Chapter 178: Chapter 178: Voices From The Darkness

Morbis had stood at the edge of the Forest of Lamentation for days. He did not move. He did not eat. He did not sleep. He required none of those things. His translucent body—resembling solidified mist—needed only to remain here, watching the black castle in the distance. That was his duty. That was the singular reason for his existence in this world.

​But tonight, something changed.

​It began as a subtle vibration in the air. Like a tremor too minute for human senses to detect, yet enough to make the surrounding leaves shiver. Morbis lifted his head. His eyes—two dark hollows set in a pallid face—narrowed. He recognized that vibration. It had been an eternity since he last felt it, but he would never forget.

​Master.

​He closed his eyes. His translucent form began to ripple, then slowly faded—not vanishing, but shifting his consciousness elsewhere. South. Far to the south, beyond the borders of Brassvale, past the encampments of the Ignis-Sol army, toward a small village that didn’t even have a name.

​When he “opened” his eyes again, he was there.

​The village was silent. There were no sounds of animals, no laughter of children, no voices of women calling their husbands to dinner. Only a heavy, oppressive stillness, like the sky before a cataclysmic storm. Corpses littered the streets—men, women, the elderly, the young. Their skin had turned black, as if scorched from within. No wounds. No blood. Only a silent death that had crept in and taken everything.

​Morbis walked among them. His steps were noiseless; his translucent feet didn’t even touch the parched earth. He saw a mother still clutching her infant—both dead, their skin blackened. He saw a farmer fallen before his home, hand still gripping a hoe. He saw a dog lying beside its master, loyal until the very end.

​Morbis smiled. A wide, jagged smile. A smile he rarely showed.

​”Exquisite,” he whispered to himself. “Truly exquisite.”

​He continued toward the center of the village. There stood the ancient tree, its trunk massive, centuries of history etched into its bark. But what caught Morbis’s attention was not the tree itself—but what lay beneath it.

​Pitch-black roots snaked out from the base, crawling in every direction like hungry serpents. These roots were not still. They moved. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, as if they were breathing. And on the bark, carved with something sharp, was a single word: WABIL.

​From those gashes, a thick, black ichor dripped. Each drop that struck the soil caused the grass beneath to wither instantly, turning black before rotting away.

​Morbis knelt before the tree, bowing his head. For the first time since his inception, he showed genuine reverence.

​”Master,” he whispered. “Finally.”

​The air around him vibrated. It wasn’t a physical tremor, but a resonance within his consciousness, within his very soul. The voice came not through his ears, but directly into his mind. It was heavy, deep, and utterly indifferent.

​”Morbis.”

​”Master.” Morbis did not lift his head. “I felt your presence. I have come to welcome you.”

​”I know.” Wabil’s voice sounded like someone newly roused from a long slumber—hoarse, guttural, and slightly annoyed by the intrusion. “I have not yet fully ascended. The gate remains closed. But I can already touch this world… a little.”

​”Master is already strong enough to spread the plague. To rouse the dead. This is an excellent beginning.”

​”A tedious beginning.” Wabil sounded uninterested. “I wish to emerge completely. I wish to see this world crumble beneath my feet. Not just a nameless hamlet.”

​Morbis raised his head slightly. “The Maiden still lives, Master. She is weak. But her vessel—the human known as the Architect—grows stronger. If you wish, I can—”

​”Whatever.”

​Morbis fell silent.

​”You have performed your task. Continue if you wish. Or don’t. I do not care.” Wabil’s voice grew distant, like someone drifting back to sleep. “I shall rise with or without your aid. With or without the Maiden. Sooner or later, this world will fall. It is merely a matter of time.

”

​The vibration in the air subsided. Wabil’s presence slowly receded into his long slumber—but not entirely. He was still there, behind the gate that had yet to open, waiting.

​Morbis remained kneeling for a few moments. Then, he rose. His eyes fixed on the ancient tree, on the writhing black roots, and the dripping ichor.

​”Whatever,” he whispered, echoing his master’s words. Then he smiled again—a smaller, sharper smile. “Very well. I shall choose my own path.”

​He turned. His body began to fade once more, returning to the Forest of Lamentation, back to his duty of watching the black castle. But this time, there was something different. A new purpose had taken root in his mind.

​Master does not care. Master will rise with or without my help. But I wish to present something to him when he truly ascends. A gift.

​His thoughts drifted to the castle. To the Elven woman planting seeds on the terrace. To the tiny sprout beginning to grow—with a black speck at its tip.

​Yes. It would be the perfect gift.

​In the south, in the silent, dead village, something began to move.

​It wasn’t Morbis. It wasn’t Wabil. It was the corpses.

​A farmer’s finger twitched. Slowly, very slowly, his hand began to move—clawing at the dirt, seeking purchase. His eyes snapped open. There were no pupils. No whites. Only solid, abyssal black, like holes leading directly into the void.

​The farmer rose. His movements were stiff, like a marionette pulled by invisible strings. He stood among the other corpses, staring blankly ahead. He did not think. He did not feel. He simply… was. And he was hungry.

​Beside him, the mother clutching her infant began to stir. Her rigid arms loosened their grip. The baby in her arms—its skin also blackened—opened its eyes. Black. Void.

​One by one, the corpses in the village rose. Farmers, mothers, infants, dogs. They stood in the heavy silence, staring northward. No one commanded them. No one gave them a goal. But they knew—somehow, they knew—that in the north, there was more life. More to infect. More to kill and raise anew.

​They began to walk. Slow. Shambling. But relentless.

​The first of the Plagueborne had been born.

​In the Forest of Lamentation, Morbis opened his eyes. He was back at the forest’s edge, in the same spot where he had stood for days. But this time, he didn’t just stand there. He walked.

​His pace was slow, unhurried. He wove through the blackened trees, passing through the thickening fog. He wasn’t heading for the castle—not directly. He was heading to a vantage point nearby, where he could see with greater clarity.

​As he walked, he passed a black wolf lying dead beneath a tree. Its skin had begun to blacken in patches. Morbis paused, staring at the carcass.

​”The plague has reached even here,” he whispered. “Even without the Master fully risen, death already spreads.”

​He smiled. “This world will crumble on its own. But I want that castle… to be the first.”

​He continued his journey. In the distance, the silhouette of Castle Zero came into view—black, with veins of violet pulsing softly. Morbis stopped behind the trees, ensuring he remained undetected by the castle’s sensors.

​He raised his hand. In his translucent palm, a tiny sprout appeared—withered, with a black speck at its tip. It was a mirror of the sprout Lunethra had planted on the terrace.

​”Soon,” he whispered to the sprout. “Soon, you will be my door. And that castle… will be my gift to the Master.”

​He clenched his fist. The sprout crumbled into black dust and vanished on the wind.

​Morbis watched the castle for a long moment. Then he stepped back, returning to the shadows, returning to the patience he had cultivated for millennia.

​He could wait.

​He had waited this long.

​A few more days would make no difference.

​Inside Castle Zero, Lunethra jolted awake. She didn’t know why. There was no sound. No disturbance. But there was a persistent unease—as if she were being watched, as if someone were walking over her grave.

​She climbed out of bed and walked to the window. Outside, the Forest of Lamentation was dark and still. The fog shifted lazily between the black trees.

​She looked toward the terrace, toward the clay pots where she had planted the seeds from Elarwyn. In the darkness, she could see the silhouette of the sprout beginning to grow. It was taller than it had been yesterday. It seemed to be thriving.

​But something nagged at her. Something she couldn’t explain.

​She shook her head, trying to dispel the feeling. Perhaps I am just tired, she thought. Tomorrow will be better.

​She returned to bed, pulled up the covers, and closed her eyes.

​Outside, on the silent terrace, the sprout continued to grow. And at its tip, the black speck grew larger.

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