercely they pissed themselves? If so, Anzkar understood them perfectly now. His hand fumbled for the sword at his belt, but his fingers clawed uselessly at empty air.

  “You’re a ghoul! Get up and fight for the pride of the Living in Night! This is your hour—the Hour of Night!

  Who’s shouting?

  …Me?

  But I’m… scared.

  You wanted this! To fight, to protect your kin! Now transform and strike! Night blesses its children!"

  Right… Night. The time when the unliving were especially strong.

  His fingers quickly closed around the icy hilt. Anzkar pushed himself up. He was a ghoul. Night was his domain. No matter how fierce the attackers, none could match a ghoul after dark!

  A guttural snarl tore from his throat. His jaw unhinged, making way for razor-sharp fangs. His body warped violently—armor buckling as muscles swelled and spines erupted from his flesh. Breastplate and backplate split clean down the middle. Ears lengthened, eyes flooded crimson, wrists armored with scales, toes twisting into hooked claws.

  The metamorphosis of a Daikar clan ghoul was complete. Anzkar’s strength now dwarfed his former self fivefold. He could snap an ogre’s neck without breaking a sweat.

  — Interesting! — a voice suddenly rang out to his right, and Antskar spun sharply, sword raised. He was ready to lunge even bare-handed, but his mind—still tethered to his body by the Light Consecration after the transformation—whispered that the blade would still prove useful.

  Beside the transformed Antskar stood a figure shrouded in a green cloak. Its silhouette hinted at a human, but it could just as easily have been an elf. The ghoul sniffed the air, then growled in frustration. The enemy carried no scent—not human, not elf, nothing at all. Either they’d used some alchemical elixir… or they emitted no odors whatsoever, which meant…

  No, the second option was absurd. Zombies don't speak. They mindlessly obeyed their necromancer’s commands, but they don't speak. And they don't smell—their flesh didn’t decay, their cells didn’t renew. Yet if this creature were a zombie, its clothes would still carry a scent… but there was nothing. So, alchemy. Tailored specifically to counter the senses of transformed ghouls.

  — Interesting, — the mortal repeated. — So this is the fabled transforma of the Daikar clan. Tell me, Living in Night—how strong are you?

  Antskar crouched, coiled to strike. He was stronger now, far quicker than he’d ever been. But the transforma—though it amplified the powers of the Night-Dwellers—came at a cost. For those of Midbloods, the backlash could be lethal. Reverting to a state natural to the Feral Ghouls was unnatural for those ascending toward becoming Sun-Wanderers. Lowbloods endured the shift more easily, as did the Highest. But those newly elevated to Midblood or Highblood? They often paid dearly. A few decaliters of human blood might spare a ghoul the worst consequences—but where to find blood mid-battle?! Drain your own squad? You could but don’t expect praise. At best, a spiked club to the skull.

  Yet Antskar had chosen this risk, knowing it might destroy him. He burned to avenge Faytankh—a hunger fiercer than any thirst for blood. And for a ghoul, that meant everything.

  He feinted left, as if lunging from that side, then twisted toward the enemy’s flank. The Inner Gaze, a gift of the Daikar clan’s transforma, let him track his foe from all angles. Every twitch, every shift—Antskar read them, adapting his assault. Now, he planned to strike the mortal’s right side with his blade, release the sword, grip the throat with his freed hand, snatch the weapon back with the other, and gut the intruder. At this speed, failure was impossible.

  The enemy would die.

  The enemy had to die.

  A left-handed swing aimed at the enemy’s right side. The left arm shields the chest, feigning defense while secretly preparing to seize the sword. He’s nearly within reach of the enemy’s wind-fluttered cloak. A moment more, and he’ll see the face hidden beneath the hood! Now, the strike lands—

  What?! Why is his right arm locked in the enemy’s left grip, his left palm pinned to his own chest by the enemy’s right hand? How did he miss the enemy’s movement? How—despite his transformed strength, as a Child of Night, the Living in Night, fueled by its energies—can he not break free from the grasp of a mere mortal?

  The sword drops silently into the soft grass at his feet.

  A mocking chuckle echoes from beneath the hood:

  “Is this all?”

  Silence. Only the grinding of Anzkar’s fangs as he strains against the iron hold.

  “Is this all Daikar’s heir can muster?”

  Silence. Only a hiss escapes Anzkar’s clenched jaws as the enemy tightens his grip.

  “How pathetic!”

  The hood suddenly looms closer. From the shadowed void gleams a crimson pupil.

  “You lack even a shred of spirit.”

  In one fluid motion, the enemy shifts his grip above Anzkar’s wrists, yanking the ghoul’s arms upward. A flicker of realization dawns—too late. The mortal twists Anzkar’s limbs, crushing the radius bones with a sickening crack. But he doesn’t stop. Before the ghoul can scream, the enemy leaps, driving his knees into Anzkar’s elbows, shattering the joints. The ghoul’s arms snap like dry kindling beneath a giant’s boot.

  “Your spirit is weak,” said the mortal, releasing Antskar, whose arms hung limply at his sides like lifeless whips.

  The ghoul howled in pain, tears blurring his vision, but he forced himself to stand—fighting the urge to collapse, to beg for mercy. He knew no mercy would come. Because…

  “Those with weak spirits shouldn’t engage in battle,” the mortal continued, slowly tightening his grip on Antskar’s skull. “They deceive themselves. The weak may thrive elsewhere, but not in a battle. And if you challenge one whose spirit eclipses yours…” Antskar already knew what came next. “…prepare for no quarter.”

  Calloused palms pressed against the ghoul’s ears, muffling the words, yet he still heard them.

  “For by denying you mercy, the strong-spirited show you respect. He will compare you to himself and let you die as one who possessed spirit.”

  The hood’s darkness devoured the world, swallowing even the remnants of Antskar’s Inner Gazr, dragging it into a vortex. Yet he still saw nothing beneath the hood—as if only void dwelled there.

  Then the world vanished. As if wholly consumed by that abyss.

  …Olex sighed. Daikar’s skull had shattered easily, ghoulic brains oozing through his fingers alongside bone shards.

  “A pity,” the mortal muttered. His hands trembled. “I needed a stronger foe.”

  He glanced around. Ahes strode calmly from the shattered Dome, his wind-tossed cloak flapping behind him making him look like chiropteran. The Master had said this was the approximate transformation of Soan clan…

  For some reason, Evana came to mind. Not that he wondered why…

  Olex trembled harder. He raised his hand to his mouth and licked. The ghoul’s brain tasted foul, like raw shrimp, and a stray chunk of bone made his mood plummet.

  Ahes quickened his pace, as if sensing trouble.

  Olex clenched his fists. Why did they leave him with weaklings? Did they think he wasn’t good enough for tougher foes? Did they see him as weak?

  He stomped his foot, leaving a twenty-centimeter dent in the ground.

  “Damn it!” Ahes barked and broke into a run.

  Why had Tavil claimed the High ghoul for himself, leaving guards for the rest? Did he doubt Olex’s spirit strength? Did he not believe in Olex’s power?

  Olex grinned. Oh! he knew what to do then. They’d learn just how strong his spirit was! They’d see the might of Olex’s spirit!!!

  He pressed his hands to his mouth, tongue flicking to catch the last traces of brain, and steadied himself. Soon, Morphae would grant him access to Entelechy, and then—

  Ahes slammed into him from behind, wrenching his hands away from his face. Olex hissed in irritation. Ahes dug his thumbs into pressure points on Olex’s wrists, knee jammed into his back to pin him.

  “You all… you’re all jealous of my spirit!” Olex snarled.

  Zaton and Tavil were already rushing toward them. Ahes held his comrade down but knew it wouldn’t last. Their abilities were mismatched—his own wasn’t built for close combat.

  “Shit!" Tavil halted and thrust his hands elbow-deep into the soil. The grass instantly writhed and coiled upward, ensnaring Olex.

  Ahes steadied his breath. Restraining the lunatic had grown easier, but relaxing was out of the question.

  "Pry his teeth open," Tavil grimaced. The stench of the medicine they forced into Olex during these fits churned his stomach.

  Zaton moved with the practiced ease of someone who’d done this a hundred times. He gripped Olex’s jaw, wedged an iron cylinder between his teeth, and—anchoring the chin with one hand—pulled a reeking vial from his cloak. He poured its contents through the cylinder’s funnel. Olex trembled, muscles locking rigid. Ahes braced himself, ready to break the man’s arms if things spiraled. But Olex stilled, his breathing steadied, and the murderous urge—so palpable you could mold it into snowballs, lethal snowballs—ebbed.

  "You alright?" Tavil kept his hands buried, eyeing Olex’s hood warily.

  "Yes," came the muffled reply. "We can keep moving. I’m in control."

  "If you’re so keen on losing it, nutter, save it for the Keeper," Ahes spitted, slowly releasing his grip. "Let him deal with that cracked skull of yours. Better than us babysitting your madness again."

  "I said I’m fine!" Olex shoved Ahes back.

  The cylinder, split in two, clattered to the grass. Tavil yanked his hands free, shaking off dirt with a scowl.

  "Good news, then," he said. "Next episode’s a ways off. Happening now was… convenient. Zaton, how much elixir’s left?"

  "Four ampules."

  "Good. That should suffice. We stick to the plan. You head to the Vault, Ahes and I will move toward the village. Zaton, the moment you retrieve it, signal us with a flare. We regroup here."

  "And if things go sideways?" Zaton asked, carefully picking up the halves of the cylinder from the ground.

  "Then we pray to every god and wretch that the ghouls kill us first. You know as well as I do—the Master won’t let us walk away clean."

  "At least Evana—that’s certain" Ahes muttered under his breath.

  "Enough chatter. Move out."

  The four figures vanished into the night, leaving only corpses bathed in the Dome’s flickering glow.

  A minute after their departure, the soil near Antskar’s remains trembled. Slowly, the earth began to shift upward, forming a small mound. Then its peak exploded outward, revealing a twisted figure that jerked its head spasmodically.

  Far from the Dome’s edge and the shattered remains of Count Zatankar’s unit, someone sifted through dozens of invisible threads stretching toward them from all directions and remarked:

  "How interesting. How utterly interesting."