The city of Vey'rel wasn't a city anymore.
It was a grave.
Once a sprawling hub of scholars, sages, and miracle workers, now it stood like a corpse propped up in regal robes. The streets were cracked, stained in crimson. The sky above it was never blue—only red mist and the whisper of ancient wrongs.
Alan stood on the ridge overlooking it. Behind him, the war-golem known as Kraevok rumbled with power. Its eyes glowed a brighter blue now, synced with Alan's sealed aura.
Seris shivered beside him. "This place feels… cursed."
"It is," Alan replied. "It's where the Cult of Crimson Echo was born."
He stepped forward, cloak fluttering in the wind, katana sheathed at his side, fingertips glowing faintly. His power was no longer subtle—it throbbed, like a second heartbeat beneath his skin.
As they crossed into Vey'rel's outer ring, the air changed.
Voices.
Soft and familiar. Too familiar.
"Alan…" came a whisper.
A woman in white stood on the steps of a ruined cathedral. Her silver hair swayed in a breeze that didn't exist.
Seris's eyes widened. "Who is that?"
Alan's jaw clenched. "Her name was Elyra."
"Was?"
"She died. Long ago."
The woman stepped forward, eyes hollow. "You left me to burn. I waited."
Kraevok moved instinctively in front of Alan, targeting the illusion. But Alan raised his hand.
"No. She's not real. She's a puppet of the Cult."
Suddenly, more figures emerged—an old general with one arm, a child with glowing eyes, a mage in crimson robes.
All were ghosts from Alan's past.
All were victims.
All blamed him.
"You are no hero, Alanus Vel'Kaer," Elyra said, her voice cold as death. "You are the villain trying to rewrite his tale."
*****
A deep laugh echoed through the ruins.
From the shadows emerged The Crimson Warden.
He clapped slowly, dressed in bone-pale robes stitched with runes of madness. "Well done reaching us, oh 'redeemed one.' We've prepared a grand stage."
Alan unsheathed his katana. The blade gleamed with divine light—silver, laced with runes that pulsed like fireflies.
"I didn't come to play your game," he said.
"No," the Warden smiled, "you came to lose."
He snapped his fingers.
A sigil exploded beneath Alan's feet—magic older than the First Age—and chains of red lightning wrapped around him.
Alan didn't flinch. He whispered one word.
"Break."
The chains shattered. Magic rippled outward like a storm surge.
The sky cracked.
And Kraevok roared.
"INITIATING CITY SWEEP."
Beams of blue fire shot out from the golem's shoulders, incinerating the specters. The earth trembled. The cultists screamed.
The Warden stumbled back. "Impossible—!"
Alan walked forward, flames dancing in his wake, eyes like twin stars.
"I've embraced my past, Warden."
He raised his blade.
"Now let me show you how terrifying the future can be."