In the abyss of his consciousness, Nameless felt neither cold nor hunger. There was only darkness, and that laughter. That laughter that never stopped.
The Chamber of Mental Torture
The Shadow, now sealed within him, needed no physical form to inflict pain. It manifested in his mind as a distorted replica of himself—sharing his features but wearing that inhuman grin and electric violet eyes.
— "Look at you, little burden..." the Shadow hissed, its voice echoing like shattering glass.
Images flickered before Nameless's eyes, more vivid than memories: Balthazar's face crumbling into stardust, the screams of Ignis villagers scorched by draconic breath, the broken bodies of soldiers.
— "You did this, boy. Not me. Those were your hands, your wings, your power. The great blacksmith? Dead to protect a monster that wasn't worth the effort. The villagers who fed you? Pulverized by your very existence."
Nameless tried to cover his ears, but the voice came from inside his own skull. He wept, prostrate in the astral void. "Stop... please..."
— "Humiliating you is almost too easy," the Shadow continued with total disdain. "You are a nobody. A defective vessel. Today, you lost everything, but the truth is... you never had anything to begin with."
The entity leaned in, its aura stifling the last flicker of light in Nameless's mind. — "You are hunted by an entire kingdom now, hehehe. And one last thing, kid... That little blacksmith looking after you, the one who still believes in you... The moment I find a crack in this seal... I WILL KILL HIM. HAHAHAHAHA!"
With one final burst of laughter, the Shadow violently cast him out of the darkness.
The Awakening to Reality
Nameless snapped his eyes open, gasping for air as if he had just escaped drowning. His vision was blurred, but he immediately felt the dampness of a cave and the scent of wet moss.
"Nameless? Nameless! You're awake!"
A silhouette approached him. Milo. The young apprentice's face was unrecognizable: he had grown thin, dark circles bruised his eyes, and his hands were covered in dirty bandages and earth.
"Milo...?" Nameless whispered, his voice cracked.
"It's been a week, Nameless... A whole week you've been in that sleep... I thought you'd never come back," Milo stammered, wiping a tear of relief with his sleeve.
Milo helped his friend sit up, handing him a piece of dried meat and water from a makeshift flask. With a trembling but steady voice, he explained the situation.
"We're far from Ignis, Nameless. We're in the Mist Forest, north of the kingdom. I had to drag you for miles... A young lady gave us a chance, but the army isn't letting go. There's a price on your head. We can't go near roads or towns anymore."
Nameless looked at his hands. They seemed no different, yet he felt the weight of the iron gloves—and more importantly, he felt the presence of the Shadow, lurking in his veins, biding its time. He remembered the threat against Milo.
He looked at his friend, the one who had risked everything for him, and a new fear took root in his heart. He was no longer afraid of dying; he was afraid of existing.
"Milo... why didn't you leave me back there?" he asked, eyes hollow.
Milo stopped stirring the small campfire and fixed Nameless with a resolve that seemed new. "Because Balthazar entrusted me with his legacy. And his legacy isn't just the sword or the gloves. It's you."
Sixty Days of Mist
Time became a blurred concept beneath the thick canopy of the Mist Forest. For Nameless and Milo, every day was a battle against hunger, cold, and the paranoia of being caught.
The Routine of Survival
For two months, the duo organized themselves. Nameless, though his body felt heavy and his magic circuits felt shattered, took charge of hunting. He could no longer summon draconic flames or colossal strength; he had to rely on his sharpened senses and the Ancient's Sword, which he used with surgical precision.
He tracked mist boars and lone wolves. Nothing too large, nothing too powerful—just enough to feed them without drawing the attention of high-rank predators or the Solis patrols lurking at the forest's edge. Every kill was a small victory over his own weakness.
Meanwhile, Milo transformed their shelter. What began as a damp cave became a true refuge. Using his blacksmithing skills, he fashioned utensils from scrap metal salvaged from Ignis, installed a smoking system to preserve meat, and wove sleeping mats from plant fibers. Because of him, the cave became "warm"—a thin rampart of civilization against the savagery of the outside world.
The Resolution
After sixty days, Nameless's face had changed. He was more emaciated, his sapphire eyes darker, haunted by the constant whispers of the Shadow in his sleep. But he was ready.
One evening, as the fire crackled softly, Nameless broke the silence. A thought had been burning in his mind for weeks—information gleaned during his awakening, or perhaps whispered by the residual memories of the Shadow: "The Dark Spirit of the Dungeon."
"Milo," he said, staring into the embers. "If we stay here, we'll just fade away. The Kingdom will never stop looking for us. And I... I can't stay this weak if I want to protect you from what's inside me."
Milo stopped polishing a piece of metal and looked up.
"I'm going to search for a source of power. It's risky. Riskier than anything we've lived through. The Shadow wants to see me fall, and this place could help it. Are you sure you want to keep following me? You could try to start over elsewhere, under a different name..."
Milo didn't even take a second to think. He grabbed his pack, checked his forge tools, and stood up with unshakeable determination.
"We're past that point, Nameless. We're brothers-in-arms now. So, what's the destination?"
Nameless stood as well, gripping the hilt of his sword.
"The E-Rank Dungeon."
Milo remained silent for a moment. An E-Rank was normally easy for adventurers, but for two weakened fugitives with no support, it was a mortal challenge. That was where the Dark Spirit resided—and perhaps, the first step to repairing the gloves.
The Guardian of the Abyss
The journey to the E-Rank Dungeon was a deadly game of cat and mouse. Nameless and Milo had to crawl through ditches, travel by night, and bypass the Solis outposts cordoning off the region. But when they finally reached the gaping entrance of the cavern, the silence was absolute. No guards, no adventurers.
Ascent into the Shadow
Inside, the atmosphere was heavy. As expected, the dungeon had returned to its natural state after the tremors of war. For Nameless, even weakened, the shadow goblins and E-rank bats were mere obstacles. His sword sliced through the air with silent efficiency, while Milo stayed behind, lighting the way with a makeshift lantern.
Finally, they reached the heart of the dungeon. The crystal chamber was immense, plunged into a darkness so dense it seemed to absorb the light of their lantern.
The Awakening of the Ancient
Suddenly, the room reacted. The walls, etched with ancient runes, began to pulse with a violet glow, synchronized with Nameless's heartbeat. At the center, black smoke condensed, rising to the ceiling to form a gigantic, vaporous silhouette.
Milo fell to his knees, teeth chattering. "A... A Dark Spirit?" he whispered, terrified. "Master said they had all been exterminated after the Great War... They are the most malevolent... the most cunning..."
The spirit did not move. Its "eyes"—two slits of absolute void—locked onto Nameless. A voice that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once rose:
— "Welcome... Back... My dear... [*]... Him... Friend or foe?"
The name resonated like esoteric thunder. Nameless felt a searing pain in his chest, right where the seal was placed.
"Don't hurt him!" Nameless cried out, shielding Milo with his body. "He's my friend. My only friend."
The spirit tilted its head of smoke, its aura softening slightly. Nameless, heart pounding, dared to ask the question that burned within him:
"Why... How did you call me? What is that name?"
He tried to repeat the word, to pronounce that famous []*, but his tongue seemed to go numb. The sounds choked in his throat, as if reality itself refused to allow a mortal to speak that name in common tongue.
The spirit chuckled, a sound like the rustling of dead leaves. — "You cannot say it... for you have not yet... recovered your soul... Bearer of the Void. If you are here... it is because the Gloves... are hungry."
Milo, regaining a sliver of courage, looked at Nameless. "He knows you... This spirit has known you since before you were even born."