Chapter 145: Rust Division

Sakavi waited for two full months at the rear base in the Silent Wastes.

He remembered every day, because each evening he would enter the shack at the camp’s edge, built from discarded planks and old canvas, sit on the only chair still intact, and listen to the wind whipping the canvas into a loud, snapping roar.

He never left during the day. Not because he feared being recognized—in this war-ravaged land, a hooded figure was commonplace—but because he feared being remembered.

The base in the Silent Wastes was a motley mix of imperial regulars, priests from various sects, freelance mercenaries, bounty hunters, remnants of shattered units withdrawn from the Abyss Front, and those mysterious figures who seemed to crawl out of some crack in the world.

He did not want to be remembered by any side.

At night, he occasionally sat at the Ashfeather Tavern.

The tavern stood atop the ruins of a bombed-out bunker at the base’s edge, its roof made of recycled military tent canvas, its tables from discarded ammunition crates.

The owner was a dwarf missing his left hand; it was said he had once been a forge-master in the Dwarven Kingdom of Morrian, until he was expelled from the mountains for secretly selling enchanted weapons. His left hand was not a battle wound—it was broken by his own creation, the Severing Hammer. Why? He never said.

Sakavi always sat in the same spot—the farthest corner against the wall, back to the wall, facing the door. On the table, a cup of dark red wine sat untouched, always.

The first time he came, the owner asked what he wanted. He said, “Whatever.” The owner poured him the dark red wine and pushed it forward, his thumb brushing lightly along the rim. So faint, so quick—but Sakavi saw it.

The gesture was too deliberate, like a signal. He did not know what the wine meant, so he never drank it. Each time, he waited until it grew cold, then stood and poured it onto the floor as he left.

The owner always glanced at him. Not a warning—just the look of a casino croupier who has watched too many gamblers: he knows you will lose, but he won’t say it.

The parchment from the Laughing Circus had been read over a hundred times; its edges were frayed, the folds nearly torn, so he had reinforced it with a thin layer of magical transparent film to preserve it.

The map showed only the terrain of the Weeping Bone Mountains and the prison’s location. The Circus’s information was genuine—he had confirmed it covertly through the Shadow Intelligence Bureau—and the terrain matched the Empire’s survey records, but nothing more.

The map ended at the prison’s gate. No one had drawn the path inside.

Not because no one tried—it was useless. The Soul Prison’s internal structure changed constantly. The Shadow Intelligence Bureau obtained a long-sealed file from Imperial Military Intelligence, which mentioned that the Empire once sent a elite squad into the prison; only two returned alive.

Their testimonies contradicted each other. One claimed he walked three corridors and turned seven corners to reach the first cell block; the other said he walked only two corridors and turned three corners. Both insisted their memories were flawless.

Imperial Military Intelligence’s conclusion was one sentence: the spatial structure of this zone is unstable and cannot be mapped.

The Laughing Circus did not want to help him—they could not. What they gave was never a complete solution, only a direction. The rest of the path, he must walk alone.

But he did not intend to walk it alone.

Beneath the painted smile of the circus leader lay not goodwill, but an unpaid debt. In the multiverse, no one ever helps you without reason. He needed his own chip. So he waited—for a piece of his own, one capable of breaking this imbalance.

Two months later, on an evening, that piece arrived.

A human in a white robe edged with gold entered the Ashfeather Tavern. His robe was finely made, the collar pinned with a golden emblem—a pair of crossed dragon wings cradling a sun. Jin Hui Sanctuary, the Metallic Dragon sect of the Dragon Worship.

Publicly, they were lawful, good-aligned believers, serving the Metallic Dragons and spreading the glory of the Dragon God. Within the Empire’s base, their status was legal, their conduct compliant—no one could fault them.

But Sakavi noticed one detail. As the human entered the tavern, his left hand remained inside his robe, his thumb exposed. On the thumbnail was a fine, vertical scratch—not decoration, but a mark.

The Ashfire Brotherhood’s signal. The Chromatic Dragon faction.

Sakavi picked up the untouched cup of wine, walked to the human’s table, and sat down.

The human looked up. A sharply defined face, gray-blue eyes, short hair of gold-brown. He looked to be in his early thirties—but in this world, appearances were always deceptive. His left hand still rested inside his robe; his right hand lay on the table, fingers slightly curled, as if ready to grasp something.

“This seat is taken,” the human said, his voice calm, deliberately polite—but his gray-blue eyes lingered on Sakavi’s hood for half a second. Too long. Long enough for Sakavi to be certain he was studying him.

“It is now,” Sakavi said, placing the cup on the table, his vertical pupils fixed directly on the man beneath his hood. “I am Sakavi. Black Dragon Duke of the Crimson Moon Plane.”

The human’s expression did not change. But his left hand emerged from his robe—empty.

“Sakavi,” he repeated, his lips twitching slightly—not a smile, but the look of someone who had heard of you. “You killed many of mine outside Karnasen City.”

“I did,” Sakavi did not deny, nor defend. “But you know better than I how it began.”

He leaned forward slightly, his pupils narrowing to slits.

“You sent me to kill the Church of Light’s priests. I did. You promised me the Necromantic Grimoire. I got it.

Then you sold the information to the Church of Light. I was hunted, branded, fleeing like a stray dog across the Cadorn Plane. For years, your ‘reliability’ served me well.”

The human’s smile did not fade, but a new layer entered his gray-blue eyes—not guilt, but the cold, clinical scrutiny of a wound prodded. His right hand stopped curling, lying flat on the table.

“So your killings outside Karnasen City were to collect a debt?”

“It is collection. And a reminder,” Sakavi said. “A reminder that the Black Dragon remembers.”

The tavern’s noise seemed to recede. The mercenaries at the next table still shouted over dice, the dwarf still wiped glasses—but Sakavi felt more than one pair of eyes watching. Not out of curiosity—out of alertness. There were Ashfire Brotherhood members here. More than one.

The human fell silent for several breaths.

Then he let out a short, brittle laugh—like a bone snapping. “Good memory? Fine. Let’s settle this properly.”

He placed his left hand on the table, palms overlapping, leaning forward slightly.

“Your Black Dragons’ reputation for reliability is legendary across the multiverse. Your promises are worth as much as toilet paper. Today you sign a contract; tomorrow you tear it to shreds right in front of us. Haven’t you done this often enough?”

Sakavi’s pupils contracted slightly. He did not refute. The man spoke truth.

“At least our Black Dragons sign contracts,” he said. “What about your Ashfire Brotherhood? You don’t even bother. Your methods are known throughout the multiverse: dig a pit, wait for someone to jump in, then say, ‘Dead man, debt canceled.’ No corpse comes to collect. Isn’t that right?”

The human’s interlocked fingers froze.

“That’s the Black Veil Guild’s way,” he said, voice dropping to a whisper only Sakavi could hear. “We are the Rust Division. Different.”

“How?” Sakavi stared at him, each word deliberate. “Ashfire has five divisions: Black Veil, Rust, Ash, Dark Flame, Bone. Which one is any different? You just burn different-colored paper. The thing you burn is the same.”

A true, unmasked chill flashed in the human’s gray-blue eyes.

The tavern’s temperature seemed to drop several degrees. The mercenaries at the next table had fallen silent. The dwarf had stopped wiping glasses. The entire tavern sank into a strange, frozen stillness.

Then the human smiled. Not the brittle, bone-snapping laugh—but a true laugh, drawn from deep in his throat.

“Fine,” he said. “Since none of us are saints, let’s skip the words.”

He pulled from his coat a black, unmarked badge and placed it on the table. Its edges were heavily worn, as if constantly handled over years.

“Ashfire Brotherhood, Rust Division, Deputy Head, Herak.”

Sakavi glanced at the badge—did not take it. He noticed that when Herak said “Deputy Head,” his eyelid twitched—not from nervousness, but from something deeper, something he did not want noticed.

“Rust Division,” Sakavi repeated. “Outside Karnasen City, I killed Black Veil men. I have never touched one of yours.”

“So you came to us, not to the Black Veil?”

“The Black Veil won’t sit down to talk with me,” Sakavi said. “You at least still sit.”

Herak returned the badge to his coat, leaning back. His gray-blue eyes, under the dim yellow light, looked like two bottomless wells.

“Fine. You came to the Rust Division. What do you want?”

“The Soul Prison.”

Herak’s hand froze. Not a deliberate pause—but a genuine, instinctive stiffness. Sakavi noticed: beneath the table, his fingers tapped twice, then went utterly still. A reaction only extreme tension could cause.

“Do you know what you’re asking?” Herak’s voice dropped a notch, thick with unmistakable dread.

“I do.”

“Do you know what’s inside?”

“I don’t,” Sakavi said. “But I know you do.”

Herak stared at him for several breaths. Long enough for Sakavi to hear his own heartbeat. Long enough for the wick in the corner oil lamp to pop.

“The Ashfire Brotherhood has spent tens of thousands of years,” Herak finally spoke, voice low as if squeezed from his throat, each word scraped raw by sandpaper. “Thousands have been sent into that prison. Fewer than one hand’s worth returned alive.”

He paused. In his gray-blue eyes flashed a light—not cruelty, but the near-mad obsession of one who has walked too long at the edge of an abyss.

“And none of those who returned dared speak the prison’s name. Not because they didn’t want to—but because they couldn’t. Something inside it hears you say its name. No matter where in the multiverse you are.”

Sakavi’s scales rose slightly—not from fear, but from a deeper, instinctive alertness. His Dragon Heritage carried similar warnings: some beings must not be named. To name them is to summon them.

“You won’t even say its name—and yet you still want to enter?”

“We do,” Herak said. “Because Moruz is inside.”

He leaned forward, voice dropping lower still—so low Sakavi had to concentrate fully to hear.

“Moruz was our Rust Division’s former Head. While he led, he held the division’s tens of thousands of years of accumulated research… and wealth. Enough to buy half the Aisos Empire.”

He paused, as if weighing whether to speak further.

“Then he was defeated by demons, imprisoned there. Whether he lives or dies, we don’t care. But what’s in his mind—we must retrieve it.”

Sakavi’s pupils narrowed slightly.

“So you came to me—not to save him, but to take his soul?”

“That’s none of your concern.”

“What’s the condition?”

Herak pulled from his coat a yellowed parchment and placed it on the table. Its edges were charred; some characters were blurred by water damage, but the overall document remained intact.

No place names were marked—only dense lines and symbols: corridors, rooms, traps, patrol routes. Far more detailed than the Laughing Circus’s map, but far more fragmented.

“This is the prison’s internal map,” Herak said. “The Ashfire Brotherhood spent tens of thousands of years, lost hundreds of lives, to draw this.

Those who returned alive sketched every corridor, every turn from memory. Those who died—their corpses helped us verify which paths were wrong.”

Sakavi did not reach for it immediately. He stared at the parchment, smelling its deep, decaying odor—the scent of a tomb opened after too long.

“This map is incomplete,” Herak said. “The prison’s interior changes constantly. What’s drawn today may be useless tomorrow. But the location of the core area—

Moruz is held in the deepest part. What it’s called, what’s inside, how to enter—none of that is on the map. None of those who returned dared speak of it.”

He removed from around his neck a thin silver chain. At its end hung a black gem, no larger than a thumbnail, its surface devoid of any sheen—like a black hole that had swallowed all light.

Sakavi stared at the gem for several seconds, feeling a faint, indescribable dizziness—not an attack, but a deeper disturbance, acting on the soul level.

“Whispering Pendant,” Herak placed the chain on the table. “It blocks all soul-level detection magic. Wear it, and the prison’s soul-hunting sentinels won’t see you. But it won’t guarantee you can deceive the Warden.”

Sakavi looked at the parchment and the pendant. Each represented tens of thousands of years of Ashfire Brotherhood blood debt.

“Are these lent to me—or given to me?”

“Lent,” Herak said. “Return them when done. If you don’t, we’ll come and take them ourselves.”

“That’s the only condition?”

“Moruz’s soul,” Herak said, each word deliberate, his gray-blue eyes offering no room for negotiation. “Bring it back whole. Not even a fingernail’s worth missing.”

Sakavi fell silent for several breaths. He picked up the parchment, rolled it, and tucked it into his coat. He fastened the pendant around his neck—the gem pressed against his scales, cold as a stone pulled from the deep sea.

“What if I don’t return?”

Herak stood, looking down at him. His gray-blue eyes held no emotion—no pity, no concern, not even expectation.

“Then you’ll always owe the Rust Division a debt,” he said. “The Ashfire Brotherhood’s debts never vanish just because someone is dead.”

He turned and walked away. The hem of his white robe fluttered up for an instant as the curtain fell, revealing the dark gray, scarred leather armor beneath. Beneath the robes of the Golden Glory Sanctum, there are always the bones of the Ashfire Brotherhood.

Sakavi sat alone in the empty tavern, pulling out the parchment again and studying it once more. The lines and symbols on the paper, under the dim yellow light, resembled a spiderweb—complex, fragile, untouched for countless years.

He waited two months. And he got it.

But what he received was not a pawn. It was another dark river, whose depth he could not even fathom. The Ashfire Brotherhood, the Laughing Circus, the Proverb Guild—three factions, three purposes, three entirely different ropes, all tied to the same blade. And the hand gripping the hilt? His.

He stood up and pushed open the door.

Night wind rushed in, scattering the tavern’s stale air. In the distance, toward the imperial military camp, war drums still beat—the million-strong army locked in endless, unceasing battle with demons deep within the Silent Wasteland. But he would not go there. His path lay in the opposite direction.

The Ashfire Brotherhood provided one piece of intelligence.

Far from the battlefield of the Silent Wasteland, in corners the Aisos Empire could not reach, all kinds of people hid.

Fugitives, traitors, exiles, frequent names on the Pantheon’s wanted list—they lurked in the shadows of the Rust Canyon, like rusted blades forgotten at the bottom of a drawer, still sharp enough to cut your fingers.

Sakavi took from his space ring a black beacon—the Ashfire Brotherhood had given it to him. The other end of the beacon pointed to the Rust Canyon, a place the Empire had erased from its maps.

He activated the beacon and stepped into the darkness.