CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
Prosperity's Price
The Obelisk loomed, a monument of Araksiun genius, its runic construct pulsing faintly, a shield against the fog's hunger. It stood untouched by time, a bastion of human defiance in District 97's heart.
Scholars still pored over its constructs, their secrets mostly lost, yet it stood, the only thing keeping us alive. I crossed its threshold, my boots echoing on polished stone, my hands trembling—not from fear, but from the weight of what I might confirm. The breach's cause had always pointed one way, a truth I'd dodged, clinging to a shred of hope I was wrong.
Silence greeted me, no whispers, no ghosts, just the Obelisk's pristine glow and a single unguarded door. The air was sterile, heavy, like a held breath. My cloak shifted, the Whispering Lens dangling as a pendant, tucked beneath the fabric to avoid my skin.
Carefully, I lifted it by the cord, holding it between thumb and finger. The moment my skin grazed the lens, a voice drifted in, soft and distant, like a sigh from another room. Then another, a few seconds later, low and muttering. Not the deafening roar I'd braced for, not like last time I was here, when the voices had nearly drowned me. These were measured, creeping in slow, giving me space to think.
I paused, awe flickering despite my dread. The monocle's power was a marvel, a bridge to a realm I'd never dreamed possible.
I had started seeing patterns. The dead weren't all the same. I pulled my notebook from my pack, flipping to a fresh page. The lens dangled in my other hand, voices still faint, and I jotted down what I'd learned, keeping it sharp and clear.
Echoes vs. Ghosts — Preliminary Analysis — Day 118
Subject: Dead Realm Analysis, District 97
Two distinct entities observed via Whispering Lens, I decided to call them Echoes and Ghosts.
Echoes: Repeat actions tied to death or significant life moments, bound to death location. Limited awareness.
Ghosts: Retain partial consciousness, varying by will. Capable of movement beyond death's site, though constrained by will. Stronger ghosts speak, act, defy their end.
Absence of Ancient Araksiun: Millions should linger, yet just the recent dead appear.
Hypothesis: Willpower governs persistence. Did ancients' wills fade, or were they consumed?
The words anchored me, my sanity firm, the monocle's whispers a background hum. Studying this realm felt like dissecting a beast's corpse, thrilling and boundless, yet shadowed by what I'd come to learn.
I tucked the notebook away, my core steady, and lifted the monocle to my right eye, careful not to touch the lens. The world warped, colors draining beyond the lens's rim, the Obelisk's glow fading to a gray husk, ash-heavy, like fog trapped in stone. Vivid figures emerged—skin flushed, eyes glinting blue, brown, green, their armor and wounds stark against the monochrome veil.
Echoes littered the floor, groaning, their forms translucent but colored, wounds gaping, marked by slices and stabs, all human-made, not the jagged tears of beasts. A guard, his chest pierced, muttered, "Stop them!", his hands clutching air, replaying his final stand. Another, her leg severed, whispered, "Cold… so cold," her eyes unseeing. The voices grew, a chorus swelling, sharp and overlapping, curses, sobs, screams pressed against my mind. I walked, the gray realm vivid through the lens, my left eye seeing the pristine Obelisk, a jarring split. The echoes' wounds told a story: no beasts, only men, steel against steel.
"Just as I thought," I muttered, Kara silent, unable to see the monocle's vision. "A fight, man against man." My voice echoed, dread coiling. The breach was no accident—sabotage, as I'd feared.
"Why?" I asked, half to myself, hoping the echoes might answer. The voices loudened, a tide rising. "Bastards!" "My back!" "Run!" Each shout was a blade, my core pulsing to stay grounded.
A ghost answered, his form towering, twice my size, heavy armor glinting, a captain's badge on his chest. A clean slice gaped at his neck, bloodless but raw, his eyes burning green, alive with rage. "For fuckin' power, you dumb shit," he spat, his voice a gravelly snarl, thick with bile. He was no echo—his will burned, a ghost unbound, lingering where he fell.
I studied him, awe mingling with unease, the monocle's lens trembling in my grip. "You died here?" I asked, my voice steady, seeking truth.
He pointed to the door, his gauntlet clanking. "Gutted one of those fuckers right there, but some coward shanked me from behind. Spineless motherfucker couldn't face me." His laugh was wet, bitter, his teeth bared, stained with old blood. The voices surged, a roar now. "Traitor!" "Hold!" "Die!" The noise threatened to drown my thoughts, my mind library weaving new fragments to brace me.
This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.
The monocle's power was staggering, bridging realms with a glance, letting me speak to the dead as if they breathed. Yet I only scratched its surface, using it to observe and listen, the simplest of its gifts. I lowered the monocle briefly, the gray realm vanishing, the voices dimming to a hum, the Obelisk's glow returning. My breath steadied, mist coiling, but I raised the lens again, driven by need.
"Why fight among yourselves?" I pressed, suspecting the answer, my hope fading.
The Captain snorted, spitting phantom blood. "Those shits weren't us. Snakes from 98 or 96, slinking in. I was tracking extra fuckers in the district, caught 'em here, stopped 'em cold." His pride was raw, his glare daring me to argue.
I didn't correct him—the ward had failed, the breach had killed thousands.
Torv's face flashed in my mind. I'd known, deep down, but prayed I was wrong. The Captain's ghost wasn't lying; his rage was too raw, his will too strong. Ghosts could twist truths, I'd seen it, but this felt real, a blade in my gut.
By hearing the Captain's ghost and the echoes' cries, I confirmed the truth. The Obelisk was attacked by Chainrunners from District 98, those we thought dead from the failed battery run, left behind to sabotage the ward for power. The breach was their doing, bringing ruin to thousands. No matter how much I tried to convince myself I was wrong, the truth stood, unyielding, carved in the blood on those stones.
I lowered the monocle, and the Obelisk's silence crashed in, the Captain and echoes gone. My hand shook, the cord warm against my chest, the Lens's amber-green glow faint but pulsing. I stood alone, the Obelisk's light cold, the truth a weight I couldn't escape. My people betrayed us, and no hope could change that.
***
In the days that followed, I wandered District 97's streets. I spoke with ghosts, watched echoes, and pieced together the breach's aftermath, seeking the why behind the blood. The truth was stark: while we fought beasts at the barricades, the council and powerful families, those who ruled the district, were slaughtered in the chaos, not by claws but by human blades. I saw their echoes in grand halls, throats slit, chests pierced, their silks stained red, reliving their final gasps. A few ghosts lingered, muttering of betrayal, their eyes hollow. My people, District 98's chainrunners, had struck, exploiting the breach to erase the district's elite.
The monocle showed me their deaths. I didn't need to raise it often; the ghosts found me, their voices faint but sharp, like a blade grazing skin. My sanity held, the Tongue's madness caged, but unease clung, a whisper in my skull, a reminder of the gray realm's pull. I walked openly, no Hazeveil shadows, my mist coiled tight, and wrestled with what I'd found.
Back when I was younger, Elina used to tell Meris and me stories about heroes saving people and doing great things. I dreamed I'd be a hero like that, full of hope. But dreams were for children, and I was no hero.
What did it mean to be evil? To know my people orchestrated the breach, killed thousands, for power? I hated it, the twist in my gut when ghosts named chainrunners, their curses echoing the Captain's. Yet I couldn't deny the outcome. The ward, stretched thin, would need reduction in decades, culling space for survivors. Before the breach, District 97 teetered—hunger, cold, cramped streets. Now, four months later, it thrived. Beast corpses, harvested from the breach, yielded leather, tools, and fuel. No one starved; no one shivered. Prosperity bloomed, a cruel flower rooted in blood.
I stopped at a market square, the air crisp with winter's first bite. Children ran, kicking a ball, their laughter bright. "To me! To me!" a small girl shouted, her braid bouncing, her boots, new beast-leather ones, slapping the stone.
A boy, no older than six, tripped, giggled, and scrambled after the ball, his cheeks flushed, no trace of hunger in his eyes. They didn't ration their energy, didn't fear the cold, though winter loomed. I leaned against a stairwell, the stone cold under my hands, and watched, my heart heavy. In District 98, at their age, I was a street rat, my stomach gnawing, my fingers numb. Hunger was my shadow, cold my chain. Here, in months, that vanished, the breach's grim bounty erasing want.
People passed, their faces bright, their cloaks thick with beast hide. They saluted me, hands raised, voices warm. "Chainrunner!" A guard clapped my shoulder, his grin wide, thanking District 98 for fighting beside them. I nodded, my throat tight, mist curling at my boots.
They saw us as heroes, bleeding for their district, but it was a lie. We caused the breach, our blades cut their council, our sabotage killed their kin. The guilt was a blade, twisting deeper with each salute, each grateful nod. I wanted to scream the truth, to shatter their faith, but I stayed silent. Rule Two, Guile, eluded me, my understanding shallow, my lies to myself crumbling.
Yet, as I watched the children chase their ball, I saw the other side. The district lived, more than survived. Stalls brimmed with smoked beast meat, forges roared with mana-forged tools, homes glowed with warmth. The breach's cost, thousands dead, nearly ten thousand reduced to a fraction, was horrific, but it carved space for this. I hated the thought, recoiled from it, but the ward's limits were real.
In decades, the ward reduction would force choices: who lives, who dies. The council's fall, the families' end, cleared the way, their new wealth now fueling markets. Was this evil's fruit? Good from ruin? I didn't know, and that gnawed worse than guilt.
A ghost drifted by, a merchant's shade, his vest slashed, muttering of coins lost. I didn't raise the monocle; his voice was enough, a faint echo of the breach's chaos. The district moved on, its people blind to the ghosts, their lanterns bright, their steps sure. I envied their ignorance, their ease.
The children laughed, the ball bouncing, one boy shouting, "Catch it, Lena!" as the girl dove, missing, then rolled in the dust, grinning. I clutched the monocle's cord, its warmth a reminder of my role—neither hero nor villain, but something in between, walking the gray path the dead sang of.
I muttered, "To walk the line in between," my breath frosting the air, my core steady but heavy. The truth was mine to carry, a weight no salute could lift, no prosperity could erase. District 97 thrived because we broke it, and I, a chainrunner, bore that sin.
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