The mist over the sea was thick as a foreboding. From the deck of the lead ship, Clément watched the horizon in silence, his hand resting on the rusted rail. He had looked back at Lumiére several times too.
The tower was no longer visible. Only the sea and its curvature remained, showing how far they were from everything.
Beside him, Geralt, the expedition captain, glanced at him between shouting instructions to the rest of the troop. His face was weathered by battles, but he wore a serenity no academy could teach—the kind of serenity that came from accepting that one's end would come on the battlefield, without resigning to it. He might die today, or tomorrow. Whatever the day, he would die fighting.
"It never smells the same," Geralt muttered, more to himself than to Clément. "The sea… changes. As if each island knew what was taken from it."
"And how does it smell now?" Clément asked, afraid he'd asked the wrong question.
"Like something I don't recognize, kid. Not a good sign, wouldn't you say?"
The young man didn't respond. He simply nodded. His gaze had changed since he put on the uniform. It wasn't fear—it was a kind of weight. As if each step buried him a centimeter deeper in invisible mud. It was, ultimately, the weight his mother had feared. The burden of so many people, living and dead, that he would carry from this day on.
Behind them, the rest of the detachment was preparing for landing. At least eighty men and women, pulling out lightweight weapons, swords, scythes, crossbows, pistols. All made from chroma, in the end.
They also had reconnaissance tools. Despite their mastery of chroma, their reserves were limited. But still, they hoped it would be enough to make a difference against the enemy nation's forces. No one knew what to expect. The previous expedition, number 32, had lost contact weeks ago. The archipelago had stopped answering.
The island they were headed for was one of the largest, surrounded by black sand beaches. It was covered in thick jungle, and at its center stood a sort of volcano that, instead of spitting lava, exhaled bubbles. They were close now, and the silence around the island was ominous.
"When we land, you'll join the sentinels in the northern wing. You'll be with Elean, Miro, and Lieutenant Reva. I'm assigning you as second-in-command," Geralt said, looking him straight in the eye. "I know you've got the power. And I know you're not here of your own will. But I also know something brought you. The world doesn't push for no reason, Clément. I learned that when I lost my left arm. And when they gave it back to me, made of fire."
Clément turned slightly.
"Don't worry, Captain. I'll do what needs to be done."
And so it was. The ship touched land at midday. The first few hours were for reconnaissance. There was no sign of the previous expedition. No campfires. No battle traces. Only damp ruins, half-erased footprints, and occasionally, fragments of light armor—favored by the expeditionary forces.
But when the sun began to dip, something twisted in the air. First came the silence. Then, the smell. It was the unfamiliar scent Geralt had mentioned. And yes, it was not auspicious. Soon the smell became tangible. It was the stench of flesh—but not burnt. It smelled rotten, old, like dried blood soaked into wood.
One of the lookouts shouted.
And then they saw them.
The Nevrones. These were creatures once seen in the archipelago. They had appeared out of nowhere, in many shapes and sizes. They looked fierce and imposing but had shown no interest in people. They formed their own ecosystem, or so it seemed. Wild creatures, nothing more.
But now it felt different.
The Nevrones began to emerge from the jungle's shadow. Their bodies had fused with appendages that looked like living ink, thick shadows. They had tentacles and limbs in black and white, shimmering with a sickly glow. Some twitched spasmodically; others moved as if dancing under broken gravity.
And they screamed. Not growled—screamed, like out-of-tune violins on the verge of snapping. It was a shrill, agonizing sound, as if they were being used against their will. A deafening screech that made the expeditionaries writhe in pain. And that was an advantage the creatures seemed ready to seize.
Once they could react, the soldiers retreated. But it was already too late.
More came from the jungle. Dozens. Then hundreds. They surged like a tidal wave. Clément summoned his weapons and prepared to fight. His body moved by instinct, as if he had been here before, as if those swords had been part of him for centuries.
He had never truly fought before—only trained. Yet here he was, giving his life, defeating these creatures while his comrades fell around him.
One by one, the soldiers were torn apart. Some were dismembered. Others were absorbed by the black substance. Their screams mixed with the shrieking. The air filled with ash, blood, and smoke.
Geralt was among the last to fall. He stepped between Clément and a massive creature with six bone arms and a torso made of shattered scales.
"Run," he said, his eyes beginning to blaze with pure chroma. "Run and survive, dammit."
And Clément did. Not out of cowardice, but from a terrible instinct that his life had a purpose he hadn't yet understood. He couldn't die here. Not here. Not without knowing his real name. He would escape. He would warn them all. Warn them of this horror no one had anticipated.
Behind him, the island began to burn. It seemed as though the blood of every fallen soldier had fused with the ink, turning it into something flammable. It was ironic. They weren't food. They were fuel.
As he ran, Clément felt a thought pounding in his head. No—it was a memory. One that didn't even seem to be his. A name. But he couldn't quite grasp it yet, though it was taking shape, letter by letter, sound by sound.
It was only a matter of time before he knew.
That is, if he lived long enough.
But dying was not an option.