CHAPTER 17 — “The Emperor’s Eyes” #2
“They all do. Everyone you love leaves you, Velthar. That’s not bad luck. That’s pattern. That’s who you are.”
The words hit like physical blows. Because they’re not entirely wrong. Because the fear underneath them is real, has been real for two hundred years, sits in my chest like a stone I can’t dislodge.
What if I’m doing it again?
What if Mariella—
No.
No.
I close my eyes. Breathe. Remember her hand in mine across the breakfast table. Remember the fierce way she said you deserve someone who sees you. Remember the locket she gave me, warm from her skin, a promise she didn’t have to make.
“You’re not her,” I say. Open my eyes. Face the void-echo wearing my dead wife’s face.
“You’re not even a good copy. Persephone never called me by my full name—she called me Vel.
She never admitted I was smart—she said I was ‘lucky my brain compensated for my personality.’ And she never, not once, suggested I deserved what happened.
She cried because she knew it was wrong. She did it anyway, but she knew.”
The Void Arbiter flickers.
“You want me to feel guilty? Fine. I do. I feel guilty for not seeing, for trusting, for loving someone who didn’t love me back. But guilt isn’t the same as fault. I made mistakes. That doesn’t mean I earned a sword through my chest.”
Flickering again. The Persephone-shape is losing cohesion.
“And Mariella isn’t Persephone. She’s not you. She’s not a test or a trap or a chance to repeat old patterns. She’s a person who’s been running from the same monster I’m running from. Who chose to stop running. Who chose me.”
I step forward. Into the void. Into the fear.
“I’m done letting you use my past against me. I’m done being the man who died believing. I’m not that person anymore.”
“Then who are you?” The Arbiter’s voice is distorting now, losing the Persephone-mask.
“I’m the man who came back.”
╔═══════════════════════════════════════╗║ VOID ARBITER: DEFEATED ║║ ║║ Method: Psychological resistance ║║ Verdict: WORTHY ║║ ║║ FLOOR 9 CLEARED --- VOID RIFT ║║ ║║ LEVEL UP: 14 → 18 ║║ ║║ REWARDS: ║║ ? \[Void Pocket\] --- Personal storage ║║ dimension.
Finally, inventory ║║ space that makes sense.
║║ ? Arbiter's Shard x1 --- Unknown ║║ purpose.
Probably important. ║║ ? MASSIVE XP BONUS for solo clear ║║ of psychological boss encounter ║║ ║║ TRAIT UPDATE: ║║ \[Fragmented Soul\] ║║ Mana recovery: 38% ║║ (The vault on Floor 10 is pulling ║║ hard now.
Source entities may be ║║ experiencing equivalent mana ║║ loss.
Sucks to be them.) ║╚═══════════════════════════════════════╝
I make it back to the surface just before sunset.
Mariella’s waiting at the dungeon entrance, because of course she is. Because she does that now—waits for me, worries about me, cares whether I come back alive.
“You look like hell,” she says.
“Feel like it too.”
“Floor 9?”
“Cleared.”
She blinks. “That’s—you cleared Floor 9? By yourself?”
“Had Johnson.”
“Johnson doesn’t count, he’s basically a cheat code at this point.”
Johnson makes an offended noise. Mariella ignores him.
“One more floor,” she says. “And then…?”
“And then I get everything back. And then your brother starts feeling very, very tired.” I manage a smile that probably looks more like a grimace. “Looking forward to it?”
“You have no idea.”
She hooks her arm through mine—casual, natural, like we’ve been doing this for years—and walks me back toward the farmhouse. Johnson trails behind, judgmental as always.
“There’s soup,” she says. “Real soup, not Granny Thorn’s. And bread that hasn’t been pre-taxed.”
“Johnson’s going to fix that.”
“Already hid some in the cellar. He hasn’t figured out the lock yet.”
“He will.”
“Probably.”
We walk in comfortable silence. The kind you only get with someone who doesn’t need you to fill every moment with words.
“Mariella.”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For waiting.”
She squeezes my arm. “Always.”
That night, I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling and think about Floor 10.
Tomorrow. Or the day after. Whenever I’ve recovered enough to face what’s waiting down there.
My mana vault. My power. The key to everything.
Two hundred years of crystallized magic, waiting for me to come home.
I think about Dario on his throne, feeling the drain and not understanding why.
I think about Persephone, wherever she is, her healing magic flickering as the stolen mana returns to its rightful owner.
I think about Gorath and Sylva and Anton, all of them running on borrowed time that’s rapidly running out.
Revenge is so close I can taste it.
But somewhere underneath the anticipation, there’s something else. Something quieter. The memory of Mariella’s arm through mine. The weight of her mother’s locket in my pocket. The way she said always like it was the simplest thing in the world.
Maybe there’s something after revenge.
Maybe there’s something worth building, once all the destruction is done.
I fall asleep still thinking about it.
╔═══════════════════════════════════════╗║ MEANWHILE, IN THE IMPERIAL PALACE...
║║ ║║ Location: Throne Room ║║ Time: Same evening ║║ ║║ Emperor Dario stumbles during a ║║ speech.
His hand shakes visibly. ║║ Councilors exchange worried looks.
║║ ║║ In the healing chambers, Persephone ║║ tries to mend a minor wound.
It ║║ takes three times as long as it ║║ should.
Her divine light flickers ║║ and dims. ║║ ║║ In the barracks, General Gorath ║║ takes a training wound that should ║║ heal instantly.
It doesn't. He ║║ stares at the blood on his hand.
║║ ║║ In her tower, Court Mage Sylva's ║║ spells misfire.
Again. Third time ║║ today. She's losing power she ║║ doesn't remember gaining.
║║ ║║ In the shadows, Spymaster Anton ║║ notices everything.
║║ ║║ He sends scouts to investigate an ║║ unregistered dungeon in a dying ║║ village.
Just a hunch. Probably ║║ nothing. ║║ ║║ Probably.
║╚═══════════════════════════════════════╝
The scouts arrive three days later.
I’m in the field, doing actual farming—turns out vegetables don’t care about your revenge arc, they still need water—when Garrett finds me.
“Got company,” he says. Not worried. Just informing.
“What kind?”
“Imperial. Four of them. Pale Hand patches on their gear, but trying to hide it.” He spits into the dirt. “Amateur hour. Seen better spies in my sleep.”
Pale Hand. Anton’s network. So he’s finally gotten around to investigating.
“They asking questions?”
“About the dungeon. About who cleared the first floors. About whether anyone new has moved to the village recently.” Garrett’s eyes are sharp. “I told them we’re just farmers here. Don’t know nothing about no dungeon.”
“They believe you?”
“Don’t matter if they believe me. Matters if they can prove otherwise.”
I set down my watering can. Think.
Four scouts. Reconnaissance team, not assault squad. They’re here to gather information, not start a fight. If they find something solid—if they identify me, or Mariella, or figure out the dungeon’s significance—they’ll report back. And then the real force comes.
“Where’s Mariella?”
“Sent her to the cellar with Mira. Told her to stay quiet until they leave.”
Good. Her face might not be in Anton’s active files anymore, but there’s no point taking risks.
“I’ll handle it,” I say.
“You want backup?”
“You’re retired.”
Garrett smiles. It’s not a nice smile. “Retirement’s boring.”
“Stay back unless things go sideways. If they do—”
“I’ll do what needs doing.” He pats the sword at his hip. The one he hasn’t touched in years. The one that’s killed more things than I probably want to know about. “Go play nice with the spies.”
The scouts are in the village square, trying way too hard to look casual. Three men, one woman, all wearing civilian clothes that don’t quite fit right. Soldiers pretending to be farmers. It’s almost cute.
“Afternoon,” I say, wandering up with my best harmless-villager expression. “You folks lost?”
The leader—tall guy, scar on his chin, trying to look friendly and failing—turns to face me. “Just passing through. Heard there might be some interesting ruins around here.”
“Ruins?” I scratch my head like I’m thinking hard. “Don’t know about ruins. Got a dungeon, though. Real dangerous. Wouldn’t recommend it.”
“We’re experienced.” He smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “Mind showing us where it is?”
“Sure, sure. Happy to help. Just follow the road east until you hit the old Miller farm—well, it’s not really a farm anymore, Miller died about three years back, terrible business with a Goblin—and then turn left at the big rock that looks like a thumb, you can’t miss it, and then—”