The silence following the statue battle was heavy. Victory hadn't brought peace—just exhaustion. Blood still dripped from Hope's forearm. Massa leaned on her knees, panting hard. Nefer was already tending to a long scratch across her shoulder with a small strip of cloth. But then—
Footsteps.
Faint, deliberate. Echoing from deep within the shadows of the ancient hall.
All three stiffened instantly.
Hope's bruised muscles tensed, and his cracked fingers curled instinctively around the broken hilt of his sword, though it barely qualified as a weapon anymore. His eyes narrowed.
Nefer straightened, her white blade humming softly, drawn once again. Her feet shuffled silently into a dueling stance, elegant but deadly.
Massa's fingers glowed dimly, violet runes appearing across her arms in preparation for a spell.
The tension grew with every measured footstep.
And then he appeared.
From the darkness emerged not a monster, nor a corrupted fiend… but a man.
A man in a blue suit.
Hope's eyes widened. For a second, his brain refused to process what he was seeing.
The figure was tall, confident, and clean—too clean for the Ashlands. He wore a deep sapphire-blue three-piece suit that looked like it had been freshly pressed, paired with a sharp red tie and polished brown leather shoes that somehow gleamed despite walking through cracked stone and dust. His white sleeves peeked crisply from beneath the jacket, and his hands were clasped behind his back in a relaxed, composed posture.
His face was clean-shaven, jawline sharp enough to cut glass. Brown hair slicked back with precision, and eyes that held no hint of madness or fatigue.
Hope's jaw tightened.
"Who the hell dresses like that in the Soulrealm?" he muttered, still gripping his broken weapon.
Nefer didn't relax her stance.
Massa tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing, her magical energy still pulsing faintly.
Hope couldn't help it—his grimace deepened. There was something unsettling about the man's confidence. Not just the confidence of someone strong, but the calculated serenity of someone who was never in danger to begin with.
This man wasn't surviving.
He was living.
And clearly, this place—the ancient, trap-ridden castle—belonged to him.
No Veil creature dared enter this building. That much was clear now. Not just because of the traps or the design, but because of him.
The man stopped a few steps in front of them, eyes scanning the trio one by one with polite amusement. His voice, when it came, was smooth and graceful—like water flowing over glass.
"I know you've passed the trials I placed," he said with a smile, as if complimenting them on solving a simple puzzle. "And now, as custom demands, it's my responsibility to show you your way out."
Hope's face twisted into a skeptical frown. Custom? Was there an ancient hospitality protocol in the damn Soulrealm now?
But the man was already moving again.
He turned fluidly and began walking down the long corridor behind them, the same corridor that had been cloaked in darkness just moments ago.
The trio hesitated, then exchanged looks.
Nefer gave a slight nod, but she didn't dismiss her sword.
Massa, frowning, lowered her hands just enough to conserve energy, but her runes remained faintly visible.
Hope followed behind last, dragging his feet slightly, muscles sore, eyes darting around. Despite his instinct screaming that something was off, he had little choice.
They walked in silence.
The man's steps were measured, like the tick of a finely-tuned clock. No excess motion, no wasted stride. Even his breathing seemed intentional. He didn't slouch or drift—his spine was impossibly straight, his posture rigidly composed. The way he carried himself reeked of nobility, or perhaps a soldier trained in some long-forgotten era.
Even his accent stood out.
It was crisp and musical—elegant in a way Hope hadn't heard in years. Like a noble speaking in a royal court, each word carefully enunciated, each syllable dipped in honey.
Hope hated him almost instantly.
Not because the man was rude. Not because he was threatening. But because he was perfect.
He looked like the kind of guy who'd walk into a tavern and, without trying, steal every pair of eyes in the room—especially the women's. The kind of man who could sit down and charm his way into a city's secrets over a cup of tea.
Hope had spent years covered in grime, living in the outskirts, surviving by running, hiding, and scraping.
This man? He had never needed to run.
Hope grumbled under his breath. "Handsome prick."
Nefer glanced at him, smirking faintly. "Jealous?"
"Obviously," Hope snapped.
Their steps continued, the corridor widening until the fractured stone walls gave way to an open arch.
The sunlight on the other side was blinding—burning with midday heat, dancing across the sands beyond. For the first time since they entered the ancient structure, they saw the outside world again. The ground cracked beneath them.
The man stopped.
He turned to face them once more, still smiling.
"This is where I leave you, my friends," he said, nodding courteously. "Good luck. You'll need it."
And with that, he turned on his heel and walked back into the castle without another word.
His footsteps echoed softly—each one fainter than the last.
Until he was gone.
Just as suddenly as he had appeared.
Hope stood staring at the empty entrance for a moment, jaw tight.
"What the hell was that guy?" he muttered.
No one answered