⟟ Vault Seeker IV ⟟
A slow, rhythmic ticking pulled Rowan from the depths of unconsciousness. It was distant yet insistent, like a metronome counting out the passage of time.
His eyes opened to the dim morning light filtering through a set of curtains. The air was warm, filled with the scent of aged wood and faint traces of incense. He was in a living room, lying on a couch with a woolen blanket draped over him.
For a long moment, Rowan simply stared at the ceiling. His body felt impossibly heavy, his thoughts sluggish. His mind waded through fragmented memories—falling into the abyss, the sensation of being torn from existence, the disorienting fractures of time itself.
Yet here he was. Here, time flowed normally.
But for how long?
He sat up, rubbing his temples. As his vision adjusted, he recognized the surroundings—Alina's home. He had been here before, but something gnawed at the edges of his mind.
Then, footsteps sounded from the stairs.
"Finally, you're awake."
Rowan turned toward the voice. Alina stood at the bottom of the staircase, arms crossed, her expression casual but observant.
His breath caught for just a moment. She looked exactly the same as she did when he last saw her—no signs of change, no subtle differences that time might have etched into her face. But for Rowan, it felt as if he had been gone for months.
His pulse quickened.
Alina raised an eyebrow. "What?"
Rowan hesitated. He could feel the weight of unseen days pressing down on him. The eerie sense that he had lived through time she had not.
"…Nothing," he said finally, forcing a small smile. It was a hollow expression, meant to hide the cracks beneath the surface.
Alina didn't seem convinced. "You saw me just yesterday."
"Yeah." Rowan exhaled slowly, schooling his features into something neutral.
Alina studied him for a second longer before shaking her head. "Well, get ready. We're going out for breakfast."
Rowan nodded. As she turned away, he instinctively reached for his pocket watch, flipping it open. The hands moved as expected, yet he couldn't shake the feeling that time had betrayed him.
He clenched his jaw and closed the watch, tucking it back into his waistcoat.
By the time Rowan stepped outside, Alina was waiting. The morning air was crisp, carrying the aroma of fresh bread and roasted coffee. The sun cast long, golden rays over the rooftops, illuminating the city in a soft glow.
"Alright, let's go," Alina said.
They walked through the streets in silence at first. The city was waking around them—merchants setting up stalls, children darting between alleyways, the rhythmic hum of passing trams overhead.
They arrived at a small café, nestled between two old buildings with ivy creeping up their sides. The bell above the door chimed softly as they entered.
Alina ordered a panini and a cappuccino. Rowan, still feeling displaced in time, settled for a cornetto and a cup of hot chocolate.
A moment later.
"Your orders," a waiter announced, setting down a plate with a crisply toasted panini and a steaming cup of cappuccino in front of Alina. The rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee and melted cheese filled the air.
Next, he placed a delicate cornetto—its golden, flaky layers lightly dusted with powdered sugar—on a small plate before Rowan. Beside it, a ceramic cup of hot chocolate, its surface smooth and dark, swirled faintly as the warmth of the drink rose in delicate wisps of steam.
Rowan watched as the waiter gave a courteous nod and stepped away. He reached for his hot chocolate, the heat radiating against his gloved hands, while Alina took a casual sip of her cappuccino.
Rowan with his fingers lightly tapping against his hot chocolate cup. The cafe hummed with quiet conversations, but to Rowan, the sounds felt distant. His gaze lingered for a moment on the sunlight streaming through the windows. The world outside seemed bright and full of life, but a part of him was still caught in the shadows of his past, still reeling from everything he had experienced.
Alina sat across from him, watching him with quiet curiosity. After a few moments, she broke the silence. "So, Rowan, do you have a job? You seem… different from most people."
Rowan's lips twitched into a faint smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. He hadn't realized how much time had passed since he'd last truly seen her. Since he had felt present in the moment.
"Yes, my job is an explorer," he answered, his voice laced with a hint of nostalgia.
"An explorer?" Alina raised an eyebrow. "That's certainly more unique than a merchant or a craftsman. What kind of things do you explore? Can you tell me about any of your travels?"
Rowan was silent for a beat, the question lingering in the air. It wasn't often that he spoke of his past expeditions, but the moment felt right. The warmth of the sun, the comfort of Alina's presence, and the quiet hum of the city outside—it made him want to share.
"Alright," he said, nodding slowly. "I'll tell you a story. One that's been on my mind for a while."
"There was a village," Rowan began, his voice taking on a contemplative tone. "It was called Vũ Thuận, and it sat quietly nestled at the foot of a towering mountain. The villagers lived simple lives, but there was one thing that made them different from other places I'd encountered. One man. His name was Lê Duy Khánh, and he was an artist."
Rowan's gaze seemed to drift somewhere distant, as though he were back in the village, watching everything unfold.
"Khánh wasn't just an ordinary artist," Rowan continued. "He was revered. His paintings were said to be flawless—a gift from the heavens. The villagers practically worshipped him. It was as if he had captured the very essence of life itself in his work. People traveled from far and wide, just to lay their eyes on his creations. Every stroke was said to be perfect, every detail precise. To them, he was a prophet, a divine being."
Alina listened intently, her eyes wide. "Sounds like a genius. But you sound like you're getting to something deeper. What happened?"
Rowan gave a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head. "Yes, he was a genius. But not in the way you might think. The more I spent time around Khánh, the more I realized something was off. The villagers didn't see it, but I did."
Rowan paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts. "It wasn't that Khánh's art was lacking. No, it was that he was never satisfied with it. He would work for days on a single piece, never resting, always striving for something… unattainable."
"When I first saw him, I was struck by his work. His portraits, landscapes—they were beautiful, breathtaking. His talent was undeniable. But when I spoke to him, he said something that stuck with me. We were standing over a piece he was working on, a portrait of a young woman, and he turned to me with a bitter smile."
Rowan's voice grew quieter, a shadow of something dark creeping into his words. "He said, 'It's not perfect.'"
Alina furrowed her brows. "But from everything you're saying, his art was incredible. Why would he say that?"
"Exactly," Rowan replied. "I thought the same thing. It wasn't just me—it was everyone. The villagers adored his work, praised him constantly, but he couldn't see what they did. He'd always mutter those words, 'It's not perfect.'"
Rowan leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing. "And it wasn't just the art that started to change. Khánh began to change. Slowly, at first. He started to paint strange things. The landscapes, once filled with life and beauty, became distorted. Faces lost their symmetry. His lines grew jagged, uneven. The colors—what had once been warm and inviting—began to grow dark, almost unnatural."
"The villagers didn't see it at first. They kept coming to his studio, admiring his work, praising him endlessly. But as his paintings grew darker, the whispers started. They began to distance themselves from him, though they still admired his art from a distance. But there was a feeling in the air, a kind of discomfort."
Rowan's hands clenched into fists on the table. "At some point, he stopped painting people. He painted monsters—creatures with hollow eyes and twisted faces. He painted them over and over, until his studio was filled with nothing but these grotesque images."
Alina's voice was quiet, almost sympathetic. "Why didn't anyone help him?"
Rowan's eyes darkened. "Because no one cared. Not anymore. The people who had once worshipped him turned their backs on him. They spoke of him with disgust, whispered behind his back, called him mad. But the truth was, they never really saw him. They only saw what they wanted to see: a talented artist, a symbol of their village's greatness. They didn't care about the man behind the paintbrush. And so, they abandoned him."
"But I knew. I saw what was happening," Rowan continued, his voice lowering to a near whisper. "This wasn't just madness. It was something else. Something dark."
Rowan looked at Alina, his gaze steady. "The cause of Khánh's descent into madness wasn't just the pressure, the endless desire for perfection. It was The King of Hell."
Alina blinked, her eyes widening. "The King of Hell? Is that… is that real?" She didn't expect this mention.
Rowan nodded gravely. "Yes, He goes by many names. Some whisper Yorath'ra'khan, others call him The Veiled Sovereign, The Tyrant Beyond Light, The Ever-Hungering Maw. But no matter the name, the meaning is always the same—an ancient force that should have never been known. A being from another realm, a force of destruction. He feeds on the corruption of those with great potential, warping their minds and twisting their talents. I've crossed paths with him a few times, indirectly. Khánh had been his prey for a long time, though he didn't know it."
Alina's shock was evident. "I've heard of the King of Hell, but I thought… I thought it was just a myth, a legend. How do you know all this?
Rowan's eyes darkened as he leaned in closer. "Because I've felt his influence before. And I've seen his mark in places far darker than this. What happened to Khánh was no accident—it was the hand of destruction, pulling him deeper into madness."
Alina stared at Rowan in disbelief. "But… how could someone like that exist? How could the King of Hell… do this?"
Rowan's voice was low, almost pained. "He works in subtle ways. You don't see him coming. And once he's got you, it's hard to break free. People think they're alone with their madness, but in reality, there's always something else at play."
Rowan's voice grew quieter, the weight of the story settling heavily in the air. "The villagers didn't know what had happened to him. They saw only the broken artist, the man whose paintings had become twisted reflections of his madness. But I saw the truth. People will always look for perfection in others, but they forget that perfection isn't real. It's a curse."
Alina's face showed a mix of confusion and disbelief. "So… is perfection something we should never strive for?"
Rowan gave a soft, thoughtful smile. "Striving for improvement is one thing, but perfection… perfection can destroy you. It takes everything, and it leaves you empty. The pursuit of perfection can twist even the greatest minds into something monstrous."
Alina's voice trembled slightly. "Then how do we live, Rowan? If we can't strive for perfection, what's left?"
Rowan paused for a moment, his eyes focused as if searching for the right words. "We live as ourselves, Alina. Flawed, yes. But real. Embrace the imperfection. In it lies freedom. In it lies life."
Alina, still grappling with the weight of Rowan's words, looked at him with a mixture of awe and uncertainty. "But how do we know when we're chasing perfection… or when we're simply trying to be the best we can be?"
Rowan's gaze softened as he leaned back in his chair. "You'll know. Because when you stop worrying about being perfect, you'll realize that what matters most is being true to yourself. And the rest—well, it falls into place."
A sudden, piercing siren shattered the morning's stillness. The sound was shrill, urgent—an unnatural wail that sent a shiver through the air. Rowan instinctively tensed, fingers tightening around his cup before setting it down with deliberate care.
From the streets outside, the once-lazy hum of conversation turned into panicked cries. Footsteps pounded against the pavement, a frenzied rush of bodies surging in one direction.
Rowan's gaze snapped to Alina, whose expression had shifted from curiosity to grim determination.
"What's happening?" Rowan demanded, rising to his feet.
"It's an emergency!" Alina's voice was sharp, commanding. She grabbed his wrist. "We need to move—now!"
Without hesitation, Rowan followed as Alina pushed through the fleeing crowd. The street outside was in chaos—men and women clutching their children, merchants abandoning their stalls, the desperate scrambling over one another to reach the designated shelters. Overhead, the sky darkened, not from clouds, but from the presence of something vast looming beyond human sight.
"Alina!" Rowan shouted over the commotion. "What's going on?"
She didn't look back as she weaved through the masses. "The Ruinborn," she said, voice taut with urgency. "They're attacking the city."
Rowan's stomach twisted. The word carried an eerie weight—a reminder of the monstrous things lurking at the edges of this world. He thought back to the stories, the hushed warnings, the fading records of what these beings were.
And now they were here.
The ground trembled, an unnatural pulse that seemed to vibrate through the bones of the city itself. A suffocating pressure pressed down on his chest. They were close.
The shelter entrance came into view—an industrial, reinforced structure where the panicked citizens pushed and shoved to get inside. Guards directed the flow of people, but their voices barely carried over the sound of the sirens.
Then, as Rowan and Alina neared the entrance, it appeared.
A shadow split from the air itself, the world bending like shattered glass around its form. A hulking Ruinborn—its body a grotesque fusion of shifting metal and sinew—descended before the entrance, blocking the way. Its many glowing eyes flickered with something inhumanly cruel. The air around it warped, crackling with raw Aetheric energy.
The crowd screamed, some trying to push back, others frozen in sheer terror. Rowan and Alina skidded to a stop.
The Ruinborn tilted its head, as if savoring the moment. Then it moved—its limbs snapping into place with a sickening, mechanical grace.
Alina's hand hovered over her weapon. Rowan instinctively reached for his own.
No words needed to be spoken.
They had no choice.
They had to fight.